"What are you talking about?" John asked, his interest piqued.
"It was before my time," the doctor explained, "But from the end of February 1946 to the beginning of May of that same year this town was terrorized by a masked killer."
"It isn't that well publicized," the doctor explained, "It was a long time ago and we try and keep it quiet… try and forget about it I guess."
"What happened?" John asked, not unkindly.
"Some nutjob wearing a white bag as a mask attacked a bunch of people parked out in deserted lanes," the doctor told them, clearly recalling the stories she'd heard all her life, "Mostly teenagers looking for a place to make out, but he did attack an older couple, not kids. The husband died but the wife survived and then… it just stopped."
"Nineteen forty-six," John mused, "The killer would probably be an old man now."
"Or dead," Dean added.
"I know," the doctor told them, "It's just, if you'd grown up hearing stories about the monster, you'd imagine he was back too."
John nodded, "It could be a copy cat. Someone trying to finish the original killers work."
That did not seem to put the doctor at ease.
"Should we be contacting the police?" she asked, rubbing her arms.
"No need," John shook his head and pulled his fake FBI badge from an inside pocket of his leather coat.
Now the doctor looked skeptical, "Agent O'Keeffe? You usually take your kids with you on cases?"
"We were just passing through when we accidently happened upon your lovely town," John replied with a wry smile.
"I see," the doctor replied.
"Are you going to catch the guy, Dad? Can I go with you? Please?" Sam asked, looking excited.
"Absolutely not," the doctor told him, "You need more rest and you are not going into a dangerous situation like that again."
"I'm fine," Sam argued sitting up straighter in his bed, "See?"
John shook his head, "The doctor's right. You need to stay here."
Dean smirked, "Sorry, Squirt."
"Don't think you're coming too," John told his eldest son.
The thirteen-year old spluttered, "But- Dad- I-"
"This is official business of the FBI," John told him sternly, "I can't have two kids running around while I'm trying to catch a killer."
Dean looked like he wanted to argue but nodded, crossing his arms moodily over his chest.
"Fine," he muttered.
"Good boys," John murmured affectionately.
"I should get going while the scene is still fresh," he told the doctor.
"Your boys are in good hands," she assured him.
Sam and Dean watched as John left.
As soon as the hunter had left the room, the doctor turned to the boys and smiled, "Want me to show you the vending machines?"
SPN
John may not be a real member of the FBI but he knew a few tricks. He had caught sight of the suspect's license plate and remembered it. Sitting in the Impala, he pulled his mobile phone from the glove compartment and phoned an old friend who was a retired police officer.
"Who is it?" the man growled, clearly displeased at being woken up.
"Hi Pete," John greeted mildly.
"Winchester! You son of a bitch! About time you called me! You still owe me money for the-" Pete began but John interrupted.
"I've got a hot number," he told his friend.
"Oh yeah?" the man grumped.
"Yeah," John replied, "You listening?"
"Sure," Pete answered and John gave him the license plate number.
"I need an address for it," John told him.
"Easy-peasy," the retired cop scoffed and within five minutes John had what he wanted.
"Thanks, talk soon," John ended the call before Pete would ask about his money again.
Pulling out of the parking lot, John drove slowly through Texarkana until he reached his destination.
The house was ramshackle at best, condemned at worst. It was leaning heavily to the right side, making the hunter think it had only barely survived several tornados.
The driveway was unpaved, rutted dirt and at the end of it, in front of a dented garage door, sat the car that had pulled up behind the Impala on the lonely stretch of road only hours ago.
All lights were out in the house so John guess whoever lived there was having a good night's sleep.
Well, they were about to meet their worst nightmare.
Reaching into the glove compartment again, John pulled out a pistol and shoved it into the waistband of his jeans, just in case.
Climbing out of the Chevy, John walked causally up to the house, eyes keen and ears open for any sign of movement from within.
Stepping onto the sagging wooden porch, John opened the screen door to knock sharply on the main one.
The porch light above John turned on and bathed the hunter in an orange glow. Large, dusty white moths fluttered around his head, bumping stupidly into his face until he brushed them away.
The door opened a creak and a red, rheumy eye peered suspiciously at the hunter.
"What you want?" the voice asked with a thick Texas accent.
"Are you the owner of this house?" John asked.
"What's it to you?" the owner of the voice demanded.
"Please answer the question."
There was a pause, than, "Yeah."
"Is that your car in the driveway?" John asked.
"Nah," the voice replied.
"Who does that belong to?" the hunter inquired.
"My grandson," the voice told him, then, "Oh Lord, what's he done now?"
The door opened wider to reveal an ancient old woman with a tanned, shriveled face like a raisin. She wore an equally old flowered nightgown and scuffed slippers. She was so bent over that she was eye-level with John's belt buckle.
"Does your grandson use this car often?"
"Uh huh," the woman replied, "Can't drive it myself anymore."
"And where is your grandson right now?"
"What's he done now? I told him to stop with his foolishness, told him it would get him into trouble one of these days," the old woman lamented.
"What foolishness is that?" John asked. He remained on the porch, not being invited inside and, from what he could see of the house beyond the old woman, he didn't' want to go in anyway.
"Obsessed he is," the old lady told him, "With the Moonlight Killer."
John raised an eyebrow, "The killer who murdered those people in 1946?"
The woman bobbed her head up and down.
"Can I speak to your grandson?" John asked.
"You won't hurt him?" the woman asked, peering up at John again.
"No ma'am," he swore, "I just want to talk."
"All right," the woman turned and bellowed a name into the house, "MILES!"
It was quiet for a moment when a voice shouted in response, "WHAT?"
"THERE'S A MAN HERE WANTS TO TALK TO YOU!"
Again, silence for a moment before John heard pounding footsteps and he caught sight of a tall, string bean of a kid- no more than seventeen- came running down the stairs.
"Who is it, Gram? Is it him?" the boy asked, and, as he stepped closer to John, the hunter saw that his face was peppered with pimples and sparsely growing hair.
"I dunno," the old woman turned away from the door, "Just remember your manners."
The boy, Miles, stepped right up to the threshold of the door and peered at John.
"No," he muttered to himself, "You're too young."
"Were you driving on Brewer's Lane tonight around eleven-thirty?" John asked.
Miles looked up at the hunter and the fear in his eyes told him all he needed to know.
Quick as a snake, John reached up and grabbed the kid's t-shirt by the shoulder and shoved him painfully into the doorframe.
"Hey!" the kid exclaimed but felt something cold and hard pressed against his belly and, looking down, saw John's gun.
"So you like threatening people with guns, do you?"
The teen shook his head, "It was just a joke, honest. I wasn't gonna do nothing to him."
John pressed the gun a little harder into the kid's abdomen and was satisfied when Miles squeaked.
"You almost killed my son tonight," John told him, "You terrified him for no good reason."
"I didn't touch him," Miles whimpered, "I swear to-"
"He has asthma," John snarled, his face inches from the boy's.
"Do you know what that means, Miles, to have asthma?"
The teen shook his head, not daring himself to speak anymore.
"It means," John lowered his voice even more, "That when my son exerts himself, like, when he runs away from a masked shithead with a gun, his throat closes up and he can no longer breathe. He can die because he can't breathe. You understand?"
Miles nodded frantically.
"Are you going to dress up as a killer again and scare people?"
"N-No?" the boy stammered.
"That's the right answer," John growled and released the boy.
"If I ever find out you've been pretending to be the Moonlight Killer I'll come back and I'll find you."
Miles nodded again, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.
John turned and walked down the porch steps, shoving his gun back into the waistband of his jeans.
"Grandma! You'll never guess who I just met!" Miles cried as he ran back inside, the screen door slamming behind him.
SPN
Sam was snoozing drowsily the next morning as John pulled out of the hospital parking lot.
"Who was it Dad?" Dean asked, "Was it really the killer?"
"Of course not Dean," John chided, "Just some stupid kid."
"Oh," the thirteen-year old muttered, disappointed.
"This town doesn't need a repeat of what happened in 1946," John told him, turning down Brewer's Lane and driving slowly.
"No way," Dean agreed and fiddled with the radio, channel surfing.
A figure with a white bag over their head stepped out into the road behind the Impala, obscured by dust kicked up by the car, and lifted one hand in a wave as though saying goodbye to the hunters.
Author's Note:
Thanks to everyone who left a review for the first chapter! I've decided to make this a two-part story.
John's FBI alias is taken from Joel O'Keeffe, lead vocalist for the band, Airborne.
Please leave a review!