AN: This epilogue really belongs to my betas, Janice and Jenjoremy, because: 1) they pointed out I'd forgotten to finish up with Celeste and 2) they found some LARGE errors that needed to be addressed. Thanks so much to those two!
Also, no promises, but I'm contemplating a sequel thanks to a comment from Timelady66. (Who is a writer as well – you should check out her stories!)
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John drummed his fingers as he drove in rhythm to whatever music happened to be playing. Unlike his older son, he didn't need anything specific to listen to, just some kind of background noise. He wasn't even hearing it anyway.
He was normally very decisive. He'd learned quickly in Vietnam – make up your mind and do what you're going to do or die where you stand; an iffy decision was almost always still better than no decision. He'd adopted that motto again when he'd taken up hunting.
But here he was, waffling.
Once Sam could see straight and stopped falling asleep every few hours (and John and Bobby were starting to grow testy with each other), John had left with a promise that he wouldn't be long. He was heading back to one Ms. Celeste McRae. Sam had more than enough people looking out for him and John wanted to handle the witch without his sons there to offer their input. They were young and while he would hardly call them naive, they weren't as hardened as he was.
He wasn't going kill her, of course. She was human, and he'd been perfectly honest when he'd told her they didn't kill humans. But he couldn't stand witchcraft. Hell, he was leery of psychics even though it was a psychic who'd given him his real introduction to the supernatural world. And he'd seen way too much damage done by witches, even those who'd started out with no intentions to hurt anyone. So even though Celeste had ultimately helped them, he was going back to at least talk to her. (Okay, she'd more than helped – she'd played a major role in saving Sam's life. That earned her a lot of damn leeway.)
So, what would he do? Would he take her grimoires? Burn her altar? He wasn't sure. But just the idea of her living in that pretty, safe little neighborhood – so much like the one he'd lived in in Lawrence – drove him to distraction.
Speaking of distraction, John allowed his mind to wander, knowing that he had a long drive ahead of him and simply allowing a problem to sit in the back of his thoughts helped him figure out what to do.
Instead, he thought about the truck he was driving. Since he'd given Dean the Impala, he'd been driving an ancient station wagon with fake wood panel sides, but it had recently died, so he had borrowed his current ride from Bobby. It was a pick-up and, while it wasn't much newer than the wagon, John found he liked driving a truck. He liked the feel of it and, though Dean would never admit it, a truck would certainly be easier to drive in some of the places they ended up hunting than a heavy, low-clearance, rear-wheel-drive car. Maybe he'd find himself a decent truck next.
That brought his thoughts to his boys. He was pleased, impressed even, at the way they'd handled themselves. He didn't like Sam going off on his own, but he was glad that he'd shown the instinct to protect. His research and deductive skills were no surprise. It wasn't the first time he'd found the keystone clue before the rest of the family. And Dean's fearlessness and protectiveness were also not surprising, but John was increasingly impressed at his ability to take charge. He might already be the best hunter John knew, and that was saying something. In a few years, Sam would be done with school, and they'd be a hell of a team of three. And John would be able to go off on his own after the demon more often with Sam and Dean to watch each other's backs. Hell, if he could convince Sam to drop out, they could do it now. He had already passed his brother in height and John fully expected him to keep growing for a while. But he could rarely convince Sam of anything, much less leaving school, which he loved.
John was looking forward to Sam maturing and falling in line. He remembered Missouri's words about Sam. "He sees shades of gray you don't. That isn't the weakness you think it is." He wasn't sure he agreed, but he kept it in mind.
He hated that Sam had gotten hurt but he was getting better quickly. At very least, he seemed to have gotten his brain-to-mouth filter back. (John's personal favorite moment of the last week was when Sam had been sitting in the corner of a fast food restaurant kind of spacing out while the other two got food. A well-meaning, matronly woman had asked him, "Are you alone, sweetie?" Sam had pointed at his family and answered, "Nah, I'm with Stranger Danger and the Backstreet Boy over there.")
It was lucky that John had had a CO in Vietnam who was paranoid about malaria and made his command drink tonic water. ("It's full of quinine, of the Andean fever tree," he liked to pontificate. "Only real protection against fever and ague. Drink up!") Fortunate, too, that Singer had been able to give them a heads up. John didn't like to rely on luck, but sometimes there was no other choice. Just like sometimes hunting made for strange bedfellows and you didn't have a choice but to ally yourself with someone fell into the gray area between human and supernatural.
By the time he pulled into town, John had decided what he was going to do. He'd give Celeste a choice – she could go on living her life in her cute little house as long as she agreed to be a resource to him as needed. That way, he could keep an eye on her and maybe learn some helpful tricks. After all, her scrying had been a huge help. He couldn't just leave her – she knew too much about his family – but he'd cut her a lot of slack.
But when John pulled onto Celeste's street, the house looked nothing like before. The once-bright paint was dull, the windows black, and the yard unkempt. It looked as though it had been empty for years. With a sigh, he pulled over and parked anyway and got out of the truck. The neighbor that had greeted Celeste was fussing in a garden and waved to John.
Wait. Not a garden, but the exact garden Celeste had had, just transferred to the other yard.
"Hey, there," he called. "Do you happen to know anything about this house?"
She shrugged. "Just that it's been empty my whole life. I don't really know why – it really doesn't seem to be in too bad shape. Are you looking to buy it and fix it up? The block would look so much better."
John swore in his mind but gave her a smile. "I'm thinking about it," he lied, wondering how strong spellwork had to be to make long-time neighbors forget you existed. "I'm going to take a closer look." He walked to the low, hanging open front gate and saw that Celeste's fat cat was rolling around on the porch. Huh. Maybe she was here after all, just hiding in plain sight.
The cat rubbed against John's leg, purring when he got close, and he bent and gave it a little head scratch. He wanted Celeste to trust him, after all. The cat butted him again and a piece of paper fell off its collar. John picked it up, finding it was a handwritten note addressed to him.
JW – I had a feeling you'd be back and our kinds rarely mix well. I'm glad the storm is over and your sons are well. I hate giving up my home, but to prove I have no ill-will toward you, Hubris left you a gift. – CM
John looked up to see that the cat had vanished, leaving nothing but its collar. "Ordinary cat, my ass," he muttered. He picked up the collar and turned it to read the words that went all the way around it. Hubris Can Be Deadly. He snorted.
He decided he wouldn't bother to look for Celeste. As long as she stayed off the radar, he'd just pretend she didn't exist.
For now, he'd find a motel and get some actual sleep, then in the morning he'd call Singer. He already had their next hunt lined up, a simple salt-and-burn – Sam could man the shotgun so he didn't aggravate his injuries. It would be a good reminder for Sam and Dean that there were no vacations in hunting.
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AN: Yeah, John. I'm sure Sam will 'fall in line' soon. Or not.
"Stranger danger" is a term that was everywhere in the 1980's from school to PSA's. Yes, I am old enough to remember that. Shut up.
The Backstreet Boyz was/is a singing group that was first popular in the late 1990's. Back then, they were a quintessential 'boy band,' so Sam was basically calling Dean a pretty boy.
Timelady66: OMG, that was so fun to write! I have an idea for a little sequel that would allow for no-filter teenage Sam but no idea when it could get written because of the way life is going right now. But it's in my brain and if it ever sees the light of day, it's because of you. :-)
Shazza: I don't know anyone who had more than minor damage from the storm, but I feel for everyone who did!
I had fun writing a furious Dean beating on the monster with its own leg. LOL. Yes, I have a strange sense of humor.
muffinroo: So happy you liked it! When I write a story this short, I kind of feeling like I'm serving up nothing but dessert...smart Sam, snarky OC, weirdo monster, heroic Dean and Sam, cute baby, boom! Story.
sylvia37: Why am I not surprised you caught that? I hope you liked the epilogue too!
