Chapter Text
You Do What You Have to Do
“I’ll leave the key under the mat,” April Meyer’s fear filled voice ran through John Winchester’s steeled mind as he pulled his black Chevy truck into the cracked weather worn driveway to the young woman’s house. The pale sage green one story house with white trim, large picture window and short front yard with tightly trimmed green-browning-grass stood out starkly from the other more rundown single and two story houses in the urban neighborhood. “Brendan and I are going to my mom’s for the night.” John cut the heavily idling engine. Reaching across the blanket covered leather bench seat, he wrapped thickening fingers into the coarse fabric of the large black duffle occupying the seat next to him.
A creak- not unlike that of the Impala, John reminisced- filled the cool late night air as he pulled the door to the old truck open and dropped down to the uneven chunk of driveway. Hefting the large bag from one hand to the other, John swung the door closed and made his way up the chipped walk leading to the almost more weather worn wood of the front porch.
The warped planks of chipped, peeling white painted wood groaned under his weight as John made his way to the weather beaten aluminum screen door-standing slightly ajar. The porch light clicked on as he moved closer to the door suddenly bathing the old wood in harsh yellow/white light. Blinking rapidly and averting his eyes down, John forced his wary brown eyes to adjust to the sudden bombardment of light.
Just below the slightly open screen door sat a small dark green mat, reading “welcome” with ivy cut outs decorating the outer edges-flecks of white paint visible beneath it. Stooping down John peeled back the fairly new mat. Right where she said it would be was a small golden/brass colored key and an index card.
‘John,
Thank you so much for helping me out with this. I cannot tell you how afraid I’ve been for Brendan and myself since this all started. We’ll be back in the morning.
Thank you,
April Meyer’
Replacing the note under the mat, John’s legs pushed him back up to face the door. Fresh white paint stared back at him from a solid wood door. Holding the key ready, John pulled the screen door open. Resting the door on his hip, he inserted the newer key into the still shiny lock and gave it a sharp twist.
The old hinges groaned as he pushed the wooden door open. He almost wanted to let his mind wonder back to the days when he’d come home from work to find Dean waiting excitedly by the door and Mary rushing about the kitchen in a flurry of dishes and food. And Sam on the floor practicing his newly acquired skill of rolling over. For the briefest of moments he did allow his mind to sink back those twenty plus years to one of the many afternoons he’d come home to find that scene playing out, but then his boot clad foot settled into the too quiet home of April Meyer.
Closing the surprisingly light weight door behind him, John moved further into the modestly sized living room. The mostly blue hued carpeting muffled his thick footsteps as he moved. Settling the heavy bag on the light blue couch that’d surely seen better days, he gathered his supplies: coarse ground salt, lighter fluid, a small box of matches, a Zippo and holy water- just in case.
Releasing a shallow breath the weary hunter scanned the small room for his quarry- a tall brass urn with April’s deceased husband inside. A large fluffy chair sat opposite the couch flanking the a small brown stone fireplace that was mantel free. A short distance away sat a large white laundry basket brimming with more than enough toys to keep a young toddler entertained.
And then the illuminating force of the bright porch light filtering through the lightly curtained picture window was gone. Cursing himself for not thinking forward enough to have his flashlight at the ready and taking the filtered light for granted, John blindly reached into his bag fishing out the wanted object. In one smooth move he flicked it on and instantly bathed the back of the living room in a wide beam of yellow light.
Moving boxes lined the pale green wall and John couldn’t help the flash of memory that came to his mind. Dean hadn’t been more than a year old when they’d moved into the house in Lawrence. Moving boxes had sat along the back of the dinning room wall for weeks before Mary’d gotten sick of finding the child stuck either between them or behind them and told John that if he ever wanted to eat again he’d move them to the basement.
Pushing the memory back into the corner of his mind it’d escaped from, John stopped his sweep of the room. Something wasn’t right. He’d felt it the first time he met the seemingly distraught and grieving young woman. He’d met thousands of grieving and distraught people over the last twenty years. Seen what he was certain were all the ways there were to grieve the sudden and often unexplainable passing of a loved one. Hell he’d been there. Some days he wasn’t sure he’d ever really moved through the grief or if he’d just shut it off and stuffed it so far back in his mind that there almost wasn’t anyway to get it back.
April Meyer had acted her part brilliantly. Tears had flowed at the right moments. Her voice quivered when she spoke of the happenings- to be taken as overwhelming concern when she spoke of her son. As convincing as it had all been none of it reached her green-blue eyes.
And so he went about his part as unsuspecting ghost hunter, eager to help the would be damsel in distress.
Retraining the flashlight on the duffle, John slipped the salt, matches, Zippo and lighter fluid back into the open bag. The short hair on the back of his neck began to stand on end as he reached one last time into the bag for his sawed off.
“You won’t get the chance, John,” her voice was soft and high-almost childlike-as it filled the once quiet room.
“Is this where you try to kill me?” he asked, staring hard into the inky blackness coating the back half of the living room near the unfurnished dining room. “Or are you going to threaten my boys…again?”
“We decided to try another approach,” movement stirred within the blackness as the soft childlike voice spoke. Like a lightweight curtain caught in a subtle spring breeze a petite body pulled from the shadows.
“We?” he questioned- knowing there would be no answer, no new information would be gleaned. Unconsciously he tightened his already firm grip on the gun in his hand. Gripping the sports bottle of holy water tighter in his opposing hand John Winchester watched as the young woman moved in fluid steps from the darkened corner toward him- the battle ground clear. “So then,” he spat out at her, “what are you going to do?”
A sugary sweet smile spread across her angular face as she moved closer to her prey- the shadows along the walls clinging to her as though they were robes. “This,” her still childlike voice hissed at him as her thin, boney fingers wrapped themselves into the buzzed hair of his head. “It’ll only hurt a minute,” she whispered, pulling him in closer to her.
Burning pain erupted through his head the second her icy skeletal fingers came into contact with the skin of his scalp. The icy hot pain burned its way through every nerve ending it connected with. Biting back the scream building in his throat, John closed his eyes and tried to pull away from the pain enducing tendril like fingers that were the cause of it all.
“Shhh,” she breathed into his ear- breath cold against his cheek and ear- pressing her warming fingers deeper into the tender skin of his scalp.
Another scream began to build, only to die before it could pass his lips. Gasping to pull in any amount of oxygen against the intense burning of whatever it was she was doing to him, John willed his body to move away from her; it refused to respond.
A gasped scream escaped the elder Winchester’s lips as she pushed her now warm fingers still deeper into his flesh. He could feel his hands losing their sure grip on the gun and the holy water. Through the fog the April thing had forced his mind into, John weakly fought to force his hands to work. With all the damage he’d caused whatever it was that April was and her kind, he knew that death was too good for him. No, forcing him to suffer was a far better thing than simply killing him.
In the months since leaving Dean and Sam every demon he’d come across didn’t hesitate telling him in great detail how they were going to kill him and his boys. How messy and painful it would be for the boys. How they would all take great pleasure in the feast of grief, anger and helplessness John’s emotions were sure to bring after being forced to watch his boys- his only family- be murdered before his eyes. Fear and anger’d gripped him every time a demon reveled in telling him that. And he dispatched every one of the things that threatened his family. Killed every beast that had the nerve to speak of his sons in such a manner- reveling in the nerve he was hacking so boldly away at.
Slowly his deadening hands worked the drink spout on the top of the bottle up. With what little amount of will he had left, John forced his hand to tighten on the bottle as he brought it up to spurt the blessed water at the she thing causing him more physical pain than he’d ever known at once. The shotgun fell from slackened fingers on his other hand with a dull clank to the floor.
A scream filled the air. For one brief moment he hoped that it had been her’s. But as he forced his brown eyes open to see her face staring back at him with a plastic smile of joy carved across her face he knew that the breaking voice reaching new pitches in the blackened house was his.
God he wanted the pain to stop; wanted to send this bitch back to hell in a glorious display. A dull thud registered with his clouding, darkening mind and he knew it was the bottle of holy water. He could feel his fingers, hands, and arms relax against his sides- resting heavily against the soft, thick material of his blue jeans. Wetness began to register in the back of his dull aching mind, and the pain in his knees began to rival that in head. He couldn’t help but wonder when he’d fallen to his knees.
“You’re a very silly man,” the childlike voice whispered in his ear seconds before the once icy touch was pulled back and he was finally allowed to sink to the worn wood of the house in an unconscious heap. “And now, John Winchester, the fun begins.” Slowly she traced a finger along the week long growth of facial hair covering his jaw.
…TBC…