[FIC] Father's Gun (72/?)
Title: Father's Gun
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Previous Chapter | Master Post
The storage container Caleb keeps just outside of Lincoln is sweltering in the summer heat. Inside, the air is dry and oppressively thick, a heavy weight that sits on John's chest and makes every breath he's able to wring out of his lungs come labored and shallow. He paces across the dusty floor, trying to think past the miserable heat.
Not that he's complainin' about the digs, necessarily. After all, this is far from the first time he's bunked down on a bare, lumpy mattress or used a box of ammo as a table while he chokes down MREs, pouring sweat and fantasizing about the distant luxuries of central air and ice-cold beer. Hell, it's practically nostalgic, and more importantly, he couldn't ask for a better base of operations to research the fire at the Harvelle's bar.
It's just that he's so damn tired of feeling trapped.
He wants to be out there, flashing a badge and interviewing witnesses and searching through the scene. He needs to be doing something, not waiting for Caleb to handle it all and report back because John can't risk running into the other dozen hunters sticking their noses into this case. Sure, John's a fair hand at research, always has been, but waiting around like this, relying on another hunter to get his intel for him, makes him restless, his trigger finger just itching for some action. It makes him feel cornered and helpless, and honestly, he gets why Sammy always complained about getting left behind at the library while he and Dean....
....God, Sam and Dean.
And that right there's the other reason John hates this whole set-up. He's poured over the evidence a dozen times, he's run out of papers and maps to mark up and tape to the plain, tin walls, and now his brain's just running in circles. Hell, John doesn't exactly relish being alone with himself under the best of circumstances. Not sober, anyway, and Caleb sure knows it, 'cause it definitely looks like the man took time to clear out all the strong stuff out of this place before he handed John the key.
It was a smart move, John has to admit, because right now? After Blue Earth? John could really use a goddamn drink.
It's probably the only smart thing Caleb's done lately, 'cause hopping into John's truck before he burned rubber towards Nebraska? Still hanging around once word came down the line that Ellen and her little girl were okay? Volunteering to play field agent so John could keep his head down? That's all pretty damn stupid.
Of course, John's the one letting him do it, so he's no Einstein, either.
They both know that the longer he spends with Caleb, the longer he lets the man help him or uses resources like the storage locker he's currently squatting in, the more inevitable it is that sooner or later Caleb will end up like Jim. Like Ellen. Shifting through ashes and trying to put the ruined pieces of his life back together, or worse, caught up in the flames himself. Because that's what happens to people who help John. That's what happens to everyone he touches, and it doesn't matter if they're seasoned hunters or innocent civilians, doesn't matter if they're on holy ground or in a goddamn hunter's bar. They're never safe. Not if John's been there. He's the accelerant. Yellow Eyes is just lighting the match.
And if that's what the bastard is trying to drive home with all this, well then, message fucking received.
That is, if it is a message.
Thing is, John's been going over and over it since he got here. What would Yellow Eyes gain by torching the Roadhouse? If it was a warning, why not do it right after John rolled through town? Hell, if it was revenge, why not torch the place as soon as he wrecked Yellow Eyes' plans in Colorado? Why wait? There's no way this fire and the fire at Jim's church aren't connected, but the Calvary fire was part of a coordinated attack. They weren't there for John. They were after that baby, and they were in and out with deadly, ruthless efficiency. So what were they after here?
What is he missing?
His phone buzzes on the bed, and John snatches it up, grateful for the distraction. He fully expects to see Caleb's number flashing on the caller ID, but it's not him at all. It's Ellen Harvelle. Speak of the devil.
John's stomach sinks like a stone. He sucks in a labored breath and lets it out through his teeth, then flips the phone open before he can second guess himself.
“Yeah?”
“John Winchester,” Ellen's voice blares through the phone, just as proud and furious and ready to rake him over the coals as she ever was. “What the hell did you do?”
In spite of everything, that gets a dry chuckle out of John.
“You're gonna have to be more specific, El,” he tells her, picking at the corner of a map of Lincoln with a dirty fingernail.
Ellen makes an angry sound. John can hear her smack something and then sound of her blinker clicking away. Is she leaving Sioux Falls this soon? Or did she just decide to read John the Riot Act on her way to the damn grocery store? John's not Singer's biggest fan by a long shot, but he actually hopes it's the latter. If anyone's equipped to keep the Harvelles protected from Yellow Eyes and his army of black-eyed bastards, it's Bobby goddamn Singer.
“Okay then, let me be specific,” Ellen growls. “Did you try to murder one of your sons?”
John stands up straighter.
“You heard from Sam and Dean?” he asks. “Are they alright? Where are they?”
“Don't change the subject, John,” Ellen orders in a low voice. “Now, you wanna explain to me why I've got Dean tellin' me that you locked his brother in a burning goddamn building?”
John swallows hard against the memory of his son, soot-covered and gasping for air, just seconds away from burning up like Mary, from dying a horrible, agonizing death while John stood outside and fucking watched, and really, what the hell's the point of sugar coating it now?
“That's because I did.”
There's a long, heavy pause, and John half expects Ellen to hang up on him, write him off like she should've done all those years ago when John left her with the keys to Bill's RV, drove off, and never looked back. He wouldn't blame her.
“Dammit, John,” Ellen breathes instead. “Why the hell would you do that?”
John could try to explain it. He could tell her that it all happened so goddamn fast, say he made a snap judgement, that he never meant for Sam to get hurt, he just didn't think- But even in his head, it just sounds like a whole bunch of excuses. He remembers Dean's steely glare, Sam's wounded, wide-eyed gaze, the flames reflecting back at him off of the Impala's tail-lights, and he thinks that, really, it doesn't matter why he did it.
He did it. It's too late to take that back now.
“I made a mistake,” he says simply. “It won't happen again.”
“Well, that's just great,” Ellen bites out. “And how 'bout your little hunting buddies? You still got them still comin' after your own damn sons or can I start sleeping at night again?”
“I called that off days ago,” John sighs. “Nobody's after 'em. Next time you talk to the boys, you tell them that.”
“Or you could tell them yourself,” Ellen snaps.
John laughs bitterly.
“You really think they wanna hear from me right now?”
Or ever? a voice whispers in the back of his mind. John doesn't bother trying to shut it up. It's the truth.
“I don't-” Ellen breaks off, and John can hear the distant sound of her engine roaring as she punches the gas. “Help me out here, John, 'cause I'm really tryin' to understand what's goin' on in that bundle of crazy you call a brain. I got you calling hits out on one of your own, your boys runnin' hither and yon, thinking you've got Caleb mailing them goddamn pipe bombs. Beats all I've ever seen.”
John furrows his brow. He peels the tape off the corners of a newspaper article on the Roadhouse fire and rolls it between his thumb and forefinger.
“Well?” Ellen prompts. “What the hell've you got to say for yourself?”
John sighs and sits down heavily on the camp bed against the tin siding of the locker. The rusting joints of the cot give a high, creaky whine.
“I don't got a goddamn thing.”
Ellen lets out a sigh of her own.
“I gotta be honest, John, you're suckin' the fun out of this for me,” she grumbles. “It ain't no damn fun kicking you if you just lie down and take it. Now, let me guess: You're layin’ low somewhere, feeling sorry for yourself and drinking whatever rotgut you can get your hands on, am I right?”
“I wish,” John grumbles. “There's not a drop of goddamn booze in this place.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“There's not a drop of good booze in this place,” John amends. “Caleb took all the hard stuff. All I got's cheap beer and watered down whiskey.”
“Aw, poor baby,” Ellen simpers sarcastically. “I'd offer you a shot, but someone done burnt my bar down.”
“Shut up, Ellen,” John says, feeling a smile tug at the corner of his lips.
He clears his throat.
“So, the boys...” he starts. “How'd they look, last time you saw 'em?”
“They're all right,” Ellen says grudgingly. “Singed at the edges and jumpy as all hell, but they'll live.”
John allows himself a moment of dizzying relief, before he has to move onto the next part, the next step in this vague thing that's going have to pass for a plan. Finding the Colt.
“So I'm gonna take a wild guess and say they're at Singer's.”
It makes sense. After all, Dean's smart. He'd know to stay well clear of hunters after what went down in Blue Earth. The only exception would be... Well, it'd be Bobby. It's the first place John would've checked if the fire at the Roadhouse hadn't blindsided him. Looks like his gut was right.
“Come 'n' gone, smartass,” Ellen drawls, “and if you're thinking of showing up asking about 'em, you'd better think again. 'Cause let me me tell you now, Bobby ain't happy, and he's got a bullet with your name on it.”
For a spilt second of blistering immaturity, John thinks, “I could take Bobby Singer.”
He shakes his head, banishing that less-than-helpful train of thought. Okay. So, either Ellen's lying and his boys are camping in Sioux Falls, or she's telling the truth and they're within a day or so of the Singer homestead. Either way, it gives him a lead, which is a good sight better than he was doing before Ellen's call. At least he's got somewhere to start once he finishes up here.
Speaking of which...
“Ellen, while I've got you, mind if I ask you some questions about that fire at your place?”
She lets out a wry, huffy laugh.
“Oh, is that what you're doing?” she asks ruefully. “You working my case, John?”
“It was my case first, El,” John says quietly. His case and his fault, too.
“It was my home,” Ellen says in a tight voice. “My family. Dammit, John, you shoulda been the one calling me.”
It's true, but John was never going to do that, and they both know it. She was right before. John's nothing but a goddamn coward when it comes to facing the things he's done. He'd rather hide in the hole any day.
“There anything specific you wanna know?” Ellen asks grudgingly, clearly taking his silence for the deflection is is.
“Yeah,” John confirms. “They take anything?”
“Not that I could tell after the fact,” Ellen answers. “Honestly, I didn't see much at the time. I smelled the smoke and just got outta there as quick as possible, started bangin' on that piece of shit RV Josie was sleepin' in. All I could think of was making sure she was safe.”
John feels a sharp thrill of guilt, thinks again of the Calvary church fire and Sam, and swallows thickly.
“I didn't even think about Ash until it was too late,” Ellen finishes guiltily.
Right, her tenant. There's another thing about all this that doesn't make sense. John turns and tugs a piece of paper down off his wall.
“It wouldn't have mattered,” he tells Ellen. “I got the preliminary autopsy here. His throat was cut. Looks like he either surprised the bastards who lit the place up or...”
“Or he was the target,” Ellen finishes.
“There any reason demons might've been after him?” John asks.
There's a long, significant pause on the other end of the line.
“El?”
“He was workin' on something for your boys,” Ellen says. “Doing some kind of research.”
Looking for omens, John puts together. So that's where they got their intel on Tennessee. They were getting help from the Roadhouse after all. John just pointed the finger at the wrong person.
“You think there's a chance he stumbled onto something this demon wouldn't have wanted us knowing?”
Ellen sighs.
“I wouldn't know. He didn't say, and your boys aren't exactly the trustin' type. Wonder where they got that from.”
“Well, see if you can find out if you get the chance,” John says. “It's a long shot, but they might tell you, you ask the right way.”
“I can try,” Ellen agrees, sounding doubtful.
John can't say he blames her. She's right. He raised those boys to keep their mouths shut and never trust anyone not named Winchester. That training's not gonna be going out the window any time soon. But Ash's research, like John's, is nothing but a pile of kindling now. Finding out what Sam and Dean know - and hoping like hell it's something good - is the only option he's got.
“John...” Ellen says hesitantly. “There's something else.”
“What's that?” John asks, frowning.
“You ever heard of a family of hunters named Campbell?”
John racks his memory, trying to put that name to anybody he's worked with over the years.
“Can't say I have. Why?”
“Well...” Ellen says slowly. “Honestly, I don't know that it's my place. You know what, let me- Let me check some things out. Ask the boys just what they mighta heard from Ash last and get back to you.”
John narrows his eyes, but he decided against pressing her. There's no bullying intel out of Ellen Harvelle. Instead, he makes a mental note to ask Caleb if he knows anything about the Campbells when he gets back. Maybe it's nothing, but he might as well cover all the bases.
“Alright, give me a call if you find out anything new.”
“You're gonna pick up my calls three times in a row?” Ellen asks. “John, you're spoilin' me.”
John huffs out a short laugh.
“Yeah, well, it's this new thing I've been trying,” he says. “We'll see how long it takes to bite me in the ass.”
Ellen snorts.
“Later, John,” she says before hanging up.
He tucks his phone into his jeans, feeling a hell of a lot better now than he did ten minutes ago. He's got a lead on the gun. He's got a glimmer of hope at getting to the bottom of this newest fire. He's got an ally in Ellen, too, for all that he doesn't deserve it and for all it may be putting her right back in the crosshairs.
Most importantly, he's got confirmation that the boys are okay, at least for now.
It probably makes him a horrible person, but John's glad to hear his sons aren't hunkering down at Bobby's or laying all their cards on the table for Ellen or jumping to open packages from Caleb. It means they're being smart, being wary, guarding themselves with other hunters just like John taught them to. Just like they need to, now more than ever.
It means they're not doing anything stupid.
Chapter 73
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Previous Chapter | Master Post
The storage container Caleb keeps just outside of Lincoln is sweltering in the summer heat. Inside, the air is dry and oppressively thick, a heavy weight that sits on John's chest and makes every breath he's able to wring out of his lungs come labored and shallow. He paces across the dusty floor, trying to think past the miserable heat.
Not that he's complainin' about the digs, necessarily. After all, this is far from the first time he's bunked down on a bare, lumpy mattress or used a box of ammo as a table while he chokes down MREs, pouring sweat and fantasizing about the distant luxuries of central air and ice-cold beer. Hell, it's practically nostalgic, and more importantly, he couldn't ask for a better base of operations to research the fire at the Harvelle's bar.
It's just that he's so damn tired of feeling trapped.
He wants to be out there, flashing a badge and interviewing witnesses and searching through the scene. He needs to be doing something, not waiting for Caleb to handle it all and report back because John can't risk running into the other dozen hunters sticking their noses into this case. Sure, John's a fair hand at research, always has been, but waiting around like this, relying on another hunter to get his intel for him, makes him restless, his trigger finger just itching for some action. It makes him feel cornered and helpless, and honestly, he gets why Sammy always complained about getting left behind at the library while he and Dean....
....God, Sam and Dean.
And that right there's the other reason John hates this whole set-up. He's poured over the evidence a dozen times, he's run out of papers and maps to mark up and tape to the plain, tin walls, and now his brain's just running in circles. Hell, John doesn't exactly relish being alone with himself under the best of circumstances. Not sober, anyway, and Caleb sure knows it, 'cause it definitely looks like the man took time to clear out all the strong stuff out of this place before he handed John the key.
It was a smart move, John has to admit, because right now? After Blue Earth? John could really use a goddamn drink.
It's probably the only smart thing Caleb's done lately, 'cause hopping into John's truck before he burned rubber towards Nebraska? Still hanging around once word came down the line that Ellen and her little girl were okay? Volunteering to play field agent so John could keep his head down? That's all pretty damn stupid.
Of course, John's the one letting him do it, so he's no Einstein, either.
They both know that the longer he spends with Caleb, the longer he lets the man help him or uses resources like the storage locker he's currently squatting in, the more inevitable it is that sooner or later Caleb will end up like Jim. Like Ellen. Shifting through ashes and trying to put the ruined pieces of his life back together, or worse, caught up in the flames himself. Because that's what happens to people who help John. That's what happens to everyone he touches, and it doesn't matter if they're seasoned hunters or innocent civilians, doesn't matter if they're on holy ground or in a goddamn hunter's bar. They're never safe. Not if John's been there. He's the accelerant. Yellow Eyes is just lighting the match.
And if that's what the bastard is trying to drive home with all this, well then, message fucking received.
That is, if it is a message.
Thing is, John's been going over and over it since he got here. What would Yellow Eyes gain by torching the Roadhouse? If it was a warning, why not do it right after John rolled through town? Hell, if it was revenge, why not torch the place as soon as he wrecked Yellow Eyes' plans in Colorado? Why wait? There's no way this fire and the fire at Jim's church aren't connected, but the Calvary fire was part of a coordinated attack. They weren't there for John. They were after that baby, and they were in and out with deadly, ruthless efficiency. So what were they after here?
What is he missing?
His phone buzzes on the bed, and John snatches it up, grateful for the distraction. He fully expects to see Caleb's number flashing on the caller ID, but it's not him at all. It's Ellen Harvelle. Speak of the devil.
John's stomach sinks like a stone. He sucks in a labored breath and lets it out through his teeth, then flips the phone open before he can second guess himself.
“Yeah?”
“John Winchester,” Ellen's voice blares through the phone, just as proud and furious and ready to rake him over the coals as she ever was. “What the hell did you do?”
In spite of everything, that gets a dry chuckle out of John.
“You're gonna have to be more specific, El,” he tells her, picking at the corner of a map of Lincoln with a dirty fingernail.
Ellen makes an angry sound. John can hear her smack something and then sound of her blinker clicking away. Is she leaving Sioux Falls this soon? Or did she just decide to read John the Riot Act on her way to the damn grocery store? John's not Singer's biggest fan by a long shot, but he actually hopes it's the latter. If anyone's equipped to keep the Harvelles protected from Yellow Eyes and his army of black-eyed bastards, it's Bobby goddamn Singer.
“Okay then, let me be specific,” Ellen growls. “Did you try to murder one of your sons?”
John stands up straighter.
“You heard from Sam and Dean?” he asks. “Are they alright? Where are they?”
“Don't change the subject, John,” Ellen orders in a low voice. “Now, you wanna explain to me why I've got Dean tellin' me that you locked his brother in a burning goddamn building?”
John swallows hard against the memory of his son, soot-covered and gasping for air, just seconds away from burning up like Mary, from dying a horrible, agonizing death while John stood outside and fucking watched, and really, what the hell's the point of sugar coating it now?
“That's because I did.”
There's a long, heavy pause, and John half expects Ellen to hang up on him, write him off like she should've done all those years ago when John left her with the keys to Bill's RV, drove off, and never looked back. He wouldn't blame her.
“Dammit, John,” Ellen breathes instead. “Why the hell would you do that?”
John could try to explain it. He could tell her that it all happened so goddamn fast, say he made a snap judgement, that he never meant for Sam to get hurt, he just didn't think- But even in his head, it just sounds like a whole bunch of excuses. He remembers Dean's steely glare, Sam's wounded, wide-eyed gaze, the flames reflecting back at him off of the Impala's tail-lights, and he thinks that, really, it doesn't matter why he did it.
He did it. It's too late to take that back now.
“I made a mistake,” he says simply. “It won't happen again.”
“Well, that's just great,” Ellen bites out. “And how 'bout your little hunting buddies? You still got them still comin' after your own damn sons or can I start sleeping at night again?”
“I called that off days ago,” John sighs. “Nobody's after 'em. Next time you talk to the boys, you tell them that.”
“Or you could tell them yourself,” Ellen snaps.
John laughs bitterly.
“You really think they wanna hear from me right now?”
Or ever? a voice whispers in the back of his mind. John doesn't bother trying to shut it up. It's the truth.
“I don't-” Ellen breaks off, and John can hear the distant sound of her engine roaring as she punches the gas. “Help me out here, John, 'cause I'm really tryin' to understand what's goin' on in that bundle of crazy you call a brain. I got you calling hits out on one of your own, your boys runnin' hither and yon, thinking you've got Caleb mailing them goddamn pipe bombs. Beats all I've ever seen.”
John furrows his brow. He peels the tape off the corners of a newspaper article on the Roadhouse fire and rolls it between his thumb and forefinger.
“Well?” Ellen prompts. “What the hell've you got to say for yourself?”
John sighs and sits down heavily on the camp bed against the tin siding of the locker. The rusting joints of the cot give a high, creaky whine.
“I don't got a goddamn thing.”
Ellen lets out a sigh of her own.
“I gotta be honest, John, you're suckin' the fun out of this for me,” she grumbles. “It ain't no damn fun kicking you if you just lie down and take it. Now, let me guess: You're layin’ low somewhere, feeling sorry for yourself and drinking whatever rotgut you can get your hands on, am I right?”
“I wish,” John grumbles. “There's not a drop of goddamn booze in this place.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“There's not a drop of good booze in this place,” John amends. “Caleb took all the hard stuff. All I got's cheap beer and watered down whiskey.”
“Aw, poor baby,” Ellen simpers sarcastically. “I'd offer you a shot, but someone done burnt my bar down.”
“Shut up, Ellen,” John says, feeling a smile tug at the corner of his lips.
He clears his throat.
“So, the boys...” he starts. “How'd they look, last time you saw 'em?”
“They're all right,” Ellen says grudgingly. “Singed at the edges and jumpy as all hell, but they'll live.”
John allows himself a moment of dizzying relief, before he has to move onto the next part, the next step in this vague thing that's going have to pass for a plan. Finding the Colt.
“So I'm gonna take a wild guess and say they're at Singer's.”
It makes sense. After all, Dean's smart. He'd know to stay well clear of hunters after what went down in Blue Earth. The only exception would be... Well, it'd be Bobby. It's the first place John would've checked if the fire at the Roadhouse hadn't blindsided him. Looks like his gut was right.
“Come 'n' gone, smartass,” Ellen drawls, “and if you're thinking of showing up asking about 'em, you'd better think again. 'Cause let me me tell you now, Bobby ain't happy, and he's got a bullet with your name on it.”
For a spilt second of blistering immaturity, John thinks, “I could take Bobby Singer.”
He shakes his head, banishing that less-than-helpful train of thought. Okay. So, either Ellen's lying and his boys are camping in Sioux Falls, or she's telling the truth and they're within a day or so of the Singer homestead. Either way, it gives him a lead, which is a good sight better than he was doing before Ellen's call. At least he's got somewhere to start once he finishes up here.
Speaking of which...
“Ellen, while I've got you, mind if I ask you some questions about that fire at your place?”
She lets out a wry, huffy laugh.
“Oh, is that what you're doing?” she asks ruefully. “You working my case, John?”
“It was my case first, El,” John says quietly. His case and his fault, too.
“It was my home,” Ellen says in a tight voice. “My family. Dammit, John, you shoulda been the one calling me.”
It's true, but John was never going to do that, and they both know it. She was right before. John's nothing but a goddamn coward when it comes to facing the things he's done. He'd rather hide in the hole any day.
“There anything specific you wanna know?” Ellen asks grudgingly, clearly taking his silence for the deflection is is.
“Yeah,” John confirms. “They take anything?”
“Not that I could tell after the fact,” Ellen answers. “Honestly, I didn't see much at the time. I smelled the smoke and just got outta there as quick as possible, started bangin' on that piece of shit RV Josie was sleepin' in. All I could think of was making sure she was safe.”
John feels a sharp thrill of guilt, thinks again of the Calvary church fire and Sam, and swallows thickly.
“I didn't even think about Ash until it was too late,” Ellen finishes guiltily.
Right, her tenant. There's another thing about all this that doesn't make sense. John turns and tugs a piece of paper down off his wall.
“It wouldn't have mattered,” he tells Ellen. “I got the preliminary autopsy here. His throat was cut. Looks like he either surprised the bastards who lit the place up or...”
“Or he was the target,” Ellen finishes.
“There any reason demons might've been after him?” John asks.
There's a long, significant pause on the other end of the line.
“El?”
“He was workin' on something for your boys,” Ellen says. “Doing some kind of research.”
Looking for omens, John puts together. So that's where they got their intel on Tennessee. They were getting help from the Roadhouse after all. John just pointed the finger at the wrong person.
“You think there's a chance he stumbled onto something this demon wouldn't have wanted us knowing?”
Ellen sighs.
“I wouldn't know. He didn't say, and your boys aren't exactly the trustin' type. Wonder where they got that from.”
“Well, see if you can find out if you get the chance,” John says. “It's a long shot, but they might tell you, you ask the right way.”
“I can try,” Ellen agrees, sounding doubtful.
John can't say he blames her. She's right. He raised those boys to keep their mouths shut and never trust anyone not named Winchester. That training's not gonna be going out the window any time soon. But Ash's research, like John's, is nothing but a pile of kindling now. Finding out what Sam and Dean know - and hoping like hell it's something good - is the only option he's got.
“John...” Ellen says hesitantly. “There's something else.”
“What's that?” John asks, frowning.
“You ever heard of a family of hunters named Campbell?”
John racks his memory, trying to put that name to anybody he's worked with over the years.
“Can't say I have. Why?”
“Well...” Ellen says slowly. “Honestly, I don't know that it's my place. You know what, let me- Let me check some things out. Ask the boys just what they mighta heard from Ash last and get back to you.”
John narrows his eyes, but he decided against pressing her. There's no bullying intel out of Ellen Harvelle. Instead, he makes a mental note to ask Caleb if he knows anything about the Campbells when he gets back. Maybe it's nothing, but he might as well cover all the bases.
“Alright, give me a call if you find out anything new.”
“You're gonna pick up my calls three times in a row?” Ellen asks. “John, you're spoilin' me.”
John huffs out a short laugh.
“Yeah, well, it's this new thing I've been trying,” he says. “We'll see how long it takes to bite me in the ass.”
Ellen snorts.
“Later, John,” she says before hanging up.
He tucks his phone into his jeans, feeling a hell of a lot better now than he did ten minutes ago. He's got a lead on the gun. He's got a glimmer of hope at getting to the bottom of this newest fire. He's got an ally in Ellen, too, for all that he doesn't deserve it and for all it may be putting her right back in the crosshairs.
Most importantly, he's got confirmation that the boys are okay, at least for now.
It probably makes him a horrible person, but John's glad to hear his sons aren't hunkering down at Bobby's or laying all their cards on the table for Ellen or jumping to open packages from Caleb. It means they're being smart, being wary, guarding themselves with other hunters just like John taught them to. Just like they need to, now more than ever.
It means they're not doing anything stupid.
Chapter 73