Preventative Measures
Chapter Two
Author's Note: Well, this story hasn't exactly been enthusiastically received, but the second chapter was already written and I really just want to see if I can figure out to post it with the web page's new format. Still love all reviews: good, bad or ugly.
John's POV. 3rd person. Rating still for language and gore.
There's a companion in Dean's perspective, but only if anyone cares.
Summary: The little demon's crying. It's fair enough. I'd be crying too if I was in his shoes. Twelve years old is a crappy age to have to die. Pre-series.
It was dark – it was always fucking dark. John spent so much of his life creeping around after nightfall, and so much time sleeping off the exhaustion of a hunt during the day that he wondered sometimes if he'd forget what sunlight looked like.
He studied the house from just enough of a distance not to be noticed. It was a normal house – they were always normal houses. Normal houses in flashy new suburbs, normal houses in bad neighbourhoods, normal houses out in the country. This house was in the middle of nowhere and John was glad; it was gonna be loud.
Most days – nights? – he hated the normalcy; wished there'd be some big, flashy warning screaming 'evil shit is going on here!' It could be color coded: maybe purple for hauntings, orange for poltergeists, yellow for witches. Maybe neon fucking green for sick fucks that had kidnapped his children.
The house was one storey – that was good, fewer places for the cock-bags to be hiding. John hadn't had time to get the blueprints, but he could mostly guess the layout from looking. Big front room, hallway leading into the house with rooms in the back.
And his children somewhere inside.
John parked a fair distance from the house, cutting back toward it on foot. He was a one man fucking ambush and was armed to the teeth. And for once it was all conventional weapons – this time the 'evil' was human.
The thought pissed him off. Demons, spirits, monsters in the dark… that shit he understood. Random, unpredictable evil that just came and tore you to shreds… yeah, he got that. But people… He didn't get people at all.
The thought churned his gut as well. John had never killed a man outside of 'Nam. Had never intended to. But he would kill for his children. No question, no hesitation, no regret. Any man – hunter, soldier or a fucking banker – who wouldn't… wasn't a father. Period.
But he was scared too – 'cause these people had somehow bested his kids and it wasn't just a father's bias that told him such wouldn't be easy.
Sammy was only twelve years old, but could handle himself. Had been training too long with his brother and dad not to be able to. And Dean…
Fuck. John wouldn't really want to have to go against his son in a no holds barred actual fight to the death. It was at the point where John wasn't really sure of his odds on winning that one any more. And he was damn proud.
So, if these people had bested him, taken him, taken Sam from him…
Their crappy little townhouse was absolutely destroyed. His boys had definitely fought, and fought hard.
Dean had, at least, been conscious when they'd dragged him away. John had been following little clues left – little hints no one else could have followed. Clues he couldn't have followed if he didn't know his son so damn well.
Little hints that had led him to this ridiculously normal house that should have just been fucking screaming in neon green.
John ghosted across the grass. There was truck and a suburban parked outside and he memorized the plates habitually.
He dropped his crouch even lower, moving silently toward the front window.
He held a sawed off in one hand, primed and ready. He had two pistols in shoulder holsters and another in the back of his jeans. He carried three knives and as much ammo as he could cram into his pockets. The one man fucking ambush these bastards were going to regret having messed with.
A curtain was drawn over the glass. Annoying – too bad these assholes couldn't have been stupid enough to leave the window fully open.
John slid his smallest knife from his ankle, carefully easing the blade through to turn the catch on the window's lock. Silently, he tugged the window up a fraction of an inch, using the thin blade to pull the drape aside just enough to let him peek in, sure the tiny movement would go unnoticed inside.
The hunter glowered. Two men were moving about through the room, drawing some kind of devil's trap on the floor. John couldn't identify the exact design, but it was similar enough to the ones Singer had shown him to recognize it for what it was. A third guy was lighting candles and messing around with some shit in bowls.
Were these people stupid enough to be trying to summon a demon? If they were, what the fuck did they want John's kids for?
His kids. And that was the one place in the room he was purposefully avoiding looking for too long. Sammy was on lying on his side near one wall, hog-tied and crying in fear and rage. John couldn't look at that or he'd go bursting in, guns blazing right then… and probably get them all killed.
Dean wasn't there. John didn't let himself wonder or worry if he'd already been killed. That kind of luxury had to wait.
The guy who'd been messing with the candles stood, cracking his neck. "Done?"
"Done," one of the other guys answered. And John decided this guy was the one he was going to kill first, the man brutally and gleefully dragging the little boy into the middle of the devil's trap.
John was going to need a distraction. He needed to take out three of them before they got a bead on his position.
"I'll get Eve."
Correction – he needed to take out four.
John moved silently away from the window – away from the sound of his little boy's sobs. It took him a few minutes to find the fuse box, and precious moments longer to jimmy it open. He'd just cut everything.
The hunter looked toward the window from where he was standing, guessing how long it would take him to get into position.
He went back to the window, counting. Two seconds to the window. Another two to get the rifle up. The fucking curtain was going to be in the way. The first shot would be blind…
John looked through the gap again. The men had taken up positions around the circle. They'd be staying in place – good. John memorized the stance and location of the fucker that'd dragged Sammy across the floor. The guy was holding a knife now – he was John's first mark for sure.
A woman was crouching over Sam, smearing some that shit from the bowls onto his forehead. As soon as she stood and moved away, John moved too.
Quickly, he bolted back to the fuse box, ripping his K-Bar through everything inside, delighting when the house fell into darkness.
1.8 seconds to the window this time. 1.4 to have the shotgun up and ready.
Blam!
He didn't really hear the shot; though it was so loud it seemed to shred the room. John didn't even wait for the slug to slam home – he knew his aim was true, knew the guy was down. The curtain was gone and he had the second shot off even as the first guy was still dropping. He didn't blink as the second guy's head splattered all over the rug.
John swung the rifle sharply at movement. Some guy came running out from the back and the hunter didn't bother to assess whether he was a threat – they were all threats – and the buckshot hit center mass.
He ducked on instinct as shots started blasting out from within the room.
The last guy was going nuts with a pistol – hadn't bothered trying to figure out where the attack was coming from. Was just shooting.
Pissed now, 'cause so help this ass if one of those bullets clipped Sammy, John rose in one motion and fired, ripping the guy's throat apart and ending the crazed shots.
For an instant, everything was really still.
John climbed cautiously through the shattered window pane, boots crunching on broken glass. He kept a wary eye – he'd hit four targets, but that didn't mean there weren't more lurking in the shadows.
"Sammy?" He moved toward the center of the circle, hating the flickering light of the candles screwing with his night vision. "Sammy?"
"Dad!" And that cry was a fucking symphony, the most beautiful fucking music John had ever heard.
He dropped beside his boy, still cautious, still on guard, slicing through the ropes that held him with a furious disgust that made him want to kill everyone all over again. He couldn't tell if that desired swelled or abated when Sammy let out an aching, relieved little sob.
John braced the boy's shoulder and didn't have to ask if he was okay, didn't have to say he'd been worried or that he loved him, because Sam's wide eyes were saying everything back louder than words or rifle fire. I'm okay. I'm so glad you're here. Fuck. Shit. Fuck! I love you, Dad.
And his young voice spoke fucking volumes with one phrase: "There's one more, Dad."
John had the shotgun back up in an instant. Sam made a brief gesture toward the sofa and John stood, knowing his boy would stay behind him
Glass crunched, grinding into blood-stained carpet. He could worry about whatever shit had been going on this room later – there was still a threat and he still had one man AWOL in his little unit and that was just fucking unacceptable.
John glowered, the woman he'd seen now cowering on the floor, hands over her head. He grabbed her pitilessly, hauling her off the floor and shoving her at the wall, ignoring the scream and the tears.
"No! Please!" she begged.
John kept the sawed off levelled. Every time. Every fucking time someone who'd been willing to murder only moments before would beg, somehow thinking they deserved forgiveness… or deserved life more than the person they were going to steal it from. How many assholes had he seen pleading with the enraged spirits of people they'd killed?
"Where's my son?" he demanded, voice so cold his teeth hurt. Sam didn't know or Sam would have told him.
"I'll… I'll take you!" she sobbed.
John really hoped she wasn't daft enough to think those tears would garner her a father's pity when she'd been helping to harm his children. "There anyone else here?" No surprises.
"No!" She was too fucking desperate to be lying. "No."
"I find out you lied and I kill you." John gestured with the gun. "Take me to my son. Try anything and I end you."
"Okay!" she sputtered. "Okay! Please. Please!"
John really didn't have the time or the patience. His boy was still missing. Could still be hurt. Could still be dying. "Move!"
He followed as she scrambled for the hall, keeping Sam behind him, but close. The doors leading off were shut, John too aware that someone, something, anything could come bursting out.
The woman paused at the last door, just kind of looking at it and trembling. John's hand tensed on the rifle – was someone in there? Waiting to attack? Was this bitch giving whoever it was more time to get ready?
"Hurry up."
She jumped, fumbling with the knob and pushing the door open. John tensed even more when the door wasn't locked. Fuck. Shit. If this was a trap, it was a crappy one… but it only had to be good enough.
He prodded her through first – if a shot was coming maybe she'd take it instead of him. At least Sam was still a couple steps back – maybe he'd have time to run if his father got gunned down in this fucking normal house.
An emergency light burned from the ceiling and it made him nervous. An assault could be prepared in there, launched before his eyes could adjust properly.
The woman was short enough that he could see over her shoulder. The room was empty except for… Shit.
John pushed in fast after his hesitation. His boy was perfectly still; lying on the fucking concrete, face a mess of blood and bruises. "Dean." Get it together, John! Buck up, Marine! He whirled on the woman, glad she flinched, "Get against the wall. Don't move."
He had to check his son properly, couldn't do that if the threat wasn't covered. Sam came right over to him, seeming to know, to understand fully. Nodding, John placed the gun into Sam's hands, the boy holding it expertly, because he was a fucking expert with it. John wouldn't have done it if he really though the bitch would try anything, but he knew Sam has this one covered for his brother's sake. He didn't want the kid to shoot, but knew he would if he had too. John really hoped he wouldn't have to.
"Shoot her if she moves."
He ignored the crying and the whimpering, moving to his eldest. He wanted to just freak right out, but didn't. Wouldn't. Couldn't.
John sliced through the cable ties. His hands were steady, but everything inside of him was shaking with fear and fury. He checked quickly for a pulse, not realizing he hadn't expected to find one until it beat surely beneath his fingers and he was blinded with relief.
Carefully, he rolled his boy onto his back, hating how cold Dean was, though he didn't shiver.
"Dean?" He prompted, brushing his fingers through the blood on his kid's face, cataloguing the gash across his forehead, bloody nose and split lip. He wasn't unconscious from any of these injuries. Maybe the head wound at his temple, but the blood was dry, it was too old. He'd have come to by then.
"He's…" The woman's weepy voice was probably the last thing in the world he wanted to hear just then; especially if she was going to plead. "He's okay…"
John turned a seething glare onto her. His son was out cold and freezing and his little brother had come a shade shy of being murdered in the next room and she was going to dare tell him Dean was okay?
"What did you give him?"
"A sedative," she admits quickly. "Intravenous. Nervoplex. It's new. Two cc's. It's safe!"
John glared. That had to be the stupidest thing she could have said. As if drugging his son with something 'safe' made it all right. Made it even marginally forgivable.
"He's okay!"
John did not want her to ever say that again.
"We use it sometimes with our patients at work. He's okay! It'll wear off!"
John turned back to his son, almost angry enough he couldn't feel his fear. He had no idea what 'Nervoplex' was. Hell, it sounded like something out of a low budget sci-fi flick. He had no idea what it might do his boy even if this murdering woman was saying it would just 'wear off.'
He checked Dean's breathing. Checked his pupils. Checked his pulse. Checked them all again just to try and make sure whatever this fucking drug was hadn't really fucked up his son.
"I'm an EMT."
He glanced back at the woman briefly. Sam hadn't once so much as twitched with the shotgun and John was so damn proud it burned.
"Let me help you." She begged. "He has cracked ribs on the right side. Possible concussion. I didn't have time to check for a skull fracture, but I should."
The fact that she knew these things, and his boy was still lying on a fucking concrete floor without a jacket when it was this damned cold…
"You aren't going to touch my son again." And his tone actually made John himself shiver. He figured Sam was probably the only one not frightened by it – to Sam it was all love and protection.
"Please!" the woman begged, desperate and frantic and pathetic. And maybe if she'd been any of those things while smearing Sammy with something dark and unholy during their fucking murderous ritual less than twenty minutes earlier…
"Sammy, come over here."
Sam backed toward his father deliberately, keeping the gun on his target, never letting his eyes leave the woman – just like he'd been taught, just like he'd practiced.
John stood and took the rifle, giving Sam's wrist a quick squeeze to let him know he'd done a bloody excellent job; that John was proud and that he was dismissed.
Sam dropped beside his brother right away, still scared, but trusting his father. Tenderly, he eased the older boy's head into his lap, silently willing him to wake.
He glanced up as John held out a pistol to him. Sam took it gratefully, glad for its sure weight when he was this scared and there could still be so much danger; glad it wasn't the giant shotgun that hurt his shoulder so bad when he practiced with it.
"Stay here a minute."
And Sam knew that also meant: Be careful, stay alert, watch your brother while I can't.
"Yes, Dad," because he would do absolutely that.
John nodded once, knowing he was understood. He turned back to the woman – the last of the people that had harmed his family, had threatened his kids, had sought to murder his child.
"Move."
He herded her back to the front room. She was shaking visibly and John struggled not to let it get to him. He wasn't a killer. He wasn't… Wasn't…
"Your son, Dean…"
John's finger tensed on the trigger, Dean's lax, bloody face besting that internal battle.
"Cal's guys gave him a beating after they'd got him tied down."
Ah. That made sense then. But what kind of sick fucking freak beat on a kid when he was tied up?
"I tried to get him to a hospital."
John knew she was trying to save her skin, trying to get him to think she'd been on his side. But he'd seen her participating in Sam's attempted murder. Knew she'd pumped some poison into Dean and left him. "Before or after you drugged him?"
"I drugged him so he wouldn't hurt himself!" she sounded almost hysterical. "He was struggling so hard and with cracked ribs…"
All John could think about was his first born child, with cracked ribs having to struggle and fight and hurt himself trying to save his baby brother.
"What were you doing in here?" There was blood all over the place, but John really didn't care. "What ritual?" He'd show Singer the circles and runes anyway, but motives needed to be established. If nothing else he needed to know why people would come after his boys.
"It's… it's to bind a demon."
Yeah, that made sense. As much sense as fish flying or cows shitting daisies. "Bind a demon?"
"Into its corporeal form. To… to kill it."
And, really, she just admitted that she was going to kill Sammy. Not exorcise him – that he could have maybe understood; if they'd just fucked up and thought his kid was possessed. But, nope. They were going to kill him.
He wanted to double check… John wasn't a killer. "You thought my boy was possessed?"
"No." She turned to face the hunter and John had to admit he was kind of impressed that she'd summoned up the balls to do it – to make him look her in the eye if he was going to shoot.
Her voice was low when she hissed, "Your boy is a demon."
"You're fucking insane." He didn't even have to think about that.
"I'm not. He's evil and he's a threat."
John almost – almost – wanted to laugh at that. Sammy wasn't even a threat to ducks on a pond; he'd miss purposefully, aim usually excellent. But this whole mess was way too serious for laughter.
"And I'm so very sorry that it's true."
John realized the woman meant that. She was sorry. But not for what she was going to have done. "You'll come after him again."
"No."
John smiled mirthlessly, knowing beyond doubt the woman was lying. She believed in this fucked up crazy conviction. Maybe she was sorry, but she believed.
She would come after his boys again. Wouldn't come alone. And maybe next time John wouldn't get there in time.
That couldn't happen.
He wouldn't let it.
Any man – hunter, soldier or a fucking banker – who said he wouldn't kill for his children, wasn't a father.
The shot was loud and it was messy, but it was quick. John paused for only a single beat, before turning quickly and hurrying back to his boys.