Dean tensed; all his senses instantly on high alert. Because he knew there shouldn't be anyone behind him. Not with how carefully he had scrutinized the entire area before he left the car. And he had been extremely vigilant ever since. There was absolutely no way he had been followed.

Not unless whatever had followed him hadn't done so from the ground.

It had been almost dawn when he had driven away from the motel. Almost. But not quite. And that meant that there was a distinct possibility that something could have been stalking him from the air. But now that the morning sun was beginning to rise, that something would have reverted to its human form.

And that would be what was pursuing him now.

As he continued on his journey back to the motel, Dean gave no indication that he believed he was not alone. But his seemingly relaxed persona couldn't have been farther from the truth. He had finely tuned his hearing in order to pick up even the slightest sound that indicated the whereabouts of the stalker and he kept a sharp lookout for any type of movement in his peripheral vision while he scanned the vicinity around him for anything he could use to his advantage or brandish as a weapon.

He resisted altering his speed, knowing that to do so would alert the interloper to the fact that he knew he was being followed. But he was no longer relaxed, every muscle in his body was taut and ready for the attack he knew was coming. And he was just going to sit back and wait for it to come. He would wait for whatever was pursuing him to make the first move, conducting himself as if this was just other hunt.

Because the only real difference was that he hadn't come to this one armed.

And, while that did put him at a slight disadvantage, it certainly wasn't going to be the deciding factor in this encounter. Not by a long shot. Because the winner of this skirmish was going to be determined by skill and by whichever fighter was able to utilize it the most effectively.

So, for Dean, that meant biding his time. Letting his opponent think he wasn't ready. Letting him believe that he was completely unaware of what was happening behind him. Letting him conclude that he was an easy mark. And that the fight was already won.

But, as everyone knows, appearances are often deceiving. And Dean was going to use that to his advantage.

As it turned out, he didn't have to wait long for his adversary to attack. Just as he reached the boundary of the shoddy park, Dean caught a sudden movement in the corner of his eye. So with the call to battle made, Dean quickly ducked behind a large tree. He veered so close to it that he narrowly missed scraping his back against it before he seized the trunk with one arm to be able to swing himself around it. As he spun effortlessly around the tree, he picked up a fallen branch and gripped it tightly in his other hand.

As he came up behind his foe, Dean released the tree trunk and grabbed the branch firmly with both hands. Wielding it like a baseball bat, he swung it fiercely and struck his unsuspecting opponent sharply in the back. The sudden impact of the branch on his body caused the man's knees buckle but he retained his balance by steadying himself against the tree. He recovered quickly and spun around to face the determined teenager. But as his hate-filled eyes sought him out, Dean thrust the branch forcefully toward his foe and speared it at his unprotected torso.

The man grabbed the end of the branch just before it stabbed him and he jumped easily out of its path. But as soon as the branch's momentum had been halted, Dean readjusted his hold on it by grasping it in the middle with one hand while he countered the man's strong hold on the branch by taking a step closer to him. Then Dean stepped forward, which pushed the unyielding branch into his opponent's body and caused him to take a step backwards.

As his opponent fought to gain control of the branch, Dean took another step closer to him before he kicked him powerfully in the groin. This caused the man to lurch forward over top of the branch and he ultimately lost his grip on it. Dean felt the man's grip slacken and without hesitating, he hoisted the branch and knocked his adversary forcibly under the chin. As the man reeled backwards in response to the latest intrusion, Dean once again gripped the branch like a bat and swung it mightily at the man's head. The branch caught his opponent brutally in the temple and he staggered backwards before finally succumbing to the assault and plunging heavily to the ground.

Dean stared down at the now prone figure, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He didn't recognize his assailant but he knew that the man was really an Aswang and that his goal had been to kill him. And, if that had indeed been his intension, there was no doubt in Dean's mind that another one of these creatures would be trying to get to Sam.

So Dean threw the branch away with an exaggerated flourish and raced off toward the motel…

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Not wanting to risk being seen in the neighborhood so soon after dumping the deputy-mayor's car there, John slunk through the back streets as he made his way back to the motel. He knew that this route would take him a bit longer to get back, but he wasn't overly worried. Sam was safe inside the room; he had double-checked the lines of salt himself. And besides that, Dean would easily be back by now,

With exhaustion beginning to overwhelm him, John slowed his pace. It was just after dawn on a Saturday morning and the streets were quiet. The majority of people didn't have to wake up early on the weekends and John took a bit of solace in the apparent peacefulness of the early morning hour.

But just as he let his fatigue take over, John realized he had made a mistake. He was momentarily caught off guard as he was suddenly blindsided by a large figure and knocked to the ground. The two combatants fell heavily to the ground in a tangled web of arms and legs as they wrestled viciously with one another. But John's error had left him vulnerable to the unexpected assault and he ended up pinned to the ground underneath his opponent. The man threw blow after merciless blow at John's head and his only option was to defend himself by shielding his face with his arms. And in his disadvantaged position, John could do little else than protect himself against serious injury until he sensed the man begin to show signs of exhaustion from the continuous barrage of punches that he was so intently trying to deliver to John' head.

But as soon as the man's onslaught began to taper off, John bucked his hips upwards to disengage him from his body. But the man held firm and John lifted both his legs and kneed the man vigorously in the small of his back. John's renewed offensive caused his opponent to lurch forward and John was able to grab both his wrists as he hurled frontward. John twisted the man's wrists around so that he fell onto his back on the ground beside him and John immediately sat up and placed one of his knees heavily on the man's chest. But John's weariness was impairing his ability to gain control of the situation and the man managed to free one hand from John's grip and he clawed viciously at John's neck.

He held John's throat just beneath his chin, trying desperately to choke him. But John countered by slamming his own hand down on his opponent's throat and blocking his windpipe. Securely holding his foe by the throat, John removed his knee from the man's chest and kicked him violently in the ribs. The impact of John's knee into his body caused the man to release his hold on John's neck, but he quickly thrust his arm into John's upper body in an attempt to fling him away from him.

The assault caused John to lunge backwards but he maintained his hold on the man's arm and, as he fell back, he managed to pull the man off the ground as he carried him with him. The two men rolled onto the ground once again and the fight continued as they both tried to gain the upper hand. But neither man seemed to be able to defeat the other and, eventually, they both staggered to their feet where they began to circle each other warily.

The physical exertion had taken its toll on John and he was almost ready to collapse. The man quickly realized his advantage and ascertained that he merely had to taunt John in order to outlast him. So a distasteful game of cat and mouse ensued, with John trying desperately to end the fight while his rival tried just as hard to prolong it. The man skillfully dodged every punch and jab that John threw at him while he watched John grow weaker and weaker. His face took on a menacing scowl as he continued to goad the eldest Winchester, taking delight in lengthening the battle.

The man's strategy was clear to him and John knew he was only moments away from unwillingly surrendering to his escalating fatigue. He had to bring the battle to a rapid conclusion. So John rushed the man. But just as John charged him, his opponent spun sideways, easily avoided the collision and elbowing John violently in the middle of his back. John fell to his knees and the man was on top of him before he had a chance to recover.

He placed John in a chokehold and pulled his head backwards with incredible force. John's arms went to his throat but he was now entirely at the mercy of this ruthless antagonist. The man increased the pressure on John's neck until John couldn't breathe at all and he slowly felt himself losing consciousness.

As he was about to give in to the all-encompassing blackness, John just vaguely heard a loud crack which was immediately followed by the relaxation of the man's stranglehold on his neck. As he slowly regained his senses John inhaled deeply before he fell limply to the ground. But he was still uncertain as to what exactly had transpired so John sprung up instinctively to stand up to the threat he was sure still waited for him.

John vaulted to his feet and came face to face with his oldest son. Dean was standing over the unconscious body of John's assailant with a broken beer bottle in his hand. The remainder of the bottle lay in fragments scattered around the man's head.

John blinked and straightened himself up. He glanced between the body on the ground and his son but he refrained from speaking. Dean looked at his father, trying to assess his condition. Determining that his father was none the worse for wear, Dean glanced at the figure on the ground before he slowly lowered the broken bottle and tossed it haphazardly away.

"Fancy meetin' you here, Dad."

"Yeah," replied John breathlessly, "Especially considering that I told you to stay in the motel until I returned."

Shocked by the bitterness in his father's voice, Dean simply stared at him for a moment before he answered sarcastically, "Then I guess it was a good thing for you that my hearing been acting up a bit lately." Then he turned abruptly on his heels to head back to the motel.

John watched as Dean walked briskly away. He closed his eyes and sighed. It had been wrong to treat his oldest son like that and he knew it. He knew that he should have at least expressed a bit of gratitude and not been so quick to berate him. Especially for something that would have, if obeyed, led to dire consequences.

But he had never been good at communicating with Dean. Which in turn had led to Dean not being able to communicate well with him. Or not wanting to. John wasn't sure which. But either way, it was a vicious circle. One that they had perpetuated for a long time. And one that wasn't likely to stop revolving any time soon.

As he silently admonished himself for lashing out at his eldest son, John knew that, in actuality, he had been extremely lucky that Dean had shown up when he did. And the truth was that he had been more than overjoyed to see him. It had been comforting to know that, once again, Dean had had his back. He had been there when it mattered the most. Like he had trained him to be.

And like he always was.

John stared after his son, trying to will himself to speak. But, no matter how hard he tried, the words just wouldn't come. So instead, he cleared his throat, hoping that Dean would recognize that as a signal that he had something to say to him. He watched as Dean hesitated, but didn't turn around. He simply straightened his posture and paused. John knew he was waiting for him to say something.

Anything.

But, after a prolonged moment of silence, Dean once again commenced walking toward the motel. And as John watched his son go, the ache in his heart grew as deep as the chasm that existed between him and his oldest son. And it was just about impossible to breach. Just as difficult as it was to acknowledge. It was almost completely inaccessible.

And then, unexpectedly, John found his voice.

"Dean."

This time Dean stopped. But he didn't turn around. He didn't dare face his father. Not when he was uncertain what the man would say. Or how he would react to whatever words came out of his father's mouth. So, instead, he remained motionless, waiting for the reprimand he was sure was coming. Only it didn't come. Nothing did. There was only a continued silence.

Dean struggled to hold back the tears that threatened to fall from his eyes. The tears that he knew his father would see as a sign of weakness. A weakness that his father would never be able to look beyond in order to see the son who simply wanted a tiny modicum of acceptance and approval.

But John remained tongue-tied. The words of approval never passed his lips. Neither did the gratitude. Nor the praise. There was only an unrelenting silence that hung between father and son like an impenetrable blanket.

Finally Dean couldn't take the uncomfortable silence any longer and he stated hesitantly, "Dad, we should get back. In case Sammy needs us."

Dean's words shook John back into action and he quickly breached the distance to catch up to his son. With their differences momentarily shoved aside and forgotten, the two Winchesters hightailed as fast as they could back to the remaining member of their family.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It took a moment for the reality of what he was seeing to seep into Sheriff Durham's brain. Still not used to dealing with the supernatural, he was temporarily confused by what he was seeing in front of him as his deputy's abhorrent mutation began. Until, all of a sudden, the seriousness of his predicament hit the sheriff like a ton of bricks.

According to what he remembered of John's story, once an Aswang assumed its animal form, it was pretty much unbeatable. And by the look of his deputy, it wasn't going to be long before his familiar human form was eradicated by the transformation into the type of creature that the sheriff had only seen once before.

And wasn't too keen on ever seeing again.

Acting on a combination of reflex and years of weapons training, the sheriff withdrew his gun from his holster. Even as he pointed the weapon at the deputy, he knew it was a useless exercise. There was no silver bullet in the chamber; only regular police-issue buckshot. And that wasn't going to kill the man.

Still, he figured it was as good a deterrent as any other he had available to him - which really didn't amount to much. He held the gun unwaveringly in front of him as he stared the mutating deputy directly in the eye. His years in law enforcement had taught him to try to defuse a tense situation before he resorted to violence and he irrationally hoped that the sight of the gun would be enough to thwart the deputy. But the man simply grinned at him. And as the evil, spiteful grin spread slowly across the deputy's face, the sheriff realized the futility of his belief.

So he pulled the trigger.

And he saw the bullet penetrate the deputy's chest. The force of the impact made the man stumble backwards a few feet. But he didn't fall down. Nor did he surrender his concentration.

And, most annoying of all, he didn't even lose his stupid grin for a second.

But, as he regained his balance, he glanced down at his body and placed his hand over the wound as if assessing it for damage control. But the gunshot was more a nuisance than an actual hindrance and the deputy just as quickly returned his wicked gaze to the sheriff.

As the deputy took a step toward him, the sheriff fired again. This time he hit the deputy just above the knee. And once again the deputy reeled backwards before he grasped the newly acquired wound. And, although the wound wasn't fatal, it had the same effect on the deputy as it would have on any other person; it effectively immobilized him.

Unable to walk, the deputy nonetheless stood up still clutching his injured knee and leered at the sheriff. But his injury appeared to have halted the transformation and Sheriff Durham gained some much-needed confidence. Taking his eyes briefly off the deputy, Sheriff Durham found the nightstick that they kept at the main desk for emergencies and he grasped it firmly in one hand while keeping the gun aimed at the pitiful deputy with the other.

Caught between realms as a half-human/half-monster, the deputy hissed menacingly as the sheriff approached him. He retained his hold on his injured knee as he watched the sheriff advance, never taking his eyes off the man. As soon as the sheriff was close enough, the deputy sprung at him like a cornered cat. But before he was able to reach the sheriff, an earsplitting shot rang out and the deputy fell harmlessly to the ground.

Sheriff Durham's heart was pounding in his ears and he stared down at the lifeless body of his deputy at his feet. A man that up until now he had considered to be his friend. He was more than a little shocked to discover that the deputy was still breathing. His last shot had hit him right below his eye and by everything that the sheriff had held true until this night, the man should have been dead. But he wasn't and Sheriff Durham knew why.

So without any hesitation whatsoever, the sheriff clubbed the deputy on the back of his head with the nightstick to ensure that he would remain unconscious for a little while longer.

He gently nudged the unconscious deputy with his foot; still not convinced that the man no longer posed a threat to him. But when he didn't budge, Sheriff Durham kicked him a bit harder. Receiving no response at all, the sheriff quickly tucked the baton into his belt and holstered his gun. Then he turned the deputy over, grabbed him under the arms and dragged him back to the containment area.

After he had deposited the unresponsive deputy into one of the cells, Sheriff Durham locked him in. At least that would hold him for the time being. And, in the meantime, the sheriff knew exactly what he had to do.

Go and get John's truck.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Prior to emerging from his hiding spot, he surveyed the area for any sign of unwanted activity. But there was nothing. It was just after dawn and the streets were quiet. Which suited him just fine. Because that way he didn't to have to worry about witnesses.

He walked cautiously across the street, still keeping a careful eye out for any signs of trouble. Even though he knew that the others would be engaging the rest of them, he was still uneasy. Not because he didn't think the plan would succeed. Because he knew it would. It was foolproof. But he always remained anxious until after the plan had been completed.

It was better that way.

It made him a better hunter. And that's how he had taken over the pack. And become the leader amongst a ragtag assembly of creatures that were usually solitary hunters. But he knew there was no advantage to that. No way to further the interests of their race. Or even to ensure their continued existence.

So he had successfully banded them together. And that had made them strong. Made them a force to be reckoned with. And they had successfully infiltrated the town's infrastructure. And replaced most of its influential citizens with their own kind. And used the town as their own private hunting grounds.

That was…

Until that bothersome hunter had shown up.

At first they had barely noticed him. They dismissed him as just another glory-seeker looking to get his name in the papers by solving the mysterious killings that were plaguing the town. An amateur that could be easily disposed of. Without any trouble at all.

And they had continued to think that right up until the hunter and his offspring had murdered his wife. Shot and killed her as she was out securing a meal for their family. They had killed her in cold blood. With nary a thought for the family she had left behind.

And for that, the hunter was going to pay.

He stepped onto the sidewalk and cut across the grass to decrease the time it would take him to get to the building. As he neared the desired entranceway, he sensed the presence of an extremely powerful deterrent. One that would prevent him from fulfilling his task.

He smiled to himself.

Because it was nothing that he hadn't already anticipated. Or expected.

He continued walking past the door until he reached the establishment's office. The door was unlocked and he walked in. There was no sign of anyone around, but there was a bell to ring if you needed help. So he rang it rapidly a couple of times in order to convey the urgency of his visit. A moment later the owner came through the set of private doors that led to his domicile. He looked tired. And slightly annoyed.

That was…until he saw who was standing in his lobby.

"Good Day Sir. How can I help you?" he asked cheerfully with only a hint of tiredness remaining in his voice.

"I need to get into one of your rooms. There's an urgent matter in there and it has to be taken care of right away."

"Oh, of course, Sir. Anything you need," stated the owner as he grabbed his ring that contained a set of keys for every room of the motel. "What room number is it?"

"Fifteen."

"Okay, here we go," replied the vexed innkeeper as he located the key to the requested room. As they exited the office and walked toward Room 15, he looked at the authority figure beside him and asked nervously, "But shouldn't we alert all the tenants?"

"No. That won't be necessary. It's not a real emergency. Except for the boy that's locked in that room. If my information is correct, and I believe it is, I'm positive he's been kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?" reiterated the shocked innkeeper. "I knew there was something strange about that man."

"Well, the boy's alone now. So this will be our best chance to get him out of there. But I'm going to need your help."

"My help? But shouldn't you wait for the sheriff?"

"He should be on his way here. But he's been rather preoccupied with those attacks at Brewer Park last night so he might not make it in time. That's why I need you to help me."

"But I'm not sure I'll know what to do."

They had reached the door to Room 15 and the motel owner inserted the key into the lock while his companion surveyed the surrounding area once again. But there was still no one around and he smiled wickedly to himself. As the door slowly swung open, he could see the sleeping form of a teenager lying on the bed furthest from the door. And their arrival hadn't wakened him.

Perfect.

He put his hand lightly on the proprietor's shoulder and whispered cautiously, "I want you to go in and get him. I'm going to stand guard out here. That way I'll be able to spot any signs of trouble before it arrives."

"All right," sighed the innkeeper hesitantly before he walked cautiously into the room.

As he watched the man cross over the salt without even flinching, he couldn't help but congratulate himself. He had successfully conned the man. And it hadn't been hard. Not with his position in town. People knew him. And trusted him. It came with the territory.

The innkeeper proceeded over to the bed and began gently trying to rouse the sleeping teenager. But as he watched the nervous man lightly shake the boy's shoulder, he knew it was a useless exercise. Because the boy had been drugged. Heavily sedated while he was at the hospital. The doctor had seen to that. It had all been part of the plan.

Careful to keep his voice low, he called urgently into the room, "Just carry him out. We haven't got all day. The kidnapper could return at any moment."

So, with a shaky sigh, the innkeeper lifted the teen in his arms and walked uncertainly back to the door. His companion was waiting there, glancing fretfully back and forth between him and what was happening outside. As he stepped over the unnoticed line of protective salt, he suddenly found himself being pulled violently out of the room. And then something hit him violently in the side of his head.

And the last thing he remembered before he blacked out was the weight of the teenager being lifted out of his arms.