Here we have the first Voice Mail! They're not actually episode tags so I wanted to set them apart, but they're very integral to this story so I didn't want to publish them separately. They're more like . . . tags to a Phone Tag. And they don't take place over the phone. They take place IRL. (So to speak. :D)
Instead of a timeline marker they'll also have the loverly (snurched) addition you see below.
Also, if you want a visual of the creatures John refers to go to http: (slash) (slash) www (dot) psychfic (dot) com (slash) community (slash) showpost (dot) php?p=33131&postcount=1 to see some lovely fanart by the awesome dragonnan! :D
ENOUGH BABBLING! ENJOY!
THEN
"Shawn Spencer?"
Shawn slowed, wary. "Maybe. Who're you?"
The man stepped fully into the light and Dean's description from almost a year ago popped right up into the front of Shawn's head. Graying hair, short beard, leather jacket, piercing brown eyes . . . and that indefinable air about him that said as surely as any DNA test that he'd produced and then trained Dean and Sam Winchester.
John Winchester just returned the stare. "We need to talk."
o.o
NOW
Shawn swallowed. "Talk?" he said, willing his voice to remain casual. So far, it was listening. "Uh, sure. There's a restaurant a block over-"
"My truck is this way," the older man said and started walking.
"Dude, I don't think so."
John stopped and turned back. "Excuse me?"
Shawn had to swallow once more, then squared his shoulders.
"I'm not going to go with you to your truck, dude. You want to talk, fine. But it's going to be in a public place."
John just arched an eyebrow. "You know who I am?"
Shawn nodded. "I think so."
"And you know what I do for a living?"
Another nod, though no speech this time. Did he practice being this scary or what? Was it just because he used to be a Marine?
"And you're going to give me an order?" The eyebrow inched up higher.
Well, when he put it that way . . .
John sighed then, wiping a hand over his face. "Look, Shawn, I'm not going to kill you. I just want to talk to you. But I don't think you want to discuss the subjects I have in mind in a restaurant with other people around. I know I sure as hell don't."
Shawn was way less worried about there not being any witnesses than those same witnesses thinking the two of them were crazy.
"Restaurant. Or I start running that way," he said, tossing a thumb over his shoulder, "screaming bloody murder."
John smiled and it was not a comforting thing.
"You think you can outrun me?"
"Maybe not," Shawn allowed, giving the other man a once over. John was about an inch taller than Dean which gave him a good three and a half inches on Shawn. And he was a former Marine who probably kept most of that workout regimen up considering his job.
Yeah, Shawn was screwed in a footrace.
"But I have a very loud scream. And if you don't want attention-"
He didn't see him move.
He didn't even see him fucking move.
One second he's staring at Shawn with this amused grin slowly forming on his face, then next Shawn is spun around, one hand pulling his arm up behind his back, the guy's other arm around his throat, not cutting off his air, but ready and capable of doing so.
"You've got good instincts, Shawn. Your father trained you well in that regard. But I have places to go and things to do and not a lot of time to stand here pissing in the wind. So we're going to go to my truck and we're going to do it right now. Have I made myself clear?"
Shawn was gasping, hands trying futilely to pull the iron bar known as an arm away from his throat. He gave brief thought to trying to kick his way free, but was pretty sure that would only get himself a broken foot. So he nodded, almost bashing John in the nose in his haste.
And just like that he was free, rubbing at his throat and stretching the arm that had been pinned behind him.
"Come on. This way."
Shawn glared at his back, but followed, all of his senses on high alert as he evaluated possible escape routes. Unfortunately, most of them led into alleys and such and Shawn wasn't dumb enough to think that was any sort of improvement over his current locale.
The truck was only a block away, a big black beast, and Shawn flashed back to the conversation he'd just had with Dean. It was not making for happy feelings in his gut.
John climbed up, then popped the passenger side door.
"Hop in."
Shawn gave one last look around—calculating his chances of escaping at higher but still probably a failure—then bowed to the inevitable and climbed up into the cab of the truck.
John started the engine and began driving.
"Where-"
"Just driving to be driving. Sitting still makes me itchy."
Shawn nodded. "Okay." He waited a beat, then slid his gaze sideways to watch his . . . captor? Bizarrely firm invitation extender?
"I understand you and Dean met in Iowa, going on a year ago."
"Uh, yes?" Shawn said. He had the sudden feeling that he was being interviewed or . . . vetted somehow.
John smiled. "Look, Shawn, how about we cut the crap?"
"Sounds like a plan." He barely stifled the 'Sir' that wanted to tack itself onto the end there.
From the way the corners of John's mouth hitched up a little higher, Shawn had a feeling it had been heard anyway.
"You know what my boys do. What we are."
"Hunters," Shawn said. "Ghostbusters. Vampire Slayers. The lead protagonist in every monster movie out there."
John chuckled. "All of that rolled into one and more besides." Then his smile faded. "Our job is dangerous. Most hunters don't last a year before something catches them unawares and they become a statistic. It's a steep learning curve and has a high attrition rate."
Was he being recruited? Shawn wondered with a certain amount of fascination. Because Dean had said he wasn't the right type of person, but maybe Dean's dad had a different opinion?
"And if you do survive that first year the second is even harder because that's when you learn the first truth of hunting: It's a lonely business. Hunters, we live on the fringes of society. We perform a necessary service, but much like the garbage man or the plumber, no one really wants to think about us. We solve their problems, save their lives, and they go back to their apple-pie, suburban American dream. And we hunters go to ground at a crappy motel where we lick our wounds and look for another job, another fugly to kill. Because most of us are in it for vengeance. And vengeful people are single-minded, self-serving sunzabitches. Dean and Sam? They're the exception."
Shawn frowned. "Because they were raised this way?"
"That, too. But they're not like most of us. They hunt for the same reasons, for vengeance, but it's not the same. It doesn't consume them the way it does most of the rest of us. Even Sam with Jessica . . . he wants vengeance. He wants her killer to pay and pay dearly. But that's not his only reason for doing this. He does it for Dean too. He stays for Dean. And Dean? Hell, that boys doesn't want for much in this life except a hunt, that car of his, and the occasional warm body to lose himself with. But mostly? He does it for Sam. They will both tell you that they share my quest. That they seek their mother's killer, Sam's girlfriend's killer. But in reality? They do it for each other. To protect each other."
Shawn was beginning to see some of the pieces he'd been gathering over the last year come together. And he had to agree with John for the most part.
Except . . .
"They do it for you, too."
John smiled sadly.
"They've been searching for you for almost a year now."
"Yeah, I know."
"Why the hell are you hiding?"
John glanced at him and Shawn instantly wondered if poking the grizzly in his den was such a gangbusters idea.
"To protect them. Because those boys are all I have left and I will not lose them to this fight the way I lost Mary."
Shawn frowned.
"We're getting off topic. Like I said, hunting, it's a lonely life. Sam and Dean, they have each other. But I don't know if that's enough. It's rare that a hunter has friends or family outside of the hunting community. As I said, we're fringe dwellers. People don't like to think about us and what we do. Makes it real hard to get close to anyone."
Shawn shifted in his seat. "Yeah well-"
"Shut up, Shawn."
"Okay," Shawn said and instantly complied.
They sat through a red light, then kept driving, their course unhurried and meandering. He was driving the speed limit, but no more than. Nothing remarkable about this truck for anyone to remember.
"You seem to be one of those rare, few individuals who manages to bridge the world of a hunter and the world of normal, boring, regular old life. And you've been a great help to my boys. Thank you."
Shawn blinked at the sincerity. "Uhh, you're welcome."
John chuckled, but the laughter quickly faded.
"Which is why it's only fair that I offer you an out."
Shawn's eyebrow rose. "An out? An out from what?"
"From being friend to a couple of hunters."
Now his brows came crashing down to furrow above his eyes.
"Huh?" he said intelligently.
"This life is dangerous. And not just for the hunters. Anyone who knows a hunter, anyone who is friends with a hunter, is automatically a target."
"For what?" Shawn asked, mouth drying in anticipation of the answer.
"Any and every evil fucking thing out there," John said, eyes locked into Shawn to catch his first—and second and third and maybe fourth—reactions.
Shawn paled slightly, Adam's apple bobbing. "What . . . What does that mean?"
"It means that by virtue of being friends with my son you are more likely to encounter the supernatural. In fact, it just might seek you out. And all because you had the misfortune to make friends with the wrong people."
"So what? I'm dead meat? Well that's comforting," he muttered.
John shook his head. "No, you don't have to be. Cut your ties now and don't look back. It's no guarantee, but you're a whole helluva lot less likely to be used as bait or a warning or some other dark—and often painful for you—purpose if you no longer maintain contact with any members of the hunting community."
Shawn's eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to scare me into not being friends with your sons? Because, dude-"
"I'm trying to be fair, Shawn. I'm making sure you know what the hell you're getting into before it's too late."
"Okay, fine," Shawn said stiffly. "You guys are bad luck and knowing you could be hazardous to my health. Got it." Shawn's rising irritation seemed to have helped him grow a spine and he looked John square in the eye. "Was that all?" he asked.
John almost laughed.
Because Shawn still had no idea what the hell he was getting into. But damn if he didn't have a set of huge, tempered-steel balls between his legs.
Which John knew he'd need. But for his own peace of mind he had to be sure that Shawn understood what he was doing by not running for his very life.
"You know, this one time I was down in Florida, near a place called Melbourne."
Shawn's eyes darted John's way. He was going to tell him stories now? What the hell?
"Nice little town I guess. Dean was about . . ." John did the math. "Sixteen or so? Sammy wasn't even in junior high yet. But Dean had been hunting with me for a while, easy stuff mostly. I had caught wind of a creature that the authorities were saying was some kind of rogue shark terrorizing the beaches." John snorted. "People will come up with some crazy shit to avoid the truth."
Shawn wondered if he realized that the very people he was talking about would probably say the exact same thing about him.
"Turns out it was mermaids. Some mutant version of them anyway. Little things, about six or seven inches long. Kinda like piranhas actually, but with a human-like head and face and these spindly little arms with webbed hands instead of fins. Creepy as hell."
Shawn's eyes were glued to John, wide enough to show an impressive amount of white.
"What the fuck?"
"Yeah, that was pretty much what Dean said when we first spotted 'em," John said with a chuckle.
"Why are you telling me this?" Shawn demanded.
He was ignored.
"It actually took me a while to figure out what they were, because besides being fugly they were damn clever too. In that time, Dean made a friend. Kind of unusual since that was more Sammy's deal, the whole, wanting normal thing, but it happened every now and again. Meredith was a nice girl. And she and Dean hit it off pretty quickly. I think they even actually dated a few times. Might have gone to a dance or two and if you knew Dean back then, that was impressive on Meredith's part. Dean's not really one for the finer points of relationships like that."
Oh wow. The awkward quotient was rising to dangerous levels.
"You do know that Dean and I aren't, uh . . ." Shawn waved a hand.
"Yes, Shawn, I know," John said wryly. "Over the years my son has had a collection of skin mags and a string of one-night stands that would make Hugh Hefner jealous. Dean is good at hiding parts of himself, but even he wouldn't work that hard to hide something like his sexual orientation."
Shawn nodded. "Just . . . making sure we're clear."
Another low chuckle came from the driver's seat.
"We are. So anyway, Dean and Meredith were down at the beach one night, doing what teenagers do on beaches late at night, when the . . . I dunno, swarm or school or whatever, of these Barmaids-"
"Wait, Barmaids?"
John sighed. "Dean's name for them. As in Barbie Mermaids. Because they were tiny disproportionate humans and fish mixed together. And creepy as hell."
Shawn snorted. "Dude, that doesn't even surprise me."
"Plus we'd been in Pennsylvania before that during Oktoberfest so he had a thing for barmaids at the time. I'd think he wouldn't want to name them that if he liked barmaids, but . . . I don't know. Sometimes his logic still confuses me."
Shawn continued to quietly snicker from the passenger seat. "Barmaids . . ."
"So Dean and Meredith were down at the beach when the Barmaids come out of the water. Apparently the little bastards were amphibious, which is why we couldn't figure out where they were hiding. We were looking in the water, not on land.
"Dean, being well versed in why you never went anywhere unprepared, pulls out his gun and starts shooting them. We didn't know what they might be susceptible to, so he had a mixed mag of every kind of bullet we could think of. Turns out they had the usual supernatural allergy and the silver shots were taking them out of the equation. But there were a whole fucking lot of the little buggers and not even Dean carries that much spare ammo."
Shawn's laughter had died, but his attention was still fully engaged.
"Meredith was dragged off into the ocean. They found what was left of her washed up on shore the next day. Dean was knocked unconscious, but apparently they were satisfied with her and didn't need him because he was right there on the beach where it happened, chewed up pretty badly, but alive."
Shawn swallowed.
John stopped for a light and met his gaze dead on.
"Meredith didn't know about Dean's life, about what our family does. I can tell you other stories of people he did trust with this secret. They don't end much better."
"Are you trying to scare me?" Shawn asked, skin a few shades paler than it had been just moments ago.
John looked forward as the light changed and then nodded. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Because around me and my sons too many people die that shouldn't. And if you choose to take that risk that's your decision, but I want to make damn sure you know what exactly the risk is."
Shawn nodded, flippant and reckless tongue leashed pretty effectively by the pointed words and the sordid tale.
"Now, I won't blame you—and I know Sam and Dean won't either—if you decide to step back now and save yourself a whole lotta trouble."
Shawn remained quiet, staring at his hands where they played with the zipper of his bag.
"If it makes you feel better, this is really only an increase in the likelihood of you encountering something supernatural. Most of the people I meet every day don't get this much warning. Actually, come to think of it, you didn't get any when that werewolf attacked, did you?"
"Not really, no. And by the way? You suck at reassuring pep talks."
John laughed. "Yeah. Reassuring was never my strong suit. Hell if I know where Dean and Sam learned it from."
Shawn snorted.
"Look, now you know what's out there. Knowledge is power. You're a whole step up from most of the ignorant bastards walking around out there who just get attacked by a black dog or a wendigo. They never see it coming and they're never seen again. That oughta make you feel better."
Shawn leveled an incredulous look at him.
"Or not."
"You are so lucky my coping mechanisms kick ass. And don't be surprised if I send you a bill for therapy anyway."
John snorted, one side of his mouth curling up. "If you can find me."
Shawn frowned, but didn't respond, his eyes dropping to his nervously fidgeting hands.
John drove for a while, letting him think.
His thoughts were so absorbing that he didn't even notice that outside the window things were becoming a lot more familiar.
When the truck stopped and the engine cut he finally looked up in surprise. In front of them stood his apartment building.
"How . . ."
John chuckled. "Son, I hunt things for a living. Things that, often times, try to assimilate into regular human society so as to draw less attention to themselves when they kill. And more often then not they're damn good at it. I know a thing or two about getting information on a person. Especially when that person isn't even trying to hide."
Oooookay. Shawn filed that away in the 'creepy things to NEVER FORGET about John Winchester' folder of his brain.
John reached into the backseat and pulled out a small duffel bag.
"Here."
"What's this?" Shawn asked, pulling on the zipper and peering inside. A dream catcher, a bottle labeled—unsurprisingly—HH2O, a big ass knife like Dean's, a small notebook, and a bunch of other things Shawn didn't immediately recognize, though he'd be figuring out what they were very soon.
"Think of it as a supernatural first aid kit. Now, I already took care of warding your place-"
That brought Shawn's head up with a snap. "You what?"
John waved a hand. "Nothing complex or obvious. You won't even know it's there. Wouldn't hurt for you to invest in some salt for the doors and windows, but it's not necessary. You should be pretty damn safe right now. Especially since you don't go looking for trouble like we do. You have any questions about what's in your apartment or that bag, you call Dean or Sam and they'll explain it to you. And if anything comes after you, same thing. You hole up in your apartment and you call for the cavalry. If you can't get my boys for some reason, there are other numbers in that book. Don't keep it right next to your phone, but do keep it handy. This," he emphasized, waving at the bag, "does not make you a hunter or a hero. It makes you a victim more likely to survive. Are we clear?"
This time there was no stopping it. "Yes, sir."
John nodded. "Good."
They sat there for another second, staring at each other, then John's lips curved upward. "You can get out of the truck now, son."
Shawn blinked, then reached for the door handle.
He climbed down, shouldering his laundry and gripping the bag of the duffel, then stopped.
"Damn," John said, "I almost forgot. You got a gun?"
Shawn blinked. Again. He was doing that a lot today.
"Uh . . . no?"
John got out and headed back to the rear of the truck. Morbid curiosity had Shawn following.
When the gear box came to a stop and the lid was opened, Shawn's eyes bugged wide.
"Holy shit."
John pulled out two magazines for a handgun. He picked up Shawn's empty hand and plunked one of them down. "Blessed silver," he explained, then added the second. "Consecrated iron. If it's corporeal use the silver, if it's not, the iron. It's not a final solution for everything, but it'll delay them long enough for you to run and get to safe ground, either here or a church. Pretty much any church will do. I'd give you a gun, but, uh, for someone who doesn't live in the shadows, a legal firearm is best. So I'll leave that to you. And Shawn?"
Shawn's eyes had dropped to stare at the rounds, but now he looked up.
"Don't use these for target practice, okay? Save these for the actual fuglies. You need more you get a hold of Dean or Caleb. He's listed in the book," he said with a nod to the duffel.
John walked him up to the sidewalk to make sure he didn't stand in the parking lot and get himself hit by a regular old car, then headed for his truck once more.
"Hey, John?"
The call stopped the hunter and he looked back. "Yeah?"
"Do you do this for all of Sam and Dean's friends?"
The look John gave him was both amused and sad.
"Kid, most people are smart enough to tuck their tail between their legs and run as far and as fast as they can. Good luck."
Shawn frowned, not sure if that was a compliment or an insult. Or even an answer to his question.
The truck started up and John backed out, then paused, rolling down his window.
"Shawn."
"Yeah?" he said warily.
"When you call my son to tell him about this little chat, you mind also telling him not to bother coming out here for me? I won't even be in the state by then. He knows what his job is. He and Sam both do."
Shawn's frown deepened, but John just waved and drove off, leaving a very confused young man in his wake.
Shawn looked down at the duffel again, then up at his apartment, the window visible from here.
He sat on the curb and pulled out his phone, calling up Dean's name in his phone book and hitting the 'send' button.
It rang twice before Dean answered.
"Yeah?"
"Dude, your dad is one scary son of a bitch."
This is the end. You'll have to imagine all the wonderful angst of such a phone conversation between the boys. It's time for us to move on to the next epi! YAYZ!
Oh and . . .
Review, please and thanks! :D