Notes: Sort of dedicated to Epsylon, who may be one of only two reasons I keep writing these things.
John shot the motel clerk.
Two thirty in the afternoon, hours after they were supposed to have checked out, the clerk had pounded on the door. John had been in the tiny bathroom at the time, razor in hand as he took the time to shave off his beard. John answered the door, absently wiping his face clear of left-over smudges of shaving cream with a grayish towel.
He had not been expecting to see the motel's clerk standing outside.
The clerk was holding up a photocopy of John's ID, and the credit card he'd used to check in with. The other man's face was grim. "I don't like men who try to cheat me," he said, as gruff as a tenor voice could ever hope to be. "Whoever you are, this aint you. I ran your card, and it declined so I called up the company. Wouldn't you know, they told me that this card was reported stolen a few days ago. So you better tell me who you really are and hand over the night's rent or I'll be calling the cops."
John was frozen in the doorway. Several thoughts occurred to him one after the other. He had no permanent job, no permanent identity - since he and his boys had left Lawrence they had been through at least a dozen last names in as many cities. When he wasn't using a false identity to pick up odd jobs John survived by pulling credit fraud and gambling in bars, always cheating of course. He was a cardsharp, a con artist, and if the police were called then social services would be hot on their tail. Social services would take his boys away.
Dean could get out easily enough, he was fifteen, old enough to be declared independent by the state if he could prove his ability to look after himself. But Sam, with his unusual array of gifts...
"Of course," John said, throwing the towel over his shoulder. He stepped aside to the let the clerk into the motel room. "I'm sorry. Look, I'll give you the money in cash, ok? No need to call anyone."
"We'll see."
The guy sounded so cocky. John had a feeling he'd pocket the cash and call the cops anyway. He closed the door, spared a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure the curtains were drawn shut. Most of the guns were still hidden in the car, but there was one in John's duffle. He unzipped the bag and pretended to be searching for his wallet. "You're a pretty sharp guy," John said, talking so he could keep the clerk's full attention away from John's hands. "The first one to call up the credit company instead of just coming to ask for another card."
He checked the gun, making sure it was loaded, then turned with it held in his hands. "This," he told the suddenly very frightened clerk, "is why people don't call the credit company."
The clerk started to shout, the sound cut off abruptly with a gunshot. John looked down at the resulting mess, the stain spreading on the carpet, and swore. It occurred to him only belatedly that he should have made the guy get into the bathtub first.
He checked the time, two thirty-five. John put the safety back on and threw the gun back into his bag. He dragged the still-warm corpse into the bathroom, dumping it on the tiles before the carpet could be soaked through with any more blood.
The clerk's pockets contained a set of keys, a mostly empty pack of gum, six dollars, and a crumpled receipt. One of the keys was labelled 'office'.
John was out and walking towards the office building in a trice, motel room door locked behind him. The office door was already unlocked and empty, but the door to get in behind the counter required both a key and some jiggling of the handle before John was in. He hunted for the record books, rifling through diaries bound in fake leather and employee time sheets before he found what he was looking for - the work roster for that week.
The clerk's shift wouldn't be over until six.
John breathed a small sigh of relief. And while he was there behind the counter he busted open the safe under the desk and stuffed the contents into his pockets. His fingerprints would be all over the place, but it was too late to do anything about that now short of setting fire to the whole office.
After a small moment's indecision he decided he was not going to set fire to the office.
John put up the 'back in five minutes' sign that he found, and switched the lights on the sign outside to 'no vacancy'. He locked the office door, tossed the keys into the nearby, scraggly garden bed. It was, at best, a time grab. He had to get out, get his boys out, as quickly as possible.
He pulled Sam out of school first, grabbing him from his class just before the school day ended. It was a miracle that nobody noticed the smears of blood on his jacket. Sam did, but he knew to keep quiet until they were in the car and on the way to Dean's high school.
"That's not your blood," Sam observed, with all the solemnity an eleven year old could muster. "Are we going to have to move again?"
"I'm afraid so, Sammy." John tried to play it down, smiling at his son in the rear-view mirror. "I thought we could head north for a while, have ourselves a white winter."
They caught Dean just as he was leaving the school grounds. John couldn't help but feel strangely proud when Dean identified the situation straight away with just a glance at his father's face and the blood on his jacket. "Was it a cop?" Dean asked, sliding into the front seat. "Or a hunter?"
John didn't answer. His knuckles turned white from gripping the steering wheel too hard.
Dean raised his eyebrows but seemed to decide that it was better not to dig for details just yet. "Ok, so where are we going this time?"
"Dad says we're going north," Sam piped up from the back seat. He had already settled into their travel routine, pulling out a book from his backpack. "So we can see the snow in winter."
-
Sam's eyes flashed yellow for the first time when he was twelve years old, about the same time as he began a monumental growth spurt and his voice began to crack and deepen.
Dean wasn't there when it happened, but he was there for the immediate aftermath. When he arrived to pick Sam up from the principal's office an ambulance was still lingering in the staff parking lot. Dean knew immediately that whatever had happened, Sam had been the cause. He caught sight of broken windows in a second storey classroom and lengthened his stride.
He looked casual and collected when he stepped into the office. The perfect picture of a nice, wholesome young man - if a little rough around the edges. His jeans were torn, but his smile was genuinely apologetic as he approached the desk. "I'm here to pick up my little brother, Sam. Winchester," he clarified a moment later, as if it were entirely possible that more than one kid named Sam had gotten into serious trouble that day.
The receptionist, Gina Winters, arched her finely plucked eyebrows. "We called your father, John Winchester."
"Yeah." Dean shrugged, putting on a practised 'what can you do' smile. "He's on a business trip, so I got sent down here instead. That's cool, isn't it? I mean, I've got ID if you need to check me out." He pulled his wallet out of his jeans pocket and showed her his newly-acquired driver's licence.
Gina eyed the little plastic card suspiciously. She gave a short nod, then pushed a button on the intercom on her desk. "Principal Westberk, Sam Winchester's brother is here to pick him up."
There was a short pause, then a crackling, distorted male voice came through the speaker box. "Thankyou, Gina. Could you send him in please?"
Dean smiled at the receptionist as he was waved through into the principal's office, and kept smiling even as he saw Sam seated on a small, hard-backed chair by the window. The younger boy was staring outside at the ambulance, a sullen expression on his face.
The principal, Westberk, was a tall man who was going bald and clearly doing everything in his power to hide it. He looked nice enough as principals went, decent enough to smile when Dean offered him a hand to shake.
"Sorry my dad couldn't make it," Dean said, giving the older man a rueful and charming smile. "He's away on business until the weekend, so I'm looking after Sammy 'til he gets back."
"I had really hoped to talk to your father," Westberk replied, sitting himself back down behind the single, cluttered mahogany desk. "I'm afraid we don't quite know what to do with your brother at present and, er, we were hoping your father might shed some light on..."
"What exactly did Sam do?" Dean asked, cutting in when it looked as if the principal wasn't going to continue.
"Frankly, we're not sure." Westberk looked unsettled. He glanced at Sam, whose shoulders stiffened as if he knew he was being watched. "Our best guess is that he used some kind of explosive or accelerant, but as yet nobody has found any evidence of such a device. Several windows just exploded and it's as if a small tornado tore through his class."
"But you couldn't find any proof that Sammy did it."
Westberk gave him a sharp look. Dean stood his ground, letting nothing through except a small, polite smile. Eventually the principal shook his head. "Both Sam's teacher and his classmates all claim that he was behind it. Some of the children are claiming that he did it with his 'powers', that his eyes turned yellow and he caused the windows to explode using his mind."
"Kids." Dean shrugged, placid smile still on his face. "Gotta love their imaginations."
"But," Westberk said, speaking as if he hadn't heard Dean. "Regardless of the story, everyone seems to agree that Sam is the one responsible for the mess. And had we any evidence regarding incendiary substances, your brother would be facing expulsion. As it stands, he will be suspended for the rest of the week, and when he comes back he will be attending detention after school until his attitude improves."
"That sounds fair," Dean agreed. "Can I take him home now?"
Sam was quiet until they got home, and Dean didn't try to force him to talk. The small apartment that they were renting was only three rooms, plus bathroom, but it was better than any motel and paid up in advance for six months. Dean let Sam dump his school bag on the floor and stomp off to his room and sat down in front of the TV to wait until his brother was ready to talk.
An hour later Sam slunk back into the living room. "Julius MacKinnley called me a freak."
"Some kid named Julius called you a freak?" Dean asked, and whistled.
"He said it in front of the whole class," Sam elaborated. He slouched his way over to the sofa and sat down beside Dean, arms crossed. "They laughed. All of them laughed, Dean. It was just some dumb history assignment."
"So you blew up the classroom?"
Sam's reply was to slouch further down on the sofa, his lower lip sticking out in an obvious pout. "They can't prove anything."
"You're still suspended, dude." Dean threw an arm over his brother's shoulders in an act of solidarity. "The principal said the other kids were saying your eyes turned yellow."
"My eyes felt weird. I didn't know they were yellow."
"You know I'm going to have to tell dad."
"I know." Sam sighed. His arms slowly uncrossed. He sat up a little straighter. "At least I didn't really hurt anyone," he muttered rebelliously. "They only called the ambulance because some girl fell over and cut herself on the glass. The other kids are just a bunch of cry babies."
Dean snorted. "You're telling me. Wait til you get to high school, Sam."
-
It was mid-winter when the file was first escalated to a federal level. By coincidence or not the last killing had been in Virginia, and so that was the office the file initially went to. Agent Matthew Doyle was the man unlucky enough to have the file cross his desk. A simple manila folder marked 'John Winchester'.
The man who would later be christened the 'Black Truck Killer' by the media.
Doyle read through the file thinking to himself that this would be just like any other murder case. It would drag on a while, but eventually they would be able to find enough leads and enough evidence to send the man straight to the table for a lethal injection. The number of killings listed in black type on the very first page of the report suggested otherwise.
Eleven.
Eleven of the same before anyone had ever thought to connect them all together, and only five of those confirmed with fingerprints or security cameras. The rest were only descriptions, eye witness accounts that fit the MO and described the perpetrator in terms narrow enough to maybe fit John's appearance. He was shocked that nobody had managed to pull the plates on the truck.
Military background, a wife twelve years dead and two kids that were being dragged around after their murderer father made the situation worse. Doyle became determined not to let this one drag on for too long.
He sipped his extra-large triple-shot espresso and started creating a proper tracking system for this guy. There would be a pattern sooner or later. There always was.