Wendigo Reasoning (supernatural fic)
Title: Wendigo Reasoning
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: It's all the CW.
Summary: John wants information, but he doesn't like what he gets.
John winces down at her Bloody Mary, the tomato juice looking a bit darker than usual. It’s a sight a bit too close to his last encounter with possession, when an Ohio man had punched himself in the face so many times that by the time they collected the blood from his mouth there was enough to feed at least one fully grown vampire. This is not to say that John would ever let a damn blood-sucker live long enough to drink it.
"What's your name, darling?" Her eyes rove his broad chest, where bloodstained clothes hide beneath one large leather jacket.
"Bill." He lies, handing the bartender another ten for her upcoming rounds. The drunker she is, the more she'll tell him about the 'rumor' that's 'floating around'. The more she tells him, the faster he can get home to his boys.
Unfortunately, she says something about a voice during the night, and the name of the game is no longer werewolf, but wendigo--which translates to a hell of a lot more prep time.
While she prattles on about the way her friends have been coping, John considers his options. He particularly notes that he didn’t stock near enough gasoline in the Impala’s trunk to ensure this ends with his limbs intact. The timetables here are set too short. If this lady is right, he’s got maybe another two days, and that’s with a whole lot more ‘if’s and ‘only if’s.
As she finishes the last of her story, once more checking him out, he stands and thanks her for her time. She looks genuinely disappointed that he’s leaving, though she brightens considerably when he tosses another five on the counter for her next shot. When he leaves, he shakes his head where she can’t see.
In the Impala, he pulls out one of his older cassettes, shoving it in with a sigh. As the guitars for ‘Witchy Woman’ start up, he starts the engine, pauses.
There’s about two seconds between him backing out and heading west--where there are backwoods filled with screams, and unnatural things that once thought like a human. Those seconds aren’t full of much: ideas about calling the hotel with excuses, an occasional flashback to what he saw on Sammy’s nursery ceiling that night. Most of his thoughts are for the poor father of this case, who sent his daughter camping and will never see her again.
His reasoning pales when placed beside the values he and Mary had once held so dear. But this is a different time, a different world, and Dean is more than capable of making sure Sammy eats his dinner while John makes sure this wendigo has eaten its last.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: It's all the CW.
Summary: John wants information, but he doesn't like what he gets.
John winces down at her Bloody Mary, the tomato juice looking a bit darker than usual. It’s a sight a bit too close to his last encounter with possession, when an Ohio man had punched himself in the face so many times that by the time they collected the blood from his mouth there was enough to feed at least one fully grown vampire. This is not to say that John would ever let a damn blood-sucker live long enough to drink it.
"What's your name, darling?" Her eyes rove his broad chest, where bloodstained clothes hide beneath one large leather jacket.
"Bill." He lies, handing the bartender another ten for her upcoming rounds. The drunker she is, the more she'll tell him about the 'rumor' that's 'floating around'. The more she tells him, the faster he can get home to his boys.
Unfortunately, she says something about a voice during the night, and the name of the game is no longer werewolf, but wendigo--which translates to a hell of a lot more prep time.
While she prattles on about the way her friends have been coping, John considers his options. He particularly notes that he didn’t stock near enough gasoline in the Impala’s trunk to ensure this ends with his limbs intact. The timetables here are set too short. If this lady is right, he’s got maybe another two days, and that’s with a whole lot more ‘if’s and ‘only if’s.
As she finishes the last of her story, once more checking him out, he stands and thanks her for her time. She looks genuinely disappointed that he’s leaving, though she brightens considerably when he tosses another five on the counter for her next shot. When he leaves, he shakes his head where she can’t see.
In the Impala, he pulls out one of his older cassettes, shoving it in with a sigh. As the guitars for ‘Witchy Woman’ start up, he starts the engine, pauses.
There’s about two seconds between him backing out and heading west--where there are backwoods filled with screams, and unnatural things that once thought like a human. Those seconds aren’t full of much: ideas about calling the hotel with excuses, an occasional flashback to what he saw on Sammy’s nursery ceiling that night. Most of his thoughts are for the poor father of this case, who sent his daughter camping and will never see her again.
His reasoning pales when placed beside the values he and Mary had once held so dear. But this is a different time, a different world, and Dean is more than capable of making sure Sammy eats his dinner while John makes sure this wendigo has eaten its last.