Chapter 13
John wracked the steering wheel of the pickup and pressed down on the gas pedal aiming for the opening he could just make out between the trees. The young girl beside him squealed and slammed into his side as he brought the truck around the corner, its back end fishtailing slightly.
Without a word, he reached out and pushed the kid back into the passenger side even as he sped up. "When we get to the house, you will remain in this truck. You got me?" he ordered.
The girl offered no resistance as she stammered, "Yes, sir."
With a nod of satisfaction, he put the girl out of his mind and began concentrating on the driveway before him. If what she'd told him earlier was true, he ought to be at the house at any moment.
Then, just as he rounded the last bend, a glimmer of light caught his eye. As he neared, he got his first real look at Smith's house.
The small clapboard building shone with a warm patina. Cozy and inviting, every inch of the home was designed to welcome you in, to encourage you to lower your defenses.
To his cynical eye, the place screamed trap. It was obvious that Smith, in the same way a carnivorous plant will disguise itself as an insect's favorite meal, had designed this house to entice the unwary.
Anger raced through John as he imagined his boys caught in the bastard's web.
As the driveway began to widen into a parking area, he took in several details at once. A Ford sat parked to one side, looking like nothing more than another prop. The front door of the house sat open, a duffle bag abandoned on the front stoop.
These images and a hundred more filtered through his brain even as he brought the big truck to a skidding halt. Before Julie even had a chance to peel herself off the dashboard, he was swinging out of the vehicle, his gun in his hand.
"Stay," he commanded as he shoved the door closed.
Confident the girl wouldn't dare to follow, John kept the front end of the pickup between himself and the scene that was unfolding before him.
A man, who could only be Smith, stood just before the barn, one arm snaked across the throat of a young woman. John's boys stood ten feet back, Sam looking much younger than his age, and Dean, well Dean was wearing only a pair of plaid boxers and his boots.
Completely confounded as to how his son had ended up sans clothes, John nonetheless didn't miss the murderous intent in his older boy's hard glare.
Dean was pissed.
Long ago he had come to realize that despite his youth, his son was truly dangerous. More so then his younger brother ever would be, and probably more than John, especially when an innocent life was threatened.
Unlike John, and to a lesser extent Sam, who allowed logic and order to mandate their lives. Dean lived a life full of emotion. With a passion and joy that both surprised and humbled the eldest Winchester, his oldest moved through life on a level he would never understand.
Where John maintained a distance between himself and all others, Dean drew people in, he connected. Even if it was only on a superficial level, it helped to create within him a feeling of empathy for those that deserved it.
Dean had a ferocity born from the need to protect all those that crossed his path. It was an innate trait that had survived the loss of his mother, and for all the intents and purposes the loss of his father. Or maybe, John reconsidered it wasn't inborn, maybe it was a direct effect of the losses he'd suffered in his young life.
Either way, it made Dean an opponent to be wary of.
With a steely determination to protect those around him, and a cache of skills to back it up, Dean had become a man whom John wouldn't want to cross. Despite his fear, as he watched Dean take a bead on the killer, The older hunter couldn't have been more proud.
"Dean! Sam!," he called out as he chanced moving closer, "You boys okay?"
Closing the distance between himself and the tableau before him, he took cover behind the rear of the Ford. From this angle, he had no clear shot. At least, not without at least winging the young woman and he could only imagine his sons upset with him if he shot the hostage.
That left him in the unenviable position of wait and see. He would only take action if it became absolutely necessary. Focused and ready, John waited to see how things would play out.
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As the big black truck came racing up the driveway, only to skid to a stop, Dean could have sworn he heard his brother, thank god. Not so ready to issue prayers of thanks yet, after all, Christine was still in danger, Dean nonetheless took a measure of comfort from his Dad's sudden appearance.
"You're outnumbered, Smith, just give it up," Dean ordered.
With a snort, the killer tightened his grip. "Another hunter. How is it I managed over seventy years without tripping over one of you, and now in the space of a day I've got two of you on my ass?"
"Three," Sam ground out as he maintained his position.
Sam's declaration surprised Dean every bit as much as it did the killer. His brother had never, not once claimed to be a hunter. Not even in the early years when he'd still considered their lifestyle to be cool, and their dad nothing short a hero. Unlike Dean, Sam had always resented hunting and toll it had taken on their small family.
Now, to hear his brother lay claim to the title, a title that Dean himself held so much respect for, was a moment that he'd never expected to have. With more than a little pride, Dean agreed, "Three."
"Oh, isn't that sweet, baby-boy pretending he's a big bad hunter," Smith sneered. "Well, son, we'll see how much you want to be a hunter, when I get you back on that little contraption of mine and I take what you owe me."
Dean could see his father snake his way across the driveway, the old man always careful to keep Julie's car between him and the killer. "He's not your son, and we're here to make sure it all ends now."
"Dean! Sam, you boys okay?"
As his fathers deep voice washed over him, Dean felt his façade weaken slightly. As much as he wanted Smith to face justice, he also wanted this to be all over. His body was beaten and broken and his spirit wasn't much better. The fact that his brother had been threatened, even if only for a short while, had taken more out of him than he cared to admit.
Determined to keep his weakness to himself he called out, reassuring his father. "We're good, Sir."
Focusing once more on the problem at hand, Dean chanced a glance at his brother and quirked one lone eyebrow. At first, the kid didn't move, and he found himself wondering if Sam had missed the signal given the dim light of the spot light mounted on the roof of the barn.
Then, like a bat out of hell, Sam moved, darting forward as if to grab for Christine. As Dean had predicted, Smith jerked the girl backward, offsetting his balance and hers. With bated breath, Dean drew a bead and fired, striking the psycho in his shoulder before he could get the girl back into position.
The force of the shot knocked Smith slightly backward, giving Sam a chance to put another slug in him. With Christine on huddled on the ground, Dean moved forward firing as he went.
Again an again the brothers fired on the killer, as he twitched and stumbled backward from their assault. Smoke poured from the creature's wounds as the blessed lead penetrated its skin. Dean's clip was emptied first. Sam caught up in the moment moved closer to Smith still firing.
About to warn the teen to keep his distance, Dean realized he was a moment too late when the killer suddenly gathered himself and lunged. With a tackle that belied his silver hair, Smith knocked the youth to the ground in a hard hit.
"Sam!" Dean shouted as he jumped forward intent on saving his brother.
"Dean, no!" came his father's cry from behind him.
Without a care for his own safety, Dean ignored his father and grabbed for his kid brother. The youth was pinned under the killer, struggling as much as he could, as Smith worked to wrap his long slim fingers around his neck.
Not ready to watch Sam be choked unconscious once more, Dean took his running start and used the momentum. Drawing back one heavily booted foot, he planted it in Smith's side, causing the creature to cry out in pain.
Again, he drew back his boot, intending to take another shot. Only Smith was ready this time. In one smooth motion, he grabbed Dean's boot and twisted, tripping up the younger man, causing him to cry out from the red-hot pain that flared in his knee.
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Just like that, the weight that had been pressing down on his chest was gone, allowing him to take a full breath. As he drug in air he swung his gaze around, searching out Dean and Smith now locked in a heated battle.
"Dad!" Sam called, as soon as he was able.
The call was both a plea for reassurance and an urgent demand that the older man do something. He could barely make out John's shadowy figure as he stood just over the grappling couple's fight.
At Sam's call, his father turned toward him and held up one hand. "Don't move, Sammy."
More than ready to regulate his brother's safety to the grown-ups, Sam nonetheless edged closer and quickly re-loaded his weapon.
For one bright and shining moment, Sam was certain his brother had gained the upper hand. On top of Smith, the young man drove punishing rights into the killers jaw, allowing the sliver-tongued devil no respite.
Then in a flash, Smith managed to reach out and grab hold of Dean's injured right wrist. Just like that the battle swung in the killer's favor with Smith, flipping the younger man.
"Dean!" Sam cried as he took a step forward. "Do something," he screamed at his father, even as John raised his gun and took aim at the killer.
"Samuel, you will stay back," John ordered his tone reminiscent of the few times Sam dared to disobey him.
Resting on the balls of his feet, ready to act should his father falter, Sam watched in dismay as Smith landed a solid blow. His brother's head snapped back with a pop that Sam swore he could hear and his sibling's eyes rolled up into the back of his head.
Dean's boneless slump scared Sam more than any creature of the night he'd ever come face to face with. As he watched, the killer reared back, his face lifted to the heavens and he let loose a primal scream. Obviously, Smith was certain of his victory. The younger Winchester couldn't fault him for being so smug given the still and silent way Dean lay beneath him.
Without thought for his father's order, Sam moved.
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The moment the killer reared back, John took his shot. Straight through the bastard's head, he watched in satisfaction as the creature slumped sideways off his oldest. Before he could fire again, Sam was at his brother's side blocking his shot.
Fearful that despite the obvious head wound the killer wasn't dead, John strode forward. "Get away, Sam. That's an order, damnit."
Sam didn't even have the decency to look fearful as he turned to glare at the eldest Winchester. "He's hurt."
"Of course he's hurt," John mumbled as he reached out and grabbed a fistful of the killer's denim pants. "There's gonna be two of you nursing wounds before I'm done with you, Sport."
If his youngest heard his threat, then he chose to ignore it as he gathered his brother against him.
That's the problem with being a parent. No matter how many times you threaten to throttle your kids for disobeying, they always seemed to understand it was just an empty threat. Though as John gave Dean a quick once over before tugging the old man away, maybe this time he really was gonna kick Sam's stubborn ass.
He'd drug Smith about four foot away from his boys, Sam studiously avoiding his gaze the entire time, when he first felt the psycho twitch. More familiar than he cared to admit with creatures that could heal themselves if given enough time, John had little doubt they couldn't count Smith out yet.
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Christine watched in mute horror as the gruff man that had suddenly rode to their rescue began to tug Smith away from Dean and Sam. Though the killer appeared dead, having sustained a lethal shot to the head, Christine couldn't help but worry the bastard wasn't done for yet.
Scared and more than a little angry, she turned tail, heading for Smith's lair. Once at the threshold she lost all her courage. It took a glance back toward a still unconscious Dean, for her to be able to go on. Too many times the man had gone out of his way to protect her, now it was her turn. She would be the one to make sure that Smith was done for.
Careful to hold her breath against the horrendous smell that seemed to permanent every inch of the place, Christine hobbled her way up the stairs and into the bedroom where she'd so recently spent time as an unwilling guest. Filled with determination, she kept her gaze away from the bed, and focused on the item that sat leaning against the wall.
Though loath to touch the wooden handle, she nonetheless persevered. Surprised at its weight she gripped the wooden shaft and hurried for the exit.
Down the steps she went, steeling herself for what came next. Though the grizzled man seemed competent Christine knew she would never be able to rest if she wasn't sure of Smith's demise. As she crossed the dead and rotted lawn, she took note of Julie's exit from the black truck. Cheered by the sight of her best friend, she approached the killer.
Smith still lay on the ground, though he was a few feet farther from Dean that she remembered. The boys' father stood his ground, next to the killer with his gun poised to take another shot. No longer content to be a victim, Christine hefted the heavy axe onto her shoulder and approached.
"He'll just come back," she muttered as she stepped up to the killer. Without thought, she brought the weapon down as hard as she was able.
At the feel of axe meeting flesh, bile backed up into Christine's throat threatening to choke her. However, her need for vengeance was greater. With a small whimper she looked down to see where the axe had hit.
Instead of his throat as expected, she had struck the killer in the forehead, nearly cleaving the bones in half. "Oh, God," she moaned, suddenly sure she was going to barf.
"Let me-" The elder Winchester said as he moved to take the axe from her.
With a growl, Christine put her foot on Smith's face and wrenched the weapon free. "He's mine,"
Drawing back the axe once more, Christine then swung hard.
"Well, at least this time you got him in the neck. I can assume that's where you're trying to hit him?"
A rush of savage glee poured into Christine as she noted the damage she'd done to the killer this time. Determined to finish the bastard once more, she hefted the axe only have its weight overpower her. Listing to the side, she would have toppled altogether had a strong arm not gripped her tight.
"Easy there."
Grateful for the older man's support, Christine tried to lift the axe once more. "Have to finish."
"Chris?"
The questioning voice, halted Christine's movement, making her list even more to the side. Then Jules was there, her arms wrapping tight around the petite girl.
"Oh, thank god," the blonde sobbed as she hugged Christine hard.
"Jules," Christine whimpered as she dropped the weapon and reciprocated her friend's tight squeeze. "I was so scared."
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John watched with a mixture of disbelief and dread as the two woman embraced. As they began trading tears and stories, he nimbly caught the axe before it hit the ground and turned back to finish the killer off.
As he stared down at the mangled body, he couldn't help but wonder if the wound that Christine had carved into the bastards skull didn't already look slightly better or if it was his imagination playing tricks on him. A glance toward where his boys sat, battered, and broken had him taking no chances. Raising the axe above his head, he grimly finished the chore the girl had started.
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It was the sound of an engine that first caught Dean's attention. Carefully, oh, so carefully he turned his head and glanced toward the driveway. If the sight of Smith's body, dismembered and currently sitting on a pyre his father had built hadn't convinced him that the bastard was finally dead, the unveiling of Smith's world would have done the trick.
Gone was the well kept house, instead a wreck stood in its place, seeming to decay even as they watched. The driveway had sprouted vines and weeds that were swiftly beginning to overtake Julie's ford. He hadn't followed his father into the house, but John's tightlipped countenance when he had at last returned, with every last bit of their gear, had made it clear the interior of the building hadn't fared much better.
Now as they stood, and in his case slumped, in a semi-circle around the bonfire, watching the Smith's remains go up in flames, he tensed at the intrusion. The appearance of strangers would lead to questions that none of them wanted to answer.
The girls, both run down with lack of sleep and shell shocked from the days events, swayed softly in the night air. Leaning against each other, they stared at the blaze with dull eyes. Julie had been all for leaving right away, but Christine had insisted they see it out to the end.
Dean couldn't help but feel the woman was right in that she would never feel secure unless she witnessed Smith's complete destruction. So Julie had caved, only after a myriad of promises from Christine that they would leave as soon as the last ember was out.
"Dad?" Dean groaned, careful not to make any sudden movements. His wrist though it looked like ground hamburger had actually fared better than he'd thought. Sam had taken care of it, cleaning and bandaging the wounds, and now it was nothing more than a dull throb. His head on the other hand, hurt to the point where he almost wished Smith had simply killed him.
His shadow, the slim teen that even now was hovering only inches from his back wasn't helping matters much. Sam had shifted from grownup to child in the blink of an eye, and like a child he needed Dean to be better now, to provide the youth with some sense of security. His brother must have seriously thought the worst to have been reduced to the clingy, mass of quivering skin and bones that insisted on remaining within touching distance at all times.
Even now as they watched a rusted out pick-up come into the clearing that had once been the driveway, Dean could feel tension thrumming through the kid. "Easy, Sam," he whispered.
In response, his brother took a half-step closer his shoulder now pressing firmly against Dean's own.
He'd withdrawn his gun from inside his jacket and was even now figuring out how he could put himself in front of his brother without puking when his father called out.
"Well, I'll be damned," John swore, his tone making it clear there was no threat.
Exchanging surprised glances with his brother, Dean watched as two men climbed from the truck. The first was short and wiry, a full beard trickling down over his thin body. The second wasn't much more than a hulking shadow as he climbed deliberately out of the truck.
As he watched the man straighten up, and up and up, he was floored by his sheer size. "Holy crap," he murmured as he watched the two men approach their father.
"Who is that?" Sam muttered obviously floored at finding someone who made him look downright tiny.
"Beats me," he replied absently. Whoever they were his father strode out to meet them, locking arms in greeting with the giant.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see Christine and Jules tense up at the sudden appearance of strangers. "You girls should go. No need for you to stay any longer."
For one long moment, Christine stared hard at the hotly burning fire, her jaw clenched tight. Then Julie nudged her gently, drawing her attention away from the flame.
"Let's go, Chris," Julie pleaded.
At last, the woman nodded. "I'm ready."
Christine stepped toe to toe with Dean, a tired smile gracing her face. With a small shrug, she leaned up and pressed a light kiss to his cheek. "Thanks," she whispered as she pulled off the coat she was wearing and held it out to him.
Earlier when he'd first come too, the young woman had delved into the back of the Ford and had found a change of clothes, allowing Dean to regain at least a bit of his dignity. Though the debacle had been almost worth it when he'd seen the way his father's eyes had lit up, a craggy smile gracing his features, because of Dean's undressed state. It had been too long since he'd seen his father smile in anything other than grim determination.
Accepting the return of his coat, Dean graced the young woman with a grin and said, "You think you can find your way out of here? No more unplanned stops at mass murderer's houses?"
Christine's smile almost looked normal as she reassured him, "Not for this trip at least. You take care of yourself, Dean."
With a nod, he watched as Julie rose up on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on Sammy's cheek. Luckily for the kid, dawn was still a ways off, so the blonde didn't see him flush.
Both girls turned to leave, waving half-heartedly toward their father who still stood with the two strangers. As they climbed into Julie's car and started off down the long drive, Dean couldn't help but feel a bit smug. "We did good, Sammy."
Ignoring his brother's irritated snort, Dean garnered his courage and began to walk toward his father. Every step caused his head to pound, and his wrist to throb. Still, it wouldn't do to let his brother know just how bad things are. "You so totally should have kissed Julie back."
With his hands tucked deep into his pockets Sam graced him with a shrug. "I've...uh...got a frie...I mean girl..."
"Don't hurt yourself, kid," Dean teased as he tried to make sense of Sam's ramblings. "You mean you have a girlfriend? Alright, brother."
"Shut up, Dean," Sam muttered as they neared their father.
Not ready to listen John lecture Sam on the higher points of sex ed, Dean wisely kept his mouth closed. Once really had been enough.
"What's up, Dad?"
John turned toward the boys and introduced the strangers. "Dean, Sam, this is Ketch and Daryl. They helped me out with that rawhead and when your brother didn't follow protocol, they helped me track you both down."
Dean ignored both his brother's indrawn breath, and his father's pointed comments. Distraction being the better part of valor, he listed to the side, and immediately felt Sammy leaning toward him. The kid, at least for the next few days would be easy to distract, all Dean needed to do was play up his injuries. Given how he felt that really shouldn't be that hard. "I guess we owe you our thanks."
Daryl's deep booming voice and southern draw helped to put the twenty-year-old at ease. "It was our pleasure, your father actually did us the favor."
"Daryl and Ketch here have offered to take care of things for us, boys. You two about ready to hit it?"
"Take care of things?" Sam questioned suspiciously.
"We're gonna put a torch to 'er," Ketch cawed. "About time to, too much death here."
"That works for me," Dean groaned as he leaned even farther toward his brother. "You got a car stashed out here somewhere, Sammyboy?"
Suspicions forgotten, Sammy took on more of Dean's weight. "Back by the Impala. Dad can give us a lift."
With a wince that had more to do with Sam's demand, rather than his pain, Dean added, "We'll wait in the truck."
Ready to call it a day, Dean allowed his brother to help him to the pick up. If he leaned more heavily against the kid then he had earlier, he put it down to the pretext of trying to distract Sam.
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John watched as his boys made their way toward the truck. His keen eye worked over Dean, searching out the injuries the boy may not have disclosed. His oldest was notorious at keeping mum about what hurt. If it wasn't for Sam's sharp eye, and bullying skill, Dean would have been satisfied to suffer in silence.
"Those'er fine boys," Ketch said, as he shot a stream of tobacco juice across the driveway.
Thinking back to everything he'd learned from the girls, John couldn't help but agree. "Yeah, hot-headed, though," he said, thinking aloud.
"There are worse things to be," Daryl chimed in.
Even given Sam's hormone-driven hissy-fits, and Dean's insatiable appetite for anything in a skirt, John had to accept he must have done something right. Then again, as he watched Sam help his brother into the cab, he couldn't help but say with pride, "They are their mother's boys."
TBC