Disclaimer: I don't own or make a profit from Supernatural. Thanks to Starliteyes for editing.

A/N: I completed this story over the summer and just now posting it as my beta can attest. Any similarities to the hunters in this story and the ones in 3X03 is purely coincidental.

Hell Is Where The Heart Is

Chapter Three

John was pretty sure that Dean was getting ready to bust a cap in someone's ass or ventilate them or whatever lingo the kids were using these days. John didn't really blame him. He was pretty close to toeing the line to murder himself. He just needed to figure out what needed killing so he could pack either silver bullets or consecrated rounds.

There was only one thing that John took more seriously than hunting, and that was his boys. Family came first. That was the reason they were who they were. Someone, something had fucked with their family and someday it was going to pay. In a fucked up world where kids were getting shot down in the streets and there really were monsters under the bed, the only thing that they had were each other. John was going to make certain it stayed that way even if it killed him.

Dean was getting to that age where he was able to take care of himself. He was still a boy that needed his father's approval and direction, but when it came to a fight, John was pretty damn sure that his boy would come out on top. Especially, if Sammy was in danger. John had raised a fine fighter in Dean. A hell of a guardian too.

The boy knew how to take orders and how to execute an attack plan like a battle-hardened vet. Others might see Dean as a smart-mouthed punk, but John knew the truth. He knew how to get a job done, which is why he found it so fucking hard to believe that he lost his little brother.

He supposed that assessment wasn't really fair. Sammy was a Winchester, but damn if he wasn't fighting the rein like a yearling colt. The boy had more piss and vinegar in him than a gaggle of first year cadets out of some butt-fuck Army academy, and that was not a compliment. The boy had no snap to when it came to orders being issued, but John had to give the boy his due. Sammy was smart. Smart in a way that made Mensa members look like drooling idiots. Those smarts combined with his combat skills wrapped up in that cute boy package made him into a damn substantial opponent. Enough so, that John thought that it would be okay for his twelve year-old to walk himself four blocks from school to home.

Apparently, he was wrong.

If Sam was there, he would be quick to point out that it wasn't the first time either. The kid was twelve rounding on twenty- I know everything there is to know and you're an idiot for not following along-two Puberty was going to be the death of John before anything supernatural got a hold of him that was for damn sure.

If it wasn't Sam arguing his way about every little thing, then it was Dean and his numerous girlfriends. If John hadn't sat his son down at the tender age of thirteen and made it clear (ordered) that Dean was to always wear a condom, he would be a grandfather at least five times over. That may be an exaggeration, but he wasn't willing to bet on it. How the boy managed to juggle so many women at one time was a complete mystery to him. Mary had been all the challenge that he needed. She had kept him on his toes twenty-four seven, and even now, years later, he could still hear her patient tone in his head when he was talking to his kids.

Right now her steady shriek was reverberating in the back of his skull. It was the kind of wail that he had heard too many times over the years when a mother had lost a child. It was something that he had never heard in his own head before, but he knew, deep in his heart, that whatever was going on, was something he hadn't faced before. All of his instincts were on skin-tingling, high alert, and nothing was going to ease him until he had his youngest back at his side again.

In all his years of hunting John only knew of one kind of monster that snatched kids off the street in broad daylight. It wasn't supernatural, but there was just no way that a mere human would have gotten the drop on Sammy, ever. So of course, it had to be something supernatural, just something he hadn't run across before.

He had burned all his Roadhouse connections five years ago, after a hunt went bad and Bill Harvelle ended up on the wrong side of dead. So he started making a round of calls to everyone else he knew, even Bobby. He figured that the old codger couldn't make good on his promise to fill him with buckshot over the phone, and even if he was still pissed, John was pretty sure that when it came to Sammy he would help out where he could.

No one knew what it could be, but John wasn't surprised when his phone rang thirty minutes after his round of calls. There wasn't much that a Hunter didn't know, and if it stumped him then he wasn't above doing a little networking. He was sure that someone had dug something up and was getting back to him. So it was with a great deal of relief that he answered the phone, hoping for an answer finally. He was surprised when it was Ellen Harvelle's voice on the other end of the line.

"Hello, John."

"Ellen." John kept this voice as neutral as possible. The last time he had spoken to Ellen it was to tell her that his fuck- up had made her a widow. That conversation was one he was in no rush to relive, ever. That was the first and last time he took a partner on the hunt. The risk was too great, and the cost was too high. It wasn't the first time someone called him a worthless piece of shit, but it was the first time that he whole-heartedly agreed with them.

"Caleb told me about what's going on. I'm real sorry to hear about Sam."

John nodded before he realized that an actual verbal response would be needed. "Yah." Her soft voice weighed down on his stomach like a cannonball. The only reason she would be calling him was because she knew something. And if she had called a ceasefire to offer him a sliver of moral support, then whatever she knew was bound to be bad. Real fucking bad.

"What do you know, Ellen?"

There was a pause, and he felt his guts tighten up as eels slithered around in his belly.

"Just a rumor."

"What kind of rumor?" He felt his fingers tighten on the phone and he had to force himself to loosen his grip before he shattered it.

"Just that some Hunters found out there were some half-demon children that are supposed to bring about the end of the world. Now I don't believe in all that crap mind you, but I keep to my own business. They aren't regulars here, and I don't have a mind for them to be."

"What's that got to do with Sam?" John growled.

"Well it seems that someone overheard them saying that little Sammy is part of the demonic lot."

"What?" That was the most ridiculous thing that John had ever heard, and after the last twelve years, that was saying quite a lot. His disbelief was quickly shoved to the side as anger began to roll over him, thick and deep, covering him from head to toe.

"Who are these people?"

"Well, I've only heard tell of two. Frank Potter and Tom Adams. There might be more, but I'm not certain."

John recognized their names right off. He had only met them once, but John made it his business to memorize the names and faces of anyone associated with hunting. Frank was an idiot, not just in a dumbass way either. His mama hadn't taken the best care of herself while he was swimming in her stomach and he had come out a whole lot wrong.

Frank wasn't much of a threat, but Tom more than made up for it. The man was a fanatic. He believed that demons were a plague upon the world sent by Lucifer, and that he was God's messenger. The personification of Michael, himself, created to smite the evil that was swarming over the earth like the rising tide. The man was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs that was for damn sure.

"Where are they?"

"4690 Waterfront Drive. It's an empty warehouse."

How did she know that? How did she know any of this? "Are you a part of this Ellen? Cause I swear to God---"

"John." She cut in with a hiss that silenced his tirade. "My anger is squarely aimed at you. I would never do anything to your boys and you know it. I have connections, and I used them. I used them, John, because family is everything, and I don't cotton to grown men killing babies, no matter how justified they think they are."

John squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus his panic. It would do him no good to get into a fight with Ellen now, not when his son needed him. He grunted what may have been an apology and snapped the phone closed. He stalked by Dean, who was looking at him like he spouted another head that was spewing pea soup. He stomped into the house, a half-formed plan becoming crystal clear.

For the first time since the Marines, he was going to have to hunt something that wasn't supernatural. He was no stranger to killing a man. He had been the top marksman in his company, and more than once his team had been dispatched to places where the Geneva Convention hadn't even been heard of. He had cut his teeth on do-or-die situations, but since returning Stateside he had done his best to hunt only the non-human monsters of the dark.

It was important to him that he set a precedent for his children. He raised them to be Hunters, not murderers. He didn't want them to have a vigilante mentality that would get them into trouble with the law. Besides, killing a human took a toll on the soul in a way that killing a monster could never do.

John knew that Sam could never hurt another human being. His son would have fought his attackers, but when faced with a kill-or-be-killed situation, Sam would choose to safeguard the sanctity of human life over his own safety. His little boy was good and pure like that. He struggled every day with the right and wrong of their lifestyle.

Sam felt remorse even for those who didn't deserve it, looking for the good in everything. Sam saw the lost soul inside a vengeful spirit and the humanity inside the wolf. He was always fighting to save people, even if it was from themselves.

Dean wasn't like that, John knew. His oldest son would never kill just for the sake of it, but he would annihilate anything, human or supernatural, that threatened his family. Deep inside, where he hid is heart, Dean would feel the pain of killing, but he would shove it down and move forward. At night when the shadows were the darkest, the guilt would eat at him, but he would survive it, because that was what Dean did. Dean did what others couldn't, sparing them the agony of it, and taking it upon himself to do the dirty work.

John retrieved the M40 weapon's case, doubt fluttering through him. He never wanted his sons to feel the bone-shaking remorse that one felt after killing another human being, but today it may be inevitable. He wanted to avoid it if at all possible, but he needed to be prepared for the possibility. John didn't know how many hunters he would be going up against today. He needed an element of surprise over them. He needed to know that Dean was watching his back.

He walked outside, stowing the gun in the trunk before getting into the Impala. Dean slid in beside him, tightly contained, but thrumming with unused energy. Silently they drove to the warehouse district, and John parked the car where it couldn't be seen.

He knew that Dean didn't agree with the order that he issued not to shoot, but he had to trust his son to obey him. It wasn't the most ideal situation, but they had to make due. As soon as Dean disappeared up onto the roof, John climbed out of the Impala, and drew his .45. He circled around the perimeter, working his way around so he could approach the warehouse from the western front.

As far as he could tell, the warehouse was split in two halves. On the eastern wall that Dean was facing, there was a set of double doors with a white van parked outside. Instinct told John that he would find Sam waiting for him inside. He didn't want to approach from the front, so he moved around back, noticing a second building attached to the larger warehouse. It looked like an office, a place for supervisors to do their paperwork.

John approached it stealthily, cursing under his breath when he realized that there was only one entrance. If this was his show, he would have most certainly booby-trapped the door as an early warning system that his perimeter was being breached. The problem with hunting other Hunters is that he had no idea what their training was. They could be paramilitary, backwoods rebels, or simple men who got into hunting late in life. Whatever the case may be, it made this situation all the more dangerous.

He checked the door, looking for any outward signs of a trap. Seeing nothing, he tested the door knob, flinching when he found it unlocked. An open invitation was usually a bad sign. He knelt down and nudged it open a quarter of an inch. At the base of the door, he could see a silver thread pulled taut, waiting for him to make a mistake and blow himself to kingdom come.

He withdrew his Swiss army knife and cut the fishing line with his scissors. Slowly he cracked the door open, glancing around the shadowed interior, looking for anything that was out of place. There were stacks of waterlogged boxes and overturned office furniture that made for excellent hiding places. John pressed his lips tightly together, the back of his neck tingling with warning. There was no chance that he could turn back now, not when Sam needed him.

He moved into the room, his body low to the ground, his weapon raised defensively.

"That's far enough, Winchester."

A red beam appeared out of nowhere, pegging John in the center of the chest. He followed the line of sight back to its origins, but could see nothing but a dark mass of piled debris. John stood in defeat, knowing that there was no reason for stealth now.

"Toss the gun."

John did as he was told, throwing the gun to the side.

"What else you got?"

"Why don't you come and find out?" John didn't leer like Dean would have. His face was a mask of seriousness. He was playing his cards close to the vest. If the man drawing down on him was dumb enough to come close enough to search him, then that would be his mistake. However, if he didn't search him, then he would never know what kind of weapons John was really carrying.

John could hear the metallic slide of the bolt being drawn back on a rifle, and he almost smiled.

"Throw out all your weapons or I kill your son."

If someone was watching John closely they may have seen him tense, but it wasn't likely. With casual disregard for the man who was issuing orders from the shadows John began to toss his weapons to the side. The benefit of being heavily armed is that when you do disarm, the sheer numbers of weapons that are dropped convince the assailant that you have discarded everything. After tossing aside three handguns, one shotgun, and a bevy of bladed weapons, one would think that there weren't any more hiding places for a weapon to be found. They would be wrong.

"Where's my son, Tom."

John's voice was thick with disdain, and he could imagine the consternation on the face of the man who was hiding. John had just upped the stakes by admitting that he knew the Hunter's name. He wondered if Tom would check or call.

"He's around, but you bring up a good point. Where's that other boy of yours?"

Call it is.

"He's around." John checked and waited for Tom to raise the stakes. He wasn't disappointed.

"Look, Winchester. I know you are pretty fucking pissed off right now and you have every right to be, but once you hear what I have to say I think you'll understand."

"Understand you stealing my boy? That's gonna take some doing, Tom."

"Now, John." Tom tried to match John's tone, but he sounded more cajoling than anything. "I know you're concerned. You're a good man. I wish that my daddy had been half as fine as you. You care for those boys, and that's admirable. You can't be faulted for not having all the facts."

John wanted to shift his weight to bring his right leg forward, but he restrained himself. He had a .38 in an ankle holster, and he wanted nothing more than to drop and pull the gun so he could shoot the fucker in front of him through the head. Even in the dark, John knew he could make the shot. He didn't have to see the guy to know where he was. His laser sight and voice told John all he needed to know. What he needed was a distraction so he could get the drop on him.

"And what facts would those be?"

"I know about your wife. How she died."

It was a good thing that John had a lifetime and a half to practice restraint. If he had been a less disciplined man he might have attacked the guy right then and there. The anger that suffused every cell in his body burned like acid, and he could feel his fingers tremble with it. He inhaled deeply though his nose, calming his senses, and making damn sure that his voice was under control before he spoke.

"I would tread lightly if I were you." The words echoed in the room, similar to a wolf growling from the cover of its den.

"I know I'm stirring bad memories, but keep in mind that I have the gun. Don't be foolish now."

"You're talking about things that you have no business talking about." Unable to control himself, John shifted his leg forward, preparing himself to attack.

"Now, normally I would agree with you, John. A man's family is his business, but you see, it's the way Mary died that makes it all our business."

John's restless mind stilled at that and all thoughts of attack skidded to a halt. He went on point like a dog with the scent of its prey in its snout. Tom was talking about the demon now. The father in him receded to the background and the cold, skilled Hunter came to the forefront.

"What do you know about that?" John asked carefully.

"I know she wasn't the only one. There were others. All of them sacrificed above their child's crib."

John couldn't speak if he wanted too. One of the first things he had found out after learning to track the supernatural was that Mary's death wasn't the only one. There were others, he knew that already. He should have realized that someone else would put it together, but he hadn't thought it mattered. There was a demon out there preying on women and their little babies. What did that have to do with his son?

"You see, Frank and I's specialty is exorcisms. We do a couple of them a year and the shit that comes out those filthy demon's mouths would make your blood run cold. The things they know."

"Demon's lie." John had been dangerous moments before when he entered the room, but now he was edging up to downright predatory.

"Ain't that the God's honest truth, but sometimes, John, when they know it will fuck with you the most, they'll tell the truth." Tom didn't seem to grasp the change of atmosphere in the room. The more he spoke, the more relaxed he became, as if he was speaking to a colleague and not an enemy. It was then that John realized that there was a reason that Tom hadn't shot him yet. A very disturbing reason.

"So Frank and I were exorcising this demon up in Rhode Island when it began jabbering on about hell on earth and the coming of a war. It went on to say that a demon, an archfiend from the deepest pits, was raising an army. Children baptized in their mother's blood, fed by the demon's essence, were chosen to be warriors on the side of evil."

John felt his skin crawl. Fed by the demon's essence? What the hell did that mean? He couldn't see Tom's face, but he could imagine the fanaticism that was bound to be gleaming from his eyes. John could hear it in the man's voice, the paranoia and vehement conviction that sent men to war for centuries.

"That has to be the dumbest thing I've ever heard." John needed to get to the root of Tom's ramblings before he went off the deep end. It had been his experience that the best way to get a fanatic to talk was to challenge his beliefs.

"Your boy isn't really yours. He's the spawn of the devil. Him and all the children like him. They have to be eliminated for the good of mankind."

Something sank deep in John's belly. It writhed around inside him until he thought he was going to be sick. His fingers curled into fists at their own accord, and suddenly the air became heavy and stagnant, making it hard for him to breathe.

"And these children, the ones where their mother's have died in nursery fires, you've hunted them?"

"At least half a dozen in the last year, but there are more of them. We've figured out a pattern. Every twenty-two years a new generation is born. You're a great hunter, John. We could use your help tracking this."

There it was. The god-awful truth of it all. The man across from him was a baby killer, and he wanted John to join him in his crusade. It was all that John could do not to fling himself over the distance that separated them and beat the man to death with his bare hands. The only thing that stopped him was the thought of Sam. His son needed him.

"How many other Hunters are tracking this?" John asked carefully, trying to inflect interest into his voice and damn near falling flat.

"Just Frank and me right now, but not for long. Frank runs his mouth a little too much. Obviously or you wouldn't have been able to find us. I've already got a plan to take care of him. But you and I, John, we would make a great team. Come with me. Help me to hunt this thing down."

"And my son?"

"I'm sorry, I really am, but that thing isn't your son. It's a demon."

John was still for a long while, absorbing the man's words, forming a response in his mind. He needed to get out from under the barrel of the rifle that was being pointed at him and next to his son. And there was only one way to do that.

"I'm gonna need to see some proof, Tom. I need to see my---I need to see Sammy."

John thought he sounded pretty convincing. He didn't think the revulsion that he felt in his gut showed in his tone, but maybe he was wrong. Tom didn't say anything from the shadows, and John's keen hearing picked up what sounded like the soft chimes of a cell phone key pad being dialed.

"I'm real sorry to hear that, John. I thought we would be able to work something out. I really did, but I should have known that it would be hard to convince you. You've raised that demon like your own. It's only natural that he would have tainted you."

"Now wait a second, Tom. I said I was willing to hear you out. All I'm looking for is a little proof."

"All you're looking for is a way to get near that thing so you can spring him."

"Tom---"

"Goodbye, Winchester."

An explosion ripped through the air, and John threw himself to the floor. The sudden burst of sound and rumbling ground would have sent any other man into a moment of panic, but John had been under fire in a warzone before. Explosions were nothing new to him, and he was reaching for his gun before he even hit the dirt.

In one smooth motion he pulled his .38, and in the shadows he could see the darker form of Tom, who was standing to get a better shot at him. Before the other man could pull the trigger, John drew down on him and fired three shots center mass. He was on his feet and standing over Tom in seconds, delivering another neat round to the man's head, putting him down permanently.

Without another moment to waste, John about-faced, and raced out of the room towards the sound of the explosion and his son.

TBC…