Language Advisory* Winchesters swear a lot, regardless of what the CW is willing to show. Therefore, there is swearing ahead.
Chapter Text
John is pissed. He was banged up from the fight with that ghoul, foul, bottom feeding creatures with a vicious bite, with a nasty bite to his right bicep, some bruised ribs, and a sprained ankle, not to mention countless bruises and small scraps from their battle in that graveyard, and he was already exhausted, having been planning on driving straight through to Moses Lake to meet up with his boys after the bastard finally had its face to face meeting with the business end of John's shotgun, a fifteen hour drive in and of itself, in an attempt to be there for Sammy's birthday. He would have made it to. He had been on track to get to the house the boys were renting just after midnight, and had even called Dean, and had him take Sammy out for a bit, so he could surprise his youngest by being there when he and Dean got home. After all, sixteen is a big deal, even in their world, and as aggravating as his teenage son could be, between the hormones and the rebellious attitude and the mood swings, John wanted his boy to know that John was aware he was growing up, becoming a man. More than that, that John was proud of him for that. And while John had missed some of Sam's, and Dean's birthdays before, he always, always tried his best to be there for big ones like this. But when John was a few hours out, he had pulled over to get some gas, and had been jumped. He hadn't seen what had happened, one minute he was filling up his truck, the next he was waking up in its bed, the truck parked in some random field, and the last flickers of sunlight washing over everything as it set. Whatever had knocked him out had taken him out of commission for the entire day, all of Sammy's birthday, and left him with a moderate concussion to add to his list of injuries. To make matters worse, when he checked his phone, John saw that someone had sent a text from his phone to Dean shortly before midnight, apologizing for not being able to make it, blaming troubles on his truck and telling him not to expect John anytime soon. He also noticed that, wherever the hell he was, it was a place with absolutely no signal. Swearing and cursing up a storm, John leapt from the back of his truck, ignoring his numerous aches and pains, and stormed around to the cab, climbing into the driver's seat to find his keys waiting in the ignition. He had started the car, and then spent the next several hours trying to figure out where the hell he was. By the time he got himself oriented, and back on the road towards his boys, back into range of any kind of signal for his phone, it was after midnight. Sammy's entire sixteenth birthday has come and gone, and John hadn't even been able to speak to him over the phone, to wish his kid a happy birthday even remotely, let alone in person the way he wanted to. As if Sam needs any more reasons to be pissed with him these days.
All of that was enough to get on John's nerves, to leave him irritated and frustrated and wishing he had something within range to shoot, or punch. Or, to get to Moses Lake sooner so he could indulge in a strong glass or three of whisky without having to worry about driving afterwards. But now, as John is speeding towards the tiny town's limits and the clock on his dash ticks towards two-thirty am, John realizes he has a tail. And that sends him over the edge into fury. One shitty situation too much for an already shitty day. Part of John is tempted to pull over, to confront whoever is tailing him head on, and find some relief for his aggravation. But the rest of him, the veteran marine, the experienced hunter, the father with a responsibility to keep himself alive for the two boys depending on him, knows how stupid that is. It could be anything, human or supernatural, that is following him. Anything from a fellow hunter, to a demon, to a shapeshifter. Hell, maybe the ghoul John had killed had family or friends. Or, it could be a regular person, and John's paranoia, probably not helped by the vicious blow to his head, is just kicking into overdrive. It's a possibility, even if John doesn't think it is likely. He has been tailed too many times in his life to not notice the signs. The way the car stays back at just the right distance, switching lanes to keep in the lane John is in, slowing down and speeding up in response to John's driving. It is a small, bland, inconspicuous economy car, a beige Toyota. John makes careful note of the plates, his hands flexing angrily on the wheel, frustrated that, at this distance, the license plate is the only useful information he can gather. He can't tell if the driver is male or female, human or not, old or young. And while his trunk has his stash of weapons, they are in the back, in a hidden compartment in the bed of the truck, and John doubts that his unwanted guest would give him the time to get out of his truck and grab one of every kind of weapon to see what would be effective against them. No, until the threat reveals itself, and he gets some more information on just what he is dealing with, the best thing he can do is keep his guard up, and be ready for anything. Still… John glances in his rearview mirror, watching the little car warily. The last thing he wants is to expose his boys to any unnecessary risk. While already two of the finest hunters John has ever seen, and damn good soldiers, strong, capable, and clever, not to mention resourceful, resilient and tougher than nails, at this hour the boys will be asleep, vulnerable and off their game. Taking the time to wake them up, and brief them on the threat will leave all three Winchesters exposed, and John is not willing to risk that. Not with his boys' safety, unless absolutely necessary. So as John enters the small town of Moses Lake, winding his way past the estate walls of Michael Manor, which the boys should be well into investigating by now, he doesn't veer towards the house they rented, but instead heads across town. He passes the school Sammy is enrolled in, a small diner named Arcadian Gardens that briefly catches John's attention, if only for the oddly biblical name, a garage that John is pretty sure Dean mentioned he got a job at, and then finally he sees what he is looking for, a small but fairly well-kept motel. Pulling his truck into the parking lot, John lets it idle for a moment, as the Toyota drives slowly past the motel, but doesn't follow John into the lot. Not that that puts John at ease. He has no doubt that, whatever this is, it isn't over just yet. Not this easily. And, though he has nothing but his gut instinct and years of experience with crappy Winchester luck to verify it, he has some horrible feeling that his stalker is somehow related to what happened to him at that random gas station, which brings John's shimmering rage back to a boil. Someone, or something, is trying to keep him from his boys, and that is not something John is going to let stand. Climbing out of his truck, John roughly grabs his duffle from the back seat before slamming the door, shaking slightly from the strength of fury coursing through him, and he storms his way towards the motel's office door, plans for luring his tail out and forcing some answers from him starting to circle in his head. At the very least, he needs to call his boys. While he won't risk bringing a known threat to their door, he needs them to be ready in case something is targeting them as well. And then, tomorrow, or well, later today, John can meet up with Dean and Sammy, somewhere public, away from their home base, and figure out a plan for moving forwards. Ripping open the door, perhaps more forcefully than strictly, necessary, John steps into a small, but warm, and well-organized space, starkly different to the usual types of motel offices John sees on the road. Clean, and bright and welcoming, it clearly speaks to the upper-class vibe that pretty much all of Moses Lake gives off. Even the dingiest part of town is still upkept, and presentable. As John takes in his surroundings with quick, practiced eyes, they land on the lone clerk, a young woman close to Dean's age, he would guess, with reddish-orange hair, and bored grey eyes, staring distantly away, unaware of John's presence as she gossiped into a phone resting between her ear and neck.
"Can you believe that? She actually thinks she saw him first!" The young woman laughs. "I mean, she is delusional! He has a job in town, the brat is enrolled in school, they've been to the mall, the grocery stores, all over, but because he came into her diner, she thinks she magically discovered him." John raises an eyebrow over what is probably some college-level girl drama. Thank god he has two boys. If he had had to try to deal with a daughter at that age, he isn't sure what would have happened. "Like, Michaela, come on. We all knew. You calling it into Baron doesn't make it official, you know? You just did your job, get over yourself." The words itch at John's brain, not sounding entirely right, although honestly that could have just been the concussion, and the exhaustion. Still, something about the way the girl is talking has John on alert, and he chooses to remain silent, and unnoticed, for a little bit longer. "Of course, she's always been Baron's favorite, so now she gets to be the chosen partner. She's been obnoxious about it all day, thinks she is destined to be his soulmate or something. I give her two, three days before she screws it all up." John relaxes slightly, as the conversation begins to sound more and more normal. Not that John has much of any experience with twenty-something year old women, besides Mary, but he is pretty sure she must be talking about some kind of class project and who likes who, or some other trivial, civilian nonsense like that. He is pretty sure, at least, it has nothing to do with his silent observer, or his boys, so he quickly dismisses the entire, pointless conversation, and clears his throat loudly, stepping towards the counter that the girl is leaning on. The girl looks towards him, startled, and something else flashes across her face, although it is gone too quickly for John to recognize what it might be. Probably embarrassment at being caught on the phone. "Oh, sorry Erin, I have a customer." The girl hangs up the phone quickly, a blush crossing her cheeks as she sits up straighter. "Sorry about that, Sir."
"Don't worry about it." John says gruffly. "Late shift, right? I doubt you get many visitors this late."
"No, no we don't. I take it you would like a room?" She smiles pleasantly, and John glances down to see her name card.
"Yes, thank you Trish. For a week, please." John says.
"Two queens, or a king?" She asks, moving over to a computer system, and starting to type quickly.
"Two queens." John says tiredly. It is old habit by now for John to get the extra bed, because it gave him more room to spread out his gear, and any research he might collect on a given hunt. Not to mention, if the boys had nightmares, or a fight, rare as that was, or if Dean was away and John wanted to keep Sam close, it was just handy to have the extra bed around. Plus, depending on who is following John, he might want to keep the boys with him here, while they figure it out. After all, he had promised Sam that he could finish out the semester in Moses Lake, so they had to keep their house here as secure as possible. Working out of the motel would keep an attention off of their home, and give Sammy that chance at normal he is always chomping at the bit for. Chances that will disappear for good once he finishes high school and joins the family business once and for all. Trish finishes typing, and John slides over one of his newer credit cards, and the corresponding driver's license for his current alias, Rick Springfield.
"Mr. Springfield, huh?" Trish smiles warmly. "Like the singer?" John chuckles easily, deftly hiding the flash of concern behind a mask of tired resignation.
"Yeah, like the singer. And no, I can't get you tickets to a Zoot tour." He says, with the air of someone who has heard the same tired jokes about his name all of his life, instead of someone who is simply paying homage to the underrated singer/guitarist as his latest alias in a long line of fake names and identities.
"That's a shame." Trish says jokingly, sliding over the room key, and giving John another warm, kind look. "Room 108 is all yours. I'll send the others when the rest of the band gets here." John smiles exhaustedly at the humor, taking the key and heading back out into the night, while thinking that it is a good thing Dean isn't here. A young, pretty woman, with an appreciation for classic rock? He would be hard pressed to get Dean to ever leave. John cracks a small smile at the thought, missing his sons all the more and suddenly desperate to get into his room and give them a call. But as he exits the office, before he sets off for his room, John surveys the parking lot, and nearby roads once more, using his highly trained senses to try and sniff out any potential dangers in the darkness, or any more signs of his friend from the highway. When he doesn't find any, he makes his way towards the second room from the end, inserting the key into the motel door, and unlocking it before quickly moving into the dark space. He shuts the door behind him, and flips on the light to study the room. It looks completely standard for a motel- two queen sized beds against the left hand wall, separated by a nightstand with a lamp. To John's immediate left is a small table, with two chairs, up against a window with heavy curtains framing it. In front of him, is a desk, with an office chair, next to a table with a television set, and beyond that a tiny kitchenette, across from the motel room's tiny bathroom. But unlike most establishments John has visited, the motel room doesn't have any suspicious stains, or lingering scent of smoke. No signs of dust, or rot, or water damage, or mold. No tacky designs, or hideous carpets, or cheap sheets and thin blankets. But here, a clean, soft looking grey carpet covers the floor, not so much as a speck of dirt anywhere in sight, and soft blue walls, lined with white trim, wrap around the space. Thick blankets, and soft looking sheets, with firm, but still comfortable looking pillows lay on the beds. Honestly the room looks like it could belong in one of those chain hotels that John occasionally springs for, when one of the Winchesters gets particularly roughed up, or sick. Maybe they should start doing more hunts in upscale communities. John tosses his duffle onto one of the beds, and pulls out his phone. It is just past three-fifteen am at this point, and his boys are probably soundly asleep, and John is tempted to let them stay that way. But this is a matter of their safety, and that has to take priority over comfort, no matter how annoying, or unfair it may seem, especially to Sam. And John is fine with Sam thinking that. His job isn't to be liked, it is to raise them right, and keep them alive. Kicking off his boots, and taking a seat on his bed, John flips open the phone and finds Dean's number, dialing it and raising the phone to his ear. The phone rings once, twice, three times, four times, five times before going to voicemail.
"Hey this is Dean. Leave your name, number and nightmare at the tone and I will call you back." John snorts at his son's cocky, arrogant voice on the voicemail. He is going to have to talk to Dean about changing that.
"Hey Dean, it's Dad." John says after the beep. "Fuck, I got something stuck to my shoe…" John is careful to make his voice sound as annoyed, and careless as he can, as if the words slipped out of him without thought, while trusting Dean to get the code in the message. "Anyways, just got to town. Didn't want to bother you or your brother, so I grabbed a room at Cozy Lodge, the local motel. I will see you boys tomorrow. Also, I am going to try your brother, but if you get this before he does, tell him to disregard the message. See you soon." John hangs up, confident that, should his message be overheard for any reason, nobody but Dean would be able to interrupt the true meaning of the call, and that he left nothing for anyone to trace back to his sons. Pulling up Sammy's number next, John expects to have to wait for the voicemail the same way he did with Dean's number, but to his surprise, and mild annoyance, it doesn't even ring once, just flips right over to voicemail. Almost like his phone has been turned off, despite both Dean and John himself having warned him repeatedly to never turn off his phone, especially when one of them was on a hunt. John feels a flare of irritation for his youngest, and his complete disregard for John's orders.
"This is Sam Winchester. Leave a message." His youngest's soft, almost shy voice is a complete contrast to Dean's, his message short, and sweet and humble next to Dean's callous one.
"Sammy, what have I told you about turning off your phone?" John snaps, pinching his nose in annoyance. "You know better than that, and we are definitely going to talk about this. Look, I just wanted to let you and Dean know that I made it to town, and I'll see you both soon. Keep your eyes open and stay safe. And turn your damn phone on." John hangs up with a frustrated sigh. And then, he swears. So much for trying to make the kid happy… he just wanted to surprise Sammy, to maybe make the kid smile for once. Sam was so moody these days… constantly whining, about training, about moving around, about hunting… constantly arguing about all the same things, demanding John explain every little decision he made, and coping an attitude when John tried to pull him back into line. Everything with Sam was a battle now. Getting him to hunt was like pulling teeth. He thought doing a school play, or playing soccer was more important than having Dean and John's back taking out the monsters of the world, or studying up on the difference between zombies and revenants, spirits and poltergeists, and werewolves versus skin walkers. John can't remember the last time the three of them had actually enjoyed a hunt as a family. When they had all enthusiastically dug into the lore, bounced ideas off of each other, and then fought together to take down the creature. He can't remember when they all pulled their weight, and were all satisfied at the end of the hunt. Maybe when Sammy was twelve? Thirteen at the latest. And John doesn't know what else to do. Dean was never like this. Dean loves hunting, even more than John does. And he is good at it, so good. Dean is strategic, and intelligent. He can see patterns and spot details in a case that have saved the day more than once. He embraced John's training with enthusiasm and natural athleticism. Adolescence had done wonders for Dean, and between some natural genetic gifts, and his passion for John's drills, so much so that he went even further than what John asked for most of the time, constantly seeking to outdo himself, to be better. Better at hand-to-hand combat, better at marksmanship, better at lore. John couldn't be more proud. John has never had to worry about motivating Dean, or pushing him. He fell in line, and because he has learned to follow, he will be a hell of a leader someday. Hell, he already is. With how good Dean has become, John has no problem trusting Dean in the field, on his own cases, or with other hunters like Caleb, or Bobby. It's why he trusted Dean to come ahead on this hunt with Sammy. That and… well, John was hoping maybe Dean would have some luck, where John was failing so miserably these days. Everything John does seems to either piss Sam off, or upset the kid, to the point where he will sulk in his room for days, or avoid coming home entirely, instead opting to hide out at the library, or at the park, anywhere away from John. But Dean… Sam has always, always idolized Dean. He adores his big brother, worships him even, and would follow Dean everywhere. And the two just seem to know each other in a way no two people John has ever met know each other. If John didn't know better, he would swear they could read each other's minds. The way they can have entire conversations with just a look, the way they practically move in sync, like shadows of each other. And Dean has always been so good with Sam. Ever since Sammy was born, Dean has instinctively known what Sam needed, sometimes even before… before Mary. And that had never changed. As Sammy grew, and started walking, talking reading, as he grew and got hurt, or bullied, or sick, Dean was always ready to help and support Sam, however he could. John was praying Dean could work some of that magic now. Clearly, what worked for Dean, John's rigid training and combative approach, isn't working with Sam. Instead of preparing him for hunting, all it is doing is creating resentment and spite. Sam isn't training properly, his progress has slowed to next to nothing. He is still at the same levels of marksmanship and combat skills as he was when he was fifteen. As if he hoped, if he didn't progress, he wouldn't have to hunt anymore. And John knew that all teenagers went through a rebellious phase, it was natural. He had caught Dean doing it all the time as a teenager- sneaking out to meet chicks, stealing John's beer, or whisky. Hell, he had even caught him with a joint a few times. Normal, stupid kid stuff. But what Sam is doing… it is dangerous. It could get him killed, if he doesn't change, and start getting serious about hunting. So, if John can't train Sammy anymore, maybe it is time Dean takes over. Dean, who has always been able to get through to Sam, who knows how to get the kid to open up, to respond, to push him in a way that empowers the kid instead of enraging him. This hunt will be a good test of that, and if John has to step back a little… if what Sammy needs is less of a drill sergeant, and more of an older brother, if that is what it takes for Sammy to take his training seriously, to learn how to keep himself alive, then so be it. John will do anything to protect his boys. Including, apparently, pissing off his teenager with a voicemail, chastising him for turning off his phone, a perfectly normal thing for anyone who isn't a hunter to do, instead of apologizing for missing his birthday, even if it wasn't John's fault. John glances over at his bag, fully aware that there is half a bottle of Jack's somewhere in there, and he is sorely tempted to break into it, maybe even finish it off.
But then he remembers the Toyota, and any desire for a drink vanishes. Something is following him, and he can't afford to be caught off guard. So, instead of trying to drown out the guilt and irritation anything related to Sammy tends to bring up in him nowadays, John moves quickly around the room, laying salt lines at the doors and window, along with cats eye shells, and small, chalk sigils that should keep out anything supernatural, while laying a few booby traps by the doors and windows for the human variety of intruders. Once the room is as secure as John can make it, he grabs a quick, five minute shower, just to wash off the long drive, and let the hot water help ease some of the tension and soreness in his battered body. Afterwards, John crawls into one of the beds, sighing and letting his eyes close. Sleep comes almost instantaneously, though for not nearly as long as John would have liked. When he does stir again, waking up with the sudden jolt into perfect awareness that he had learned in the marines, he rolls over to look at his alarm clock. Six am. So not even three hours. Great. Still, maybe this is a blessing in disguise. It's Friday morning, which means Sam should be heading to school soon, and Dean most likely will be driving him. He can meet the boys there, deal with Sam's mishap with his phone, catch them up to speed and then figure out where the boys are with the Michael Manor poltergeist, or ghost or whatever it is. With a heavy groan, John reluctantly pushes himself out of bed, grabbing a slightly longer shower than he was able to have last night. Or this morning, rather. Once he is showered and dressed, he grabs his keys, and jacket, rearming himself with his handgun, a knife in his boot, and a smaller silver knife and an iron rod that never leave his jacket's pockets, before heading out of his motel room. His eyes sweep over the parking lot as he casually makes his way towards his truck, noting the blue Mazda idling at the end of the parking lot, with tinted windows. It could belong to another motel guest, John supposes. But his gut is saying otherwise. Again, he is half tempted to confront them, but they don't seem to eager to show themselves yet. There is a good chance they haven't even realized he is on to them yet. So, he could risk revealing that he is aware, or… he could do some surveillance of his own. John keeps his course to the truck, climbing in and starting the engine, pulling away from the motel to head back towards where he had seen the high school. About two minutes after starting his drive, John sees the Mazda following at a steady pace, all the way to the school, where John turns into the parking lot and pulls into a spot, turning off his truck to wait for the familiar sight of the impala. John watches the Mazda park over on the road, in a discreet enough spot that John might not have noticed if he wasn't already aware of the car tailing him. Whoever was stalking him, they were good. Most likely, this wasn't their first time, which just makes John angrier, and more confused. As the lot fills up around him, students and teachers arriving for the day, John keeps half an eye on his stalker, while growing more and more impatient for the sound of the impala's engine to reach his ears. He doesn't understand what is taking his boys so long. Sammy hates being late for school. While it had been like pulling teeth to get Dean to get to class, until John had finally relented and allowed him to drop out entirely, Sam is the kid who is at school early, wanting to do extra credit, or study a little more for a class or a test, or just use the library. The kid's love of books rivals Dean's love of hunting, and John can't help the small, sad smile that crosses his face.
Mary had loved to read as well. Anything and everything, really, but she adored fantasy books, and romance novels the best. Anything with a happy ending, where the good defeats the evil and the monster is slain. She had a particular fondness for The Lord of the Rings, for some reason. She had told John, when she had read the books to Dean, and then later to Sam, both while he was still in her womb, and after he had been born, that she liked the idea that, even after all the pain the fictional characters had endured, all the hardship and battles and chaos, at the end of the day the characters all found peace, away from the violence. They went back to a home of beauty, and gentleness, and safety, and were able to leave the war behind them. John had heard her say that several times, and he still didn't know exactly what she meant by that, or the way she had a wistful, slightly guilty look to her eyes when she said it. Still, now, after being a hunter for so long, John could appreciate her words more. He hopes one day he can do what those fictional beings did. Once he has gotten vengeance for Mary, he will rebuild a life for his sons. Where they can be safe, and at peace, and have a proper home. Dean can settle down, find a girl, maybe have a family of his own. Sam can go to school, college even, maybe. He wants that for his boys. But not yet. Not while the thing that murdered Mary is still out there. Not while his family is still in danger. John shifts in his seat, trying to refocus his thoughts, as the first bell rings. John frowns, his eyes scanning the lot, and the crowds of kids and teachers. Still no impala, no Dean, no Sam. What the hell? John pulls out his phone, dialing Dean's number again. Once again, it rings five times before Dean's voicemail message plays. Not bothering to leave a message this time, John hangs up and calls Sam. And, once again, it doesn't ring at all, just immediately goes to voicemail. This time, though, John doesn't get angry. Because, even if Sam turned his phone off for the night, he would have turned it back on the second he got up this morning, and, knowing how much of an early bird his youngest is, Sam is definitely awake by now. And as reckless and as frustrating as the fifteen, no sixteen now, year old can be, he isn't stupid, or suicidal, enough to leave his single most important line of communication shut off. No, John isn't angry anymore. Now he is worried. As the final bell rings for the start of morning classes, and there is still no sign of Dean or Sam, John starts his truck back up, deciding to try Dean's work next. John pulls up outside of the garage, exiting the truck as his follower parks subtly down the road from him. John walks into the shop, hearing a small noise announce his presence, and he looks around the aisles, until a man in grey overalls approaches with a friendly smile. John glances at the name embroidered onto it.
"Hey, welcome to Rodney's Garage." The man says. He follows John's gaze and gives him an easy grin. "I'm Rodney, as you clearly figured out." He offers his hand, and John takes it, shaking it.
"John Winchester." John says, deciding in the moment to skip the alias. After all, Dean and Sam are here under their real names, and maybe their connection will get him more right now, than any of his aliases or fake . "Dean's father. I heard you hired him." The man's grin widens, his eyes widening with an excitement that makes the hair on John's neck stand on end.
"Oh, Dean. Yeah, he's been great." Rodney says with too much enthusiasm for a boss to have towards an employee. John tries to suppress his suspicion though, not wanting to tip off the guy to anything being wrong. After all, there might not be anything wrong. "Bright kid you have. A genius around cars. I can't believe he knows as much as he does at his age."
"Yeah, Dean has a real talent." John says, pride for his eldest flaring up, though John doesn't lower his guard even an inch. "Listen uh, is Dean scheduled to work today? I was hoping to surprise him and his brother." A flash of something dark, almost like hate, flashes in the man's eyes at the mention of Sam, although it clears almost instantly. Still, John notes it, and puts that information aside for later as that too bright, too eager smile returns to the mechanic's face.
"No, I'm sorry. He took a few days off, actually. Some project he's been working on, I think." Rodney answers. That must be the hunt, John thinks. Dean and Sam must be on the trail of the ghost.
"Alright, thanks." John says, nodding once and starting to turn. But before he can take more than a few steps, the door to the shop opens, a young woman stepping into the shop. At the same time, the lights above flicker, and the air seems to drop in temperature. A faint whiff of sulfur reaches John's nose, and his hand moves to his pocket, gripping the iron rod as the woman steps into the same aisle as John and Rodney. Short, with spiky black hair and grey eyes, the woman grins cockily. And those grey eyes flash black.
"Hey Johnny. Fancy meeting you here." The demon says. John doesn't hesitate, pulling out the iron rod and leaping at the monster, swinging the iron towards it's head. The demon ducks under his blow, raising a hand, and an invisible force slams into the hunter, flinging him back down the aisle. Part of John notices that Rodney seems to have disappeared, while the rest of him is only really aware of how hard he slams into the floor. He gasps for air, already able to feel the bruises that will no doubt line his back and his ribs in the coming days. "We were wondering how long it would take you to get here." A horrible feeling of dread settles of John as everything starts to connect itself in his mind. The attack at that gas station, significantly delaying his arrival in Moses Lake. The tails. His sons not answering their phones. Sammy not being at school, Dean not being at work. His boys are in trouble.
"Sam and Dean. Where are they?" John says coldly, getting quickly to his feet as he pulls out his gun. It won't kill the demon, but it can damn sure slow the thing down. The demon smirks.
"You are a quick one, Johnny boy. Here I thought it would take you a lot longer to work out what is really going on." The demon says mockingly. John aims his gun, cocking it as he turns off the safety.
"Where. Are. They?" John demands harshly. The demon tilts his head, grinning.
"Closer than you think." The demon replies. "Don't worry though, Johnny. We'll give them back when we are done playing with them. Just… maybe not in one piece." John's finger goes to pull the trigger, but before he can, electricity courses through John's back, whiting out his vision and causing his entire body to cramp and convulse. John cries out, the gun falling from his hand as he crashes to his knees. He glances behind him, forcing his head to turn even as his body twitches and burns from the sudden voltage. Rodney is standing there, calm and collected, a long black stick with a vivid blue light blazing at the end of it in his hands. A fucking cattle prod. Rodney looks away from John, towards the demon with a reverent, awed expression.
"Did I do the right thing, Your Holiness?" Rodney asks in a hushed, hopeful voice.
"Yes, Child." The demon responds smugly, as John glances back at the creature. "Do it again. I will handle him from there." Fuck. John tries to move, but he barely gets an inch before the prod is shoved once more into his back, the electricity coursing through him once more, and his vision once again goes white, before fading entirely to black.