Under the Bridge | 1/8
Bobby calls him late on a Tuesday, leaves a message while John and Dean are digging up a corpse in western Pennsylvania. After they’ve finished, filled in the grave, and are back in the motel room, John calls his friend back. Dean’s sitting on the floor near the open door, cleaning guns and chain-smoking his way through a pack of Marlboro Lights. A bottle of Jack, half-empty, glass smeared with grease and fingerprints, sits next to the pot of oil. John’s yelled, lectured, ordered, damn near begged his son not to ash near the oil for years; Dean’s never listened.
“One of the others has a lead on a new demon,” Bobby says, over a telephone connection that’s far too crackly for John’s taste. He’s tempted to tell Dean to run and grab the recorder so they can test it for EVP, but Dean won’t, not with free HBO and a new episode of The Sopranos playing. “We were wondering if you wanted to track it. Word is its big and, after seeing the info, I’m inclined to agree.”
“Should I be grateful for the consideration?” John asks, as dry as his mouth at the thought that maybe, finally, they’re catching a break.
Bobby laughs, says, “I sent the information to your mail drop in Cincinnati. You might wanna stop and see that witch of yours while you’re there as well, much as I hate to say it.” Mid-sip of tepid water, John chokes. Bobby adds, “She called Caleb, said she’s got a few things waiting for you. From what Caleb said she said, I’d be careful, John.”
John rolls his eyes, sure that Bobby knows what expression John’s making even though they’re thousands of miles apart. The distance from Pennsylvania to South Dakota isn’t much to two men who served in the same unit during the war and have been on the front lines of a far different battle for going on seventeen years now. “I know how you feel about witches, Bobby, and especially her, but she’s put together some good shit for me ‘n Dean. We’d be six feet under a dozen times over if it wasn’t for her.”
There’s no reason for Bobby to argue, not when they’ve had this discussion a million times already and they both know the other’s not going to rethink his position on the matter anytime soon. Instead, Bobby just sighs and says, “Call if you need me. And for fuck’s sake, be careful with this one.” John starts to ask what the difference is, this demon from any of the others he and Dean have hunted and exorcised, but Bobby interrupts, says, “Just get to your dropbox, John,” before hanging up.
John pinches the bridge of his nose and waits for the commercial before turning to his son and saying, “They have a lead and Bobby thinks it’s serious. He sent info to Cinci. We’ll leave in the morning.”
Dean lifts the bottle of Jack, tips it in his father’s direction, and throws the tawny liquid back, chugging down an easy six shots.
--
John drives to the post office first, picks up his mail: a few credit cards, applications for more, some catalogues, and a manila envelope from Bobby, taped closed it’s so full. He slips the cards into his wallet, gives one to Dean who scoffs at the plastic but tucks it into his back pocket, and shoves everything apart from the quasi-package into the backseat.
Fingers dance over the tape but John sighs, stows the envelope on the seat between him and Dean, and says, “We’ll stop and find a place for the night. You can go out and hustle up some cash while I go see Aurelie.” Dean looks relieved, almost gleeful, and so John feels compelled to add, “No risks, Dean.”
The stern tone of voice does nothing to change Dean’s expression; Dean just nods mulishly and looks out of the window.
--
It’s against John’s better judgment to leave Dean at a crappy little dive bar with a parking lot full of Harley-Davidsons and old, beat-up cars, but he doesn’t want Dean around Aurelie, not in a million years. Oh, he’s not afraid the crazy old witch will do something to his son, or that Dean will do something to her. John has a sinking suspicion that the two of them would get along like a house on fire and he’d never see hide nor hair of either of them again. She’d take Dean, disappear, and Dean would think it’s the biggest joke this side of the moon landing, happily go along with it.
As if she always knows when he’s close and what he’s thinking, Aurelie’s standing in an open doorway when John pulls up in front of her apartment building, dressed in jeans and wearing her usual shit-eating grin.
“One day,” she calls out, as he’s parking on a double yellow line, getting out of the car, “one day, John, you won’t be able t’ keep me and your son apart. I will meet ‘im.”
“One day,” John replies, “someone is going to kill you and I’m not gonna stop them.”
It’s their usual teasing, banter back and forth, but there’s an element of prophetic truth to Aurelie’s words; John sometimes forgets that she’s more than just a typical witch.
As if she’s caught John’s change of mood, Aurelie shifts, straightens up and moves slightly to one side. “Come in, then, you fearsome ‘unter,” she says. “And I’ll show you the newest toys I ‘ave for you.”
--
Aurelie’s apartment always smells like fresh-baked baguettes and rich, bitter chocolate. The scent clings to Aurelie as well, wraps around John like a warm blanket every time he sees her; he knows the blanket can just as easily suffocate him to death as comfort him, so he keeps his distance. She’s a witch, a powerful one, and an accurate enough precog as well. John is a hunter and should rightly stay away but every hunter needs a witch and no one else had claimed Aurelie when John went looking.
For good reason, John found out at the very beginning, the first time Bobby warned him away from her. She’s got the blood of French Huguenots running through her veins, refuges from a very Catholic France. Her ancestors originally settled in New Paltz and their descendents slowly worked their way down the coast and along the Gulf through the years, picking up more than just influence and wealth along the journey. Bobby had said something about Cajun blood and voodoo that John hadn’t understood until the first time he’d been standing in front of Aurelie and taken in the glitter lurking behind dark eyes, the smile that spoke of blood and power, the aristocratic tilt of her chin and nose.
She passes for white without issue, no one would probably guess that, somewhere a few generations back, there’s African blood in her ancestry. No one would probably care even if they knew, but Bobby knows and John knows that, along with the blood, Aurelie inherited magic, a magic that grew so wild and unpredictable her family sent her away from New Orleans and to distant cousins in Haiti when she was nine. They taught her to control her power but it hasn’t stopped expanding since. As if she doesn’t want anyone to forget that fact, Aurelie still talks with the accent she learned as a pre-teen and hasn’t let go of, just as she wields a magic as powerful, in its own way, as the weapons John owns.
“You ‘ave time for coffee?” Aurelie asks, standing in the doorway that connects the living room to the kitchen. “Or are you in an ‘urry t’ get back to your oldest?”
John’s nostrils flare and he can’t stop himself from snapping back, “My only son, you mean.”
Aurelie laughs, a delicate noise that, perversely, reminds John of the smell of Vietnamese rice paddies, and replies, “Oh, John. You always amuse me. Coffee? I ‘ave fresh cinnamon from ‘Aiti.”
There’s no use refusing, not when Aurelie has that look in her eyes, so John merely shrugs acceptance and perches gingerly on the edge of a leather sofa the colour of whipped butter. He can hear Aurelie in the kitchen, whistling, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t look at anything other than the Seurat print on the wall.
She comes back in carrying a tray, not more than two minutes later. The tray’s crammed, holding a cafetière, two mugs, and two plates, one covered with warm baguette slices, butter, honey, and cinnamon chunks melting into a gooey mess on top, one with deep-fried pastries coated in powdered-sugar and dusted with cinnamon, Aurelie’s answer to beignets.
Aurelie pours coffee, fragrant and strong, and as she hands it to John, she tells him to get comfortable, sit down and back. He shifts, conscious of the coffee and the colour of her sofa, and takes a slice of bread when she offers the plate.
“You ‘ave been well, yes?” she asks, pouring her own mug of coffee, settling into an armchair across the low coffee table, dunking a pastry into the coffee.
John can see powdered sugar fall off her pastry and start swirling in the dark liquid. “I have, yes,” he says, tearing his eyes away from the hypnotic motion and looking at his own coffee, unwilling to look Aurelie in the eyes when he’s eating her food. “Dean and I, we just finished up a hunt. Bobby called,” he says, trailing off as Aurelie laughs.
“Ah, your little friend in the middle of the country,” she says, smiling, her teeth gleaming a white the colour of bones. “’E still does not like me, I think. And now ‘e is sending you on an ‘unt? Demons, that is what Caleb was telling me, yes?”
“Yeah,” John says. “That’s what Bobby said. He sent me some intel but I haven’t looked through it yet.”
Aurelie grins, says, “You came to see me first? I am touched, John, truly.”
John rolls his eyes. “Let’s just say I’m not over-anxious to see what has Bobby sounding like a new recruit,” he mutters, sipping his coffee.
“Mmm.” A pause, then Aurelie says, “This one will ‘urt, John,” with that tone of voice John knows means business. “More than just physically, I think. But you will all survive, like you always do.” She laughs, adds, “They say witches are like cockroaches sometimes, but I think it’s more likely to be the ‘unters surviving the apocalypse, no?”
Aurelie leans forward, puts down her coffee, licks her fingers. She looks at John quickly, an eye-flick up and down, and John feels compelled to ask, “What?” His skin’s crawling, the way it does every time he talks to a psychic, as if he can feel their fingers peeling through his mind, their eyes scanning out a future he hasn’t lived yet, following the paths of choices he doesn’t even know are available yet.
“It’s nothing,” she says, head tilted now. A smile John’s never seen before crosses her lips, half-regret, maybe, but it slips away as fast as it had appeared; she stands up, brushes off her skirt, and John forgets all about it when she asks, “Would you like t’ look through the toys, or are you still eating?”
John puts his coffee down onto the table, remembers where he is a moment later and uses a coaster. “I’m done,” he says, almost too fast for propriety.
Aurelie laughs, the sound pealing around him, and waves off an apology John hasn’t given. “Let’s go look, then, and send you back to Dean.”
--
John follows Aurelie out of the front room, done in browns and creams, through a long hallway and down into the basement. The air here is cooler by at least fifteen degrees and smells of dirt and blood, the tools of Aurelie’s craft. The fluorescents help but don’t lighten the corners; John’s gotten used to ignoring the shadows that twist and writhe in the darker spots.
She leads him to a table the length of the basement, covered over with everything from spider and aloe plants to jars filled with questionable content, from vials of blood and teeth to half-broken bars of chocolate. At one end, John sees pieces of something metal broken apart, gleaming rainbow-slick with oil; that’s Aurelie’s work in progress and John never asks about those. Instead, John follows her to the other end, scans over a plain silver compass resting in a box filled with dirty salt, a few pendant charms and a ring carved out of something white next to the box.
John doesn’t touch anything, has learned not to over the past few years, and watches with his hands in his pockets as Aurelie picks up the compass first. She brushes off a few salt crystals from the back, taps the face twice, and then holds it out to John. He raises an eyebrow, but takes the compass.
“One of the most complicated things I ‘ave ever put t’gether,” she says, proud smile on her face. “There are a handful more, but I boxed them up for you already.”
John turns the compass every which way, even brings it to his nose and sniffs, but he eventually asks Aurelie just what the hell it’s supposed to do.
“A demon ‘unter like you should appreciate this, John,” she replies, not at all taken aback by John’s words. “Instead of pointing true north, the compass’ needle will seek out the demonic. Either a possession, a significant taint, or one who ‘olds truck with them. The smaller the needle shrinks, the closer you are to the source. If it’s very powerful you are very close, the needle will shatter.”
John can’t help the look of respect that crosses his face at her explanation; something like this should prove very useful. “Pity about the shattering,” he finally says, as if he’s hesitant to point out the weaknesses but has to.
Aurelie grins, showing teeth. “Ah, there’s a way ‘round that, John Winchester, but you won’t like it. It was difficult enough attaching the spell t’ the compass without overloading it. Silver ‘as its limits.”
Knowing Aurelie the way John does, if she says he won’t like it, he’s pretty much guaranteed to hate it. He doesn’t ask.
“The charms, they’ll ‘elp keep this demon’s ‘ands off of you and yours,” Aurelie goes on, handling the pendants carefully. She gives them to John and he almost drops them at the feel of power thrumming through the small golden charms. Instead, he tucks two of them in his back pocket and strings the third on the chain around his neck, a chain that once just held his dog tags, now littered with all sorts of amulets and charms. Aurelie watches him with a hawkish smile.
“And that?” John asks, lifting his chin at the white ring.
Aurelie holds it carefully, caught between index finger and thumb, and lifts it to the light. “This, this is the best thing I ‘ave ever made.” She takes hold of John’s right hand, turns it palm up, and drops the ring. John expects a shockwave of power when it hits him, but, instead, the ring feels dead, a supernatural null zone. He can tell it’s carved out of bone, but the ring doesn’t make his skin crawl, doesn’t feel like death. “This is for the one who ‘olds your ‘eart, John. Keep it safe, and keep ‘im safe, and when you find ‘im, put this on ‘is finger.”
John frowns, wants to ask her what she knows or has seen, what she’s guessed, but she presses a finger to his lips and says, “Trust me, John. I am not the only one who ‘as seen this future ‘appen.”
With a nod, John drops the ring into the front pocket of his jeans, feeling the weight of it sit there. The thought that Aurelie’s not only seeing parts of John’s future, but that others are and she’s reached out to ask them, that they’re sure there’s a good chance of this precognition coming true, that’s rare. He won’t argue, he won’t ask, but his mouth is dry and he’s finding it hard to swallow.
“And the usual things are boxed up with the other compasses, ready for you near the door,” Aurelie finally says. “Come upstairs; you can finish your coffee before you rescue your oldest.”
“My only,” John says, again. He can’t summon up the anger from before, though. It’s an old wound that’s never healed, sometimes it feels like the driving pain of a red-hot poker running though his chest but most of the time it’s an ache that never goes away.
Aurelie, in a rare show of comfort, squeezes John’s shoulder before brushing past him to go up the stairs. John follows quickly, not willing to chance being in Aurelie’s basement without her.
--
In the end, she sends him off, not only with the extra compasses and John’s usual array of trinkets and weapons, but two boxes filled with food, baguettes still warm from the oven and pastries still melting the sugar dusted on top, a jar of honey butter and six sticks of cinnamon tucked into the edges. John doesn’t mind, the food’s good and it’s one less meal they’ll have to pay for; Dean’s ecstatic once John’s pulled him from a parking-lot brawl outside of the bar.
They wait until John rents a hotel room for the night, then Dean tucks in to the boxes, washes the food down with a warm six-pack. John takes out the charms, hands one over to Dean, weighs the one still in his palm. He pulls out the ring as well, stares at it for long enough that Dean’s finally prompted to ask, “What’s that?”
“A ring,” John says, smirking when Dean rolls his eyes at the answer.
“Who’s it for?” Dean asks, rubbing sugar-coated fingers on his jeans.
John makes a mental note to find a laundromat and soon, shrugs. He’d considered giving it to Dean, can’t think of anyone else who’d worm his way into John’s heart, but he knows that’s wrong. This ring isn’t for Dean; Dean might be in his heart, but Dean doesn’t hold John’s heart. No one has been allowed to touch it since Mary, since Sam.
“I don’t know yet,” he says. “I don’t think I’m supposed to know.”
Dean harrumphs, goes back to the food and the television, conversation already forgotten, John thinks. For all that Dean’s family and trained to be a hunter, sometimes John wonders what his son would’ve been like if Sam had lived. He can’t help but think he’d like that Dean better. Sometimes John resents his son as much as his son seems to resent him.
--
They’re in the car the next morning, driving south, when John finally opens the envelope from Bobby. Dean’s in the driver’s seat and Hendrix is blasting from the speakers; Dean has a much better appreciation for the classics than John does. Music from that era, the Rolling Stones and CCR, Jefferson Airplane and The Doors, all those songs that came out of Woodstock and the Summer of Love, it all reminds John of the jungle, that and ungrateful people back home who didn’t understand everything that was at stake, didn’t want to understand. Thinking of the war and how it was handled invariably pisses him off, thinking of what came after simultaneously angers and saddens him.
Trying to ignore the music as best he can, John starts flipping through the mass of paperwork in his hands. The usual things are on top: maps of the town they’re driving towards, the nearest friendlies, hunter-approved places to sleep and eat. What’s next in line has his eyes narrowing, reading every word of the various reports that have them heading west.
Some hunter was on the way through a few months ago, had left the EMF in the backseat on and couldn’t be bothered to stop and check things out when it screamed through the whole town, too much in a hurry someplace else. He’d called the Roadhouse, given Ellen the intel to pass along, and Ash had cobbled together a program that started picking up weird shit right away: cattle and crop deaths, some abnormally warm weather, week-long thunderstorms, an electric company that couldn’t keep up with complaints.
All are typical signs of demonic infestation and John doesn’t understand what has Bobby freaked until he flips the next page and sees that Ash’s program came up with enough to go back and compile suspicious data for sixteen years. John frowns and flips to the next page, sees that Ash couldn’t pin down a central location for the demon. Instead of the usual triangulation, the entire town is covered in little dots, slightly more on the north side of the river.
John doesn’t waste time calling the roadhouse and, when Ellen answers, he doesn’t pause to say hello. “Let me talk to Ash.”
Ellen snorts, says, “I’m doing fine, John, thanks.” She sighs when he doesn’t respond, finally snaps out, “Hold on a minute and I’ll see if he’s awake yet.”
John waits, feels his son’s eyes on him every so often, and finally Ash gets on the other end of the line. “John, man. What’s the rush?”
“I picked up the info from Bobby,” John says right away. “I wanted to ask.”
“About the locations, right?” Ash interrupts, sounding slightly more awake. “Yeah, it’s definitely nuts. Thing is, the way everything’s stacking up, either there’s a shitload of demons constantly on the move and even more holed up north of town near the fields, or there’s, like, two or three really fucking powerful ones.”
John looks down at the map, sees the darker dot north of the town, like Ash said, but shakes his head. “There can’t be that many. We’ve never seen that many in one place before.”
“I dunno,” Ash replies, far too cheerfully for John’s taste. “You’re the hunter. I’m just the computer genius. But you either have one that stays put and lets others come to it, plus one that roams, or you got a ton. Must be something good in the water there, huh?”
“Thanks, Ash,” John says, before hanging up, eyes thoughtfully tracing over the map. Two at the very least and now he’s wondering just how powerful they might be. No wonder Bobby thought it was big.
Dean looks over, asks, “Problems?” in that tone of voice which means he’s almost hoping the answer’s yes.
“Challenges,” John says. “Wake me up when we get there.” He pushes the papers to one side, deciding to go through them again once he’s more familiar with the area, and stretches out, closes his eyes.
Janis Joplin sings him to sleep.
--
John wakes up out of a sound sleep, not quite sure why or how. He curls his toes, shoved in boots that will need replacing soon, and looks over at Dean. His son’s been driving for a solid ten hours, has reached that point where his focus is on the road and only the road, eyes pitched straight ahead and scanning the treeline with his peripheral vision. It’s a trick John taught Dean years ago, when Dean was learning to drive -- how to slip in and out of that mental space, how to make it last, how to draw in the surrounding noise and let it slide out again. He feels a moment’s pride in how well Dean’s taken to it, then curses himself for ever being in the position to make the decision to teach his son that skill.
Regret isn’t something that a Winchester does well, despite how many years practice John’s had at it.
“We’re almost there,” Dean eventually says, the tone of voice almost disconnected, bland and without pitch.
“Find us a motel, Dean, and we’ll get settled,” John says in return, a few miles down the road. “We’ll sleep, get the layout of the town, and hunt tomorrow night.”
Dean doesn’t respond but John knows he was heard. He closes his eyes, settles back into the seat, and doesn’t think about the weight of the charm resting against his chest, that or a ring carved out of bone, travelling in a box filled with bespelled compasses.
--
The motel they decide on is crappy, more like a prison than a place one pays for the privilege of staying, but it has two beds and a shower. The ripped carpet, missing tiles, odd odour coming from the small kitchenette area are a bonus, John thinks, sardonic expression on his face as he unloads his duffel and rearranges the room for a long stay. After all, they add atmosphere.
--
A night of sleep, a cold shower in the morning, and John’s determined to try and put Aurelie’s words out of his mind until they might approach usefulness. There’s obviously no one who fits her criteria at the moment and John will be damned if he lays eyes on someone and falls in love at first glance -- that didn’t even happen the first time he met Mary and she was the love of his life.
He leaves the ring and the extra charm in the motel room, carefully placed in a box Bobby made for him a few years back, rowan and oak with devil’s traps carved into every square inch. Dean watches him but doesn’t say anything, sitting on the bed with a worn expression on his face, tired and resentful and, worryingly enough, hints of anticipation. Dean’s always better at the beginning of a hunt, and the end; middles, the long stretch, have never been his forte.
“We’re just going for a look,” John reminds his son, who snorts as if he’s heard the plan a million times before. “Just to get used to the town, get a feel for the people, scope out some of the likeliest hiding places. No risks, Dean, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean mutters, then stands up and, with one hand on the door, asks, “You ready?”
--
They drive around most of the morning, stop in the town library during the afternoon, put in a quick couple hours of research to see if anything stands out. When it doesn’t, they head for a diner, grab some food, and then go back to the room to get ready for the first night’s recon.
John’s not keen on doing this so fast but he doesn’t want to sit still, either, has this hunt in his nose already, so he asks Dean what he thinks. For all that Dean can be impetuous, John knows he’ll be a damned good hunter the day he settles down.
“We’ve got the spell and the EMF,” Dean says with a shrug. “And phones and walkie-talkies, and that weird ability you have to know the instant I’m in trouble or not paying enough attention. I say we go. I’ll even take the car so you don’t have to worry about me.”
John takes a deep breath, lets it out through his nose. Dean’s right, they’re more than adequately prepared to split up to hunt for signs of the demon. Something just feels odd about this case, different, like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach. John’s a good hunter, a better soldier, and he’s learned to trust his instincts; the fact that he can’t simply accept them and let them guide him without making him itch isn’t a good thing.
“I’ll take the EMF and see what I can find,” Dean says. He pauses, then adds, in a rare show of cooperation and concern, “If that’s all right.”
John raises an eyebrow but nods, and Dean grabs his jacket and the car keys, heading out of the room and letting the door slam behind him. John stands there and listens as the Impala rumbles to a start and drives away; taking a deep breath in the quiet.
Dean’s always been a bit of a rebel, quick-tempered and prone to backtalking, bitter and harder on himself than John could ever dream of being, but even he’s making an effort in the face of this hunt. That, just as much as anything else, has John concerned.
With a sigh, John rubs his hands over his face, blinks a couple times to clear his vision, and stocks up on weapons. He tucks a gun into his jeans, the way he always tells Dean not to, and loads his pockets up with assorted demon-hunting weapons: a crucifix, two rosaries, two vials of Holy Water. He looks down at the table, eyes settling on the simple silver compass, and grabs it on his way out.
--
John follows the spell around town, gingerly carrying the compass in an outstretched hand. It's dark enough that he can see some of the brighter stars, the faintest hint of the sun from below the horizon; seeing the compass' needle point north when he knows for a fact that it's aimed towards the east makes him shiver.
He's always tried to steer clear of witchcraft, has done his best to keep Dean away from it as well, and likes to think he's succeeded. It's not the witches -- he's met some nice ones over the years, even if they all have a certain look in their eye that John's just not sure about -- and it's not the magic, exactly. It's more the creeping sense of difference that lingers around the people who play at the boundaries of the supernatural; it reminds him too much of his wife burning to death above a son who died from smoke inhalation only minutes later. It's the price of wielding control and the power itself, as well, caught and contained and yet somehow threading its way through seemingly every aspect of a person.
The needle moves, changes direction as it pulls John out of his thoughts, back to the hunt. John shifts to follow it.
Not many people are out on the streets, something John's thankful for as he walks through the very obvious bad side of town. No one's challenging his right to be here, no one's even looking at him, and the further John walks, the more that starts to worry him. People should be confrontational. At the very least, they should be more possessive of their territory, that's human nature -- something John hasn't seen change in fifty years.
He pauses right where he is, takes one hand off of the compass to brush against the butt of his gun, tucked into his jeans. The touch of cool metal settles him and he chides himself for overreacting. Nothing good comes from overreacting.
--
John's walked another five blocks when the needle wavers and shifts again, this time pointing in the direction of the river. John crosses the street, stops mid-stride as the needle shudders and shrinks. The demon's close, then, and John breaks into a run, footsteps modulated so as not to echo on the cracked pavement, against the tall, abandoned buildings.
He's got one eye on the compass, one eye on his surroundings, and when John's standing at the foot of a bridge, the needle starts going crazy, turning in fast circles as it shrinks, grows, and then shatters.
Internally cursing, John tucks the compass in his pocket and then freezes as the wind carries the sound of two people to his ears.
There's a sound of flesh smacking flesh, hand to the face, maybe, and a hiss of pain, almost drowned out by a short, staccato burst of laughter.
"Think your father’ll mind if you go back a little bruised up?"
John narrows his eyes, creeps closer to the bridge and the edge of the water. He can see the faintest reflection of two people, a young kid and a man maybe in his thirties. They're on the other side of the river; John crosses the bridge, keeping low so that his own reflection doesn't show up on top of the water, breathing silently so he can hear what's happening.
"Such a sweet little piece of ass, aren't you," the older man's saying. “Been too long since I had a go, Ben.”
John grimaces at the thought of the younger kid, who looks like he isn't a day over fourteen, being a hooker. Oh, he has nothing against working guys and gals, has bought more than a few of them in his day and knows his son has as well, but children selling themselves, that's another story.
"Now, come on, Ben," the older man's saying, coaxing, before his voice changes. John's skin crawls as the man adds, "Hurt you or take you back to him, your choice. You don’t have any other option tonight and you know it.”
That voice, it sounds as if a demon's saying it and not a man, and John's blood runs cold. The compass' needle shattered, which meant he was close to something or someone connected to a demon, and that voice.
John moves out of the shadows, gun in one hand and crucifix in the other. "Christo," he says, loud and clear. The man has a grip on the kid's wrist and looks to be getting ready to smack the kid, Ben, maybe, again, but he turns at the name of God and snarls, eyes flooding black.
Ben flinches in on himself, then seems to realise what he’s done; he straightens up, scowls in John’s direction. The demon stops, cocks its head and looks between John and the kid, bares its teeth. "Oh, this is gonna be fun," it murmurs, just loud enough for John to hear.
The kid doesn't move but something in his stance changes as if he’s getting ready to take a punch or nine. John feels protective rage flood up inside of him.
"Exorcizo te," John starts to chant.
The demon growls and drops the kid's wrist, hisses, "This isn't the end of it, John Winchester," and takes off running, ink black cloud surrounding the host's body.
John hesitates, eyes on the kid, just long enough to know that the demon's too far to catch up with, so he sighs and turns to look at the child he's just saved. The kid's almost as tall as John, skinny bordering on malnourished, with startling green eyes that look older than dirt. One eye's got a terrific shiner and the clothes are a little ragged, but the kid's holding himself with an attitude that makes John think of Dean on his best -- worst, really -- days.
"You Ben?" John asks, determined to put a name with the kid, shaggy hair and all. Now that he's closer, John thinks maybe the kid's older than his first impression; sixteen, maybe even seventeen, but too skinny to look it at first glance.
"Who wants to know?" the kid asks, sneering at John with a vehemence that almost makes John want to step back, that or step forward with the crucifix held high.
Instead, John raises an eyebrow, calms himself. "M'name's John."
The kid -- must be Ben -- laughs, a thin, half-desperate sound, and says, "Fuck you, John. Thanks to you, I'll have to." He stops, glares, says, "Fuck. You. Losing me my money, holding a gun, you think I'll drop to my knees in gratitude? Don't do me any more favours and leave me the fuck alone."
Ben spits in John's direction and takes off, sprinting around the other side of the bridge. By the time John's climbed the bank on his side, Ben's disappeared.
John looks around, listens, and exhales.
--
He goes back to the motel once he gathers his thoughts, double-checking street signs and directions, landmarks, the people glaring at him from the shadows. His hands feel empty without the compass even as the charm around his neck burns against his skin.
Dean’s already back at the motel when John slides his keycard into the lock and turns the handle, looks up at his father and says, “Drove up and down the entire south side and didn’t find a thing.” John glances at the six-pack sitting on top of the air conditioner and the half-empty bottle of Jim Beam on the table, doesn’t have to say what he’s thinking to have Dean rolling his eyes. “Only after I drove around,” Dean says.
“And you didn’t find anything?” John asks.
“Nothing,” Dean replies flatly. “Even checked out those places Ash’d circled on the map. Not a peep from the EMF and I can’t say anything felt wrong. What about you? You find anything? You went north to the river; that’s where more of this stuff is supposed to be.”
John frowns, grabs the bottle of bourbon on his way to the chair. He catches a glimpse of it, wrinkles his nose, suddenly understanding why Dean’s on the floor. John heads for the bed instead, perches on the edge, swallows and appreciates the burn of the liquor as it travels down his throat.
“I found the demon,” he says. “Or one of them, anyway.”
Dean’s eyes are wide, but then he frowns, tilts his head in a way that always reminds John of Mary, the way she used to look at him when she thought he was hiding something. “So why do you look like someone just trashed the Impala?”
John’s lips curve upwards, but it’s not a smile, not really. “The demon was going after a kid,” he finally says. “Some young kid out turning tricks, I dunno, but the kid seemed.” He pauses, searches for a word, can’t come up with anything.
“Jesus,” Dean whispers. “How old?”
“I thought, at first, young,” John says. “Fourteen, maybe, would’ve been pushing it, but older when I got closer, after the demon ran. Scrawny thing with an attitude the size of the Grand Canyon, somewhere between sixteen and eighteen, I think. The mouth on the kid, the look in his eyes.” John stops again, shakes his head, downs another shot of bourbon.
Dean’s thinking, judging by the expression on his face; John’s relatively sure he knows where the direction of Dean’s thoughts are going. Twenty-one years of fathering, the majority of those through a war, John would have to be deaf, dumb, and stupid to not know. Dean’s made a habit of picking up charity cases, doing what he can for them in the small amount of time they spend in one place, maybe the only good thing that’s come out of all of this. He never touches the hookers, though; whether Dean knows it’s too late to help them or that they’d be too contrary, too proud to accept help, John’s not sure.
“How’d he react?” Dean asks, apropos of nothing.
John looks down at the bottle, wondering if the alcohol’s already going to his head, then thinks that maybe he wasn’t meant to have followed that thought.
He asks what Dean means, and Dean sighs, shifts on the floor, says, “You said the demon ran, right? So you had to do something, either a gun or Holy Water, something. How’d the kid react?”
John thinks back, pales as he realises. “He flinched,” he breathes. “I said Christo and he flinched. But then I said the beginning of the exorcism rite and it didn’t affect him at all.” John pauses, thinks, says, “It was almost like he knew what would happen. But that.”
“Doesn’t make sense,” Dean says, finishing up the sentence John had abruptly stopped. “So we’ll go back in the morning and see if we can track him down, talk to him. Who knows, maybe he’ll be able to give us a lead.”
“Maybe,” John says, outwardly agreeing, privately worried. “It’s as good a plan as any.”
Dean preens under the backwards compliment.
--
John dreams. He’s running, chasing someone, and when he finally catches up to the other person, he reaches out. His hand closes around an arm, one that slips out of his grasp. The person turns to look back at him and John’s pierced frozen by the look in old, cunning eyes the colour of the jungle, dark and bright, shifting and still, open and hiding, all at the same time. The kid smiles, baring his teeth, says, “You’ll never be able to save me, John,” and slides back into the darkness.
He wakes up with the sound of laughter ringing in his ears and the smell of smoke filtering up his nostrils. John immediately thinks of the night his wife and son died, that memory entwined with memories of Vietnam, of other demon hunts, of countless pyres burning in the night.
He doesn’t fall back asleep until the sun’s starting to nudge at the crappy blinds half-covering the window.
--
Dean flirts with every waitress in the small diner where they go for a late breakfast, ends up leaving with a couple numbers scrawled on the back of receipt sheets and napkins. John watches with amused patience; he remembers doing much the same back during his time in the Marines -- women love the uniform and the grizzled look but they aren’t so keen on all the baggage that comes with a military man. Mary was different, raised by an army captain who saw Europe at its most horrendous. He spares her a thought, can’t not, and steels himself for the upcoming talk when Dean’s finally finished.
He drives back up to the river, not exactly following his trail from the night before, impossible to mirror it precisely, the way he’d walked through gardens and narrow back alleys. Still, they end up at the bridge and John parks, leaving the safety of the Impala almost reluctantly. He stands at the river’s edge and, despite the bright sunlight, he’s still looking around, touching his gun for comfort. That’s not a good sign.
The bridge itself isn’t all that special or impressive; the river’s not too wide, after all, so the bridge doesn’t have to be. It’s more haunting than anything, really, an old-style arch bridge caught in time here, not at all brought up to the speed of the new millennium. There are two archways missing small chunks of stone and the centre beam is covered in graffiti; the railings at the top are nearly bare down to metal.
Dean takes one look at the bridge and says, “Can’t believe there’s no one under it now,” as if he’s seen a million bridges in disrepair like this a million times before, each with children hooking under its shadow. John opens his mouth to rebuke his son but then thinks better of it.
Instead, he climbs up the small but sloped bank, crosses the bridge like he had last night, and moves to where Ben had been standing. He’s looking around at the dirt as if there might be something there when he hears a whine coming from behind him. John turns, sees that Dean’s got the EMF out and scanning. That whine can’t mean anything good.
“He was standing here,” John says, moving slightly so that Dean can wave the EMF around. “The kid was. The demon as well, holding his wrist so he couldn’t get away.”
Dean’s eyes glitter and John knows his own have echoed the sentiment behind the flash, though not as strongly. Dean hasn’t laid eyes on Ben yet and John thinks the overprotective urge will change the second Dean does.
“EMF’s going crazy, Dad,” Dean says, unnecessarily. John can hear the whine just as well as Dean, can see the reflection of the lights in the shadow that the bridge casts.
“Must be one hell of a demon,” John murmurs, thinking. Ten hours, at least, and the EMF’s screaming like there’s a ghost standing right in front of them.
A shuffling noise on the road approaching the bridge has Dean shutting off and stowing the EMF in a practiced movement, both him and John drawing weapons and slinking into the shadows in seconds. Dean looks over and John nods once, looks around the corner of the arch and exhales slowly. He holds up one finger and then points at the ground; he and Dean are pushing their guns away a moment later.
“Wait here,” John mutters, and he waits for Dean to acknowledge before moving out of the shadow and up to the bridge.
The woman slip-shuffling up the sidewalk looks at John before frowning, looking down at the river. “What are you doing?” she asks, giving John a disapproving once-over.
John blinks, would swear that her voice doesn’t belong to her, sounds too young, too intelligent. “I’m looking for a kid,” John says. “Child Services sent me, said someone’d seen a kid loitering around down here during school hours, looked skinny.”
She doesn’t seem to believe him but she spits on the ground before looking up at him, contemplation in her eyes. “Child Services, you say?” she asks. John nods, and she hums, looks up at the sky. “I wasn’t born yesterday, but you’ve got the look down if you’re hunting truants. What d’you want with the kid?”
“You know where I can find him?” John asks, eyes narrowed. It’s almost too easy.
Her eyes flash black, pitch coal, and she lets out a low, smoky growl. “He’s with his father,” she says, and if the voice was wrong before, it’s brimming with lust and hellfire now. “You ruined his take last night, hunter, so he had to go home. Out of our relative safety and into the hands of his father. He’ll be back in a day or two, broken, bruised, and battered, and we have you to blame for it.”
Before John can pull out his rosary, before Dean finishes charging up the riverbank with the Holy Water, the woman keens, head thrown back to the sky, demon flooding out of her. It flies away, tunnelling through the air, and the woman collapses on the side of the street, unconscious.
Dean goes right to her side, checks for a pulse, and looks up at his father, shaking his head. Not unconscious, then. “We have to find this kid, Dad,” Dean says, jaw clenched as if he expects John to refuse. “He doesn’t react to people throwing exorcisms around, it sounds like his family beats him, he’s tricking for fucking demons.”
“We’ll come back tomorrow or the day after,” John says, eyes searching the sky as if he might see some trail of the demon. “Until then, we need to get out of here and call her in.”
--
They split up for the afternoon: John sends Dean to the library to do some research and takes Ash’s map himself, driving around the town and getting a feel for the demonic hot spots. Most of them are in ridiculous places, corners of alleys, squatter houses, abandoned signal-stations near rail-lines criss-crossing through the town. Every time he comes across a new spot, his chest feels tighter, the way it used to when his team was creeping closer to a Viet Cong unit. These dots, they all represent places that a young homeless kid might frequent: dry places when it rains, a few are near vents that might provide a little warmth, and some of the alleys run behind restaurants and bars, where someone might scrounge through day-old garbage for food.
John feels vaguely ill as he thinks again about what Ash said: signs of demonic presence everywhere. The kid, he wasn’t a demon, but the compass shattered, something that Aurelie said would happen if the demonic influence was powerful enough. The teenager, he’s at the very least tainted. Being fucked by one demon would be enough to do that, but the way the demon that morning was talking, it sounded like more than one.
John pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. It just figures that the one lead they have -- if they can find him, of course -- is sleeping with the enemy, figuratively or not.
--
“I found some stuff,” Dean says the second he walks through the motel door, though he does make sure the door is shut and locked, not to mention salted and warded, before going on. “If the kid’s name is Ben, then he might be Ben Ahrenson. His father’s a big-shot, moved into town about sixteen years ago, bought up a whole bunch of land.” Dean pauses, kicks off his shoes, catches the bottle of water John tosses at him as he sits down. “Ben started school at four, had stellar grades according to the records I could access, and dropped out when he was nine. The dad filed a missing person’s report, the cops brought Ben back, and then the kid just dropped off the paper trail.”
John hums, nods thoughtfully. That would explain the malnourished look, not to mention how quick-witted and street-smart the kid would have to be to survive; of course, if he’s been on his own since he was nine, he would’ve had to learn something or he’d be dead long before now.
“I have a few leads as far as teachers and cops go,” Dean adds. “I was thinking I could go talk to them tomorrow, see what they remember about Ben. Maybe we could stop by the Ahrenson house in the afternoon, get a read on what sort of asshole would just let his kid leave.”
“Sounds good,” John says.
He must not be able to hide the surprise he feels at how responsible Dean’s being about this hunt, because Dean’s whole expression changes, from some type of relieved pride to furious anger. “Look, some kid’s out there hooking ‘cause his father beats him,” Dean snarls. “Those are fucking hellish choices to make. I, for one, respect the kid, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to exorcise a demon of my own this time, okay?”
John half-smiles, holds up his hands in surrender, and ignores whatever Dean’s muttering under his breath. “Watch your back,” he says, mildly, when Dean scoops the keys off of the table and shoves his feet back into his boots.
Dean gives him the finger and leaves, slamming the door. John waits until the Impala rumbles out of the parking lot, then rubs his forehead, the smile disappearing in favour of a bone-deep, weary sigh.
--
The next day is ridiculously unproductive. The kid, Ben, still isn’t back at his post under the bridge and John drives around all day trying to spot him somewhere else. Dean tries to interview some people but as soon as he mentions the family, everyone backs off. When they’re eating dinner, Chinese take-out boxes littering the room, Dean says, “Ahrenson owns half the town.” He stops, flicks his chopsticks through the chow mein in his box and swallows a hefty bite before going on. “Bastard bought them with job security. No one’ll talk about him, his business, or his family. Unless that kid comes back, we’re looking at not a lot of options.”
John washes a mouthful of shrimp fried rice down with room-temperature beer, nodding slowly at Dean’s words, not the laughable dating show on the television. “He’ll be back,” John says, full of conviction. “I went through Ash’s info again while I was looking around town. The demonic influence cycles ‘round town; he’ll be back.”
“Hope so,” Dean mutters, “because this case is starting to creep me the fuck out. Felt like people’ve been watching me all day, no matter what evasive actions I take.”
“For example?” John asks, intent and leaning forward, chopsticks left poised in his rice.
Dean shifts under his father’s scrutiny and shrugs. “I dunno. Just. Like that feeling you get on the back of your neck? I kept an eye out in mirrors and glass, never stayed in anyone’s home past my welcome. I never saw anyone but I swear something was watching me. Drove the car around a few blocks before I came back here, too.”
The rice has gone cold in John’s hands; he sets the carton down on the bedside table. For all that he’s usually sceptical of his son’s devotion to the hunt, he can’t deny that Dean has something of a sixth sense when it comes to being tracked. If he was spooked enough to try and shake off a tail, then someone -- or something -- is probably watching them.
“We’ll be careful,” John says, once he realises that Dean’s waiting for him to say something. His stomach twists; this case is starting to get the jump on him. “You did good, Dean.”
--
John leaves early the next morning, the sky still dark, Dean still snoring, one hand clutched around the pillow like he’s holding on to an anchor. John spares one glance at his son, then walks out of the motel room. He drives around town for a while, trying to get his bearings, steel himself up for a confrontation he can feel coming, then lets the car idle to a stop near the bridge, on the north side. John sits there and thinks, finally parks and gets out of the Impala, walking down the riverbank.
Ben’s there already, or hasn’t left yet, John’s not sure which. It doesn’t seem as if the kid’s heard him approaching, so John leans against the bridge, still a good distance away, and says, “Morning, Ben.”
“Fucking Winchester, right?” Ben says without turning around. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
John cocks his head, studies Ben’s outline. He’s sitting on the edge of the river, tips of his sneakers barely out of the water, hunched over. John’s got a sneaking suspicion as to why, but he really hopes he’s wrong.
“Look, just,” Ben says, stopping for a few seconds. John waits, and Ben eventually takes a hitched deep breath and says, “What do you want?”
“How many broken ribs you got?” John asks in return.
Ben doesn’t turn around, doesn’t move except to hunch over a little more. John’s furious, his father did that to him, and he steps closer, carefully, as if he’s approaching a wounded animal. When Ben whips his head around and bares his teeth, John thinks the analogy’s a little closer to truth than he would’ve liked. He stops where he’s at, holds up his hands, and gives Ben a half smile, says, “Look, no guns, no rosaries, no Latin. I’m not gonna hurt you, kid.”
“Yeah, right,” Ben says with a snort, turning back around. “Just. Do what you came here to do and fuck off. I’m not in the mood to draw this out.”
John takes that as the invitation it is and moves closer. He sits down next to Ben with an arm’s-length between them. Ben eyes him warily but doesn’t move. “Your father do that?” John asks.
Ben gives him a narrow-eyed look but then glares in the river’s direction and keeps his mouth shut.
“’Cause you know, even if he owns half the town, you don’t have to live like this,” John says. He’s watching Ben out of the corner of his eyes, overtly intent on the river. “You ran away this much, what’s to stop you from going further?”
“Right,” Ben snorts. “If you think my father owns half the town, you haven’t gotten very far into your research.” John frowns, looking at the kid, and Ben stands up, one hand pressed tight against his chest, no expression of pain on his face. “Look, leave me alone, Winchester. Nothing good’ll happen if you keep this up. To either of us.”
John nods once, slowly, but doesn’t say either way whether he’s going to take Ben’s advice. Ben seems to accept this and just offers John a mocking salute as he leaves, walking up the riverbank with his back ramrod straight. Movement has to be killing him, even before the posturing and angled climb; John’s respect for the kid goes up a notch.
“Hey, Ben,” he calls out. Ben stops but doesn’t turn around to look at him. “Wanna tell me why you didn’t freak out about the demon?”
“Hey John,” Ben calls back. “Wanna tell me why you’re here?”
When John doesn’t say anything, Ben nods once and leaves.
--
John stays and watches the river for another half hour before he picks himself up and calls his son. Dean picks up on the second ring, says, “Yeah?”
“We missed something,” John says. “The research, the interviews, something.”
“You talked to the kid, then,” Dean guesses, letting loose with a sigh that crackles the cellular connection for a second or two. “What’d he say?”
John looks around, feels eyes watching him, and adjusts his hold on the phone, keeping it trapped between his ear and his shoulder so he can unlock the Impala with one hand and have the other free for his gun. “I mentioned something about the father owning half the town. He wasn’t impressed with that assumption.”
Dean’s quiet on the other end, finally asks, “Do you think he means that the guy owns more, or that there’s another layer to this that we haven’t seen yet?”
There’s a noise from behind him; John whirls around, gun out and aimed before he sees the paper bag fluttering across the street. He takes a deep breath, exhales, and tells Dean he’ll be back at the room in a few minutes.
--
“None of this makes any sense,” Dean says, once John’s finished telling him about the conversation he’s had with Ben. “I mean, on one hand, we have the hot spots Ash put together and the fact that you already scared one demon away with a Christo while the same one, or maybe even a different one, came back and taunted us. On the other hand, there’s some guy that owns half the town, maybe more, and a beat-up kid hooking his way through life. There’s only one place they both connect, Dad. What the hell’s going on?”
John nods, rubs his eyes with one hand. “We have to get that kid to talk,” he says, “but I don’t know how.” It’s an admittance of failure more than anything else, and Dean knows it just as well as John.
“I’ll go back out tonight and see if he’ll talk to me,” Dean offers. Kids usually do, Dean interacts well with them, and his son has a rapport with the working folk of the country that John can’t dream of approaching.
He nods, reluctantly, says, “You’ll take weapons, in case he has a, a client.”
Dean nods, eyes the box of silver bullets on the table, the bottles of Holy Water. “I’ll be fine, Dad.”
--
John almost vibrates with the tension once Dean’s left the room. He trusts Dean, wouldn’t let him do this unless he was sure Dean could handle it, but they’re dealing with demons and those sons of bitches are never predictable. Not just demons, this time, either; John’s got one of Aurelie’s spelled compasses lying on the stained bedcover, needle pointing ten degrees east of north and he doesn’t know if it’s found a demon or Ben. The kid’s tainted, that much is clear, but the depth of the taint, whether a simple blessing of Holy Water would erase it or if they’d need a full-scale cleansing ritual, that’s something John doesn’t know.
Just like witches, John gets twitchy around the tainted and marked, even if he knows they’re still human and, oftentimes, have been tricked or coerced into service. Being that close to demons, it changes people intrinsically, sometimes for the better but usually for the worse.
He’s moved on from staring at the compass to ignoring it in favour of sharpening and cleaning the knives, is almost done when the door handle moves and Dean walks back into the room. There’s a vibrant red handprint on his cheek, and John can’t help raising an eyebrow at the sight.
Dean scowls, presses a bag of ice against his cheekbone, and flops down into the chair, heedless of the suspicious stains and the holes in the fabric. “Little bastard hit me,” he says, glaring at his father.
“Never would’ve guessed,” John replies, finding the situation mildly amusing. No one has ever done that to Dean before.
“He was at the bridge,” Dean says with a huff. “Some guy pushing him against the stone and fucking him raw. It. It sounded like it was tearing him apart but he never told the guy to stop.” John winces; he knows far more than he wants about his son’s sex life and if Dean thinks it was that painful, it probably was. “Once the guy was done, he zipped up, threw a ring of keys at the kid, and told him that his father wanted him to check in more.”
John hisses, can’t help it, and he asks, “You think maybe we were wrong? Maybe the father’s pimping his son out.”
“Yeah, to fucking demons,” Dean practically shouts, standing up, throwing the bag of ice at the opposite wall. The bag splits open and ice goes flying everywhere. “Dad, that guy, when he left, he looked at me. He smiled and gave me the black eyes, told me I was in over my head. So I went down, wanted to check on the kid and make sure he could still fucking move, only the kid’s waiting for me, smacks me as soon as I get close enough, told me to fuck off and leave him alone. I don’t know what the hell’s going on here, but that man, Ahrenson, he’s behind all of it, he has to be.” Dean takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself, and tells John, “We need to get into his house.”
“I know,” John says. He’d come to that same conclusion, hearing Dean talk, putting together everything he knows about Ben. “We need a plan. Maybe a couple.”
Dean exhales, sits down again, gingerly presses his fingertips to the reddened part of his cheek. “We need to do something about the kid, too.”
“If you have ideas,” John says, dry and tired, “please, share with the class.” He doesn’t feel at all bad when Dean glares at him and mutters something about taking a shower before locking himself in the bathroom.
--
Part Two