Father's Son

Out of the Cold

‘Maybe I should have brought the boys with me,’ John Winchester thought as his eldest son’s phone rang into voice mail for the second time that morning. Only when the battery was dead did any of the Winchesters turn off their mobiles. Sam could have taken it away so Dean could get some rest, but Sam would have answered. Without leaving a message, John hung up and quickly hit the necessary buttons to dial his youngest son’s phone.

After a second call to the youngest Winchester’s phone yielding only the voice mail, John hung up and pushed the well maintained ’67 Impala faster. His father’s intuition was telling him there was something wrong. His hunter’s instincts echoed the same thoughts.

‘It was a clean town,’. he thought, driving quickly passed the welcome sign.

The motel’s parking lot was nearly empty when he pulled in. Parking the car directly in front of the door to their room, John studied the outward appearance of it.

The curtains were open. ‘They know better than that,’ John thought, pulling the key from his pocket. Opening the door his fears and suspicions were confirmed. Both beds were made. Sam’s book were stacked too neatly on the table next to his notebook—as if he were coming right back.

John had learned very early on the value of keeping the maids from setting foot in the room before they left; it was a lesson learned the first time and best if never repeated. It was one of the first rules he’d taught the boys.

Turning his back on the cleaned room, John’s hazel-green eyes scanned the empty main street running in front of the motel. It was too early for traffic, over an hour before the town’s equivalent of rush hour would begin.

The diner across the street was the only building with its lights on inside— the open sign was the only light in the building not on. His heart began to sink. The supernatural had taken the love of his life, and now it had returned to take his boys from the sleepy, little town of Havenwood.

He’d researched the town himself— it was safe. It should have been safe.

He always made sure their tracks were covered; no one could have followed them to the town. A demon perhaps. A demon wouldn’t have bothered leaving the room clean— it would have left Sam and Dean’s bodies in pieces all over the room.

Neither of them would run away. Sam may have become increasingly unhappy with their way of life, but he would never just leave. It wasn’t Sam’s style. Sam would make it well known he was leaving first. And Dean…Dean would have tied Sam to a chair before letting him go.

His boys did not go willingly.

Movement at the far edge of the parking lot, close to the motel’s large neon sign, caught John Winchester’s attention. Pushing a cart along the sidewalk lining the parking lot and leading to the room on the far side of the motel was a maid. One wheel squeaked in protest as she made her way passed the last room of the section.

Hope trickled through him that she might remember the boys and be able to point him to what or who took them. Fear that she wouldn’t know anything traveled along side it.

Checking the picture in his wallet, John watched as the woman stopped near the sign, as though she were waiting for something. Damn it! He cursed at the faces staring back at him from the picture.

It was more than two years old. Sam’s hair had been shorter then; not the high and tight John preferred the boys sport— he never did like the closer cuts. Dean was the taller one in the picture; though it was barely by an inch. Sam had hit a growth spurt a few weeks later and towered over his older brother by a good two inches. Sam had taken full advantage of that too.

All of a sudden, it had been Sam’s turn to be bellowed at for teasing his big brother by holding wanted objects —mostly the motel’s TV remote— out of reach. It had been odd the first few times the reprimand had left his lips.

Dean’s hair had started getting darker than the baby fine blond he sported as a young boy. In the picture it was cut close to his head and in places resembled the fuzz on a peach.

Both boys were thinner. Dean grew into his more muscular build a little over a year after the picture had been taken.

Deciding the well out of date photo would do him no good with the maid, John tucked his wallet back into his jeans. Casually, he ran his hand up to check for the .45 tucked in the back of his jeans— as a father you could never be too careful; as a hunter you could never take enough precautions.

Armed with hope the maid might know where his boys were and the knowledge that his weapon was handy —and loaded— John made his way to the waiting woman and her cart.

“Took ya long enough,” the woman said, in a voice gruffer than her looks betrayed, as John came into earshot.

‘What the fuck?’ he thought, not taking his hazel-green eyes from the woman as two men approached the expectant woman. Each man was a good two inches taller than John, with a good twenty pounds of muscle on him.

“Whatdaya mean, Marabelle,” one of them said. John took in and memorized the slogan on the young man’s tee-shirt; camouflage, stating: ‘You can’t see me’ and a bulls eye.

‘I see you, asshole,’ John Winchester thought, rage building inside. Fighting the urge to pull his gun and kill the trio, John put to memory the short, spiky black hair of the other young man; as well as the black tee with a Corona bottle label printed in the faded yellow capped by lime at the corner.

“It’s exactly the time Grant gave us,” the guy in the Corona shirt said, finishing his ‘invisible’ buddy’s thought.

‘Creepy,’ John thought. Watching the trio, he was now certain knew exactly where his sons were, as they continued down the paved walk. Allowing them a few seconds lead, John followed.

Keeping himself obscured in the bush and large neon sign, John listened to the trio as they approached their destination; and waited for the right moment to trap them.

“The other one’s still chained up,” a male voice, different from the other two, said.

Anger poured through John like a tidal wave as he watched the body belonging to the voice move along the path toward the parking lot— Sam in tow. His body tensed as he prepared to attack the sonuvabitch that had his son.

“Let him go! You fucking sonuvabitch!” He heard Dean’s voice scream out from behind the sign, halting his planned attack. They had been kept together. ‘One small blessing,’ he thought— body poised for action and heart torn in two.

The man walking with Sam could and most likely would threaten to kill him in order to get away. The two men and the woman could kill Dean before he rescued Sam. It was lose, lose.

‘I’m sorry, Sammy,’ he thought. Making his decision, John Winchester turned away from his youngest son and the man leading him to a waiting car. ‘I will come for you.’

“Sam!!” Dean screamed, snapping John’s attention away from Sam to the room behind the sign. “I’m going to fu…”

“Shut the fuck up,” one of the men said, as Dean’s angry shouts were silenced.

Reaching behind him, John gripped the .45 and moved for the room.

A large piece of silver duct tape covered Dean’s mouth; silencing his curses and calls to his brother. The man wearing the Corona tee held the struggling young man’s feet, while the man in the camo tee held Dean’s arms.

Click. The sound of John’s .45 being cocked echoed through the motel room.

“Get. Your. Hands. Off. My. Son,” John’s venomous voice filled the small room. Dean’s struggles stopped. The men holding him froze and the ‘maid’ turned to face the intruder. The man in the Corona tee dropped the younger man’s feet as John leveled the .45 at his head. “Un-cuff him.”

“You want him back?” The one in the camo tee questioned, wrapping an arm around Dean’s neck and pulling the younger man close to him. “Drop the piece.”

“Darren,” the other man hissed in warning.

“Let him go,” John said, keeping his weapon leveled at the other man’s head, “and I might let the three of you live.”

“I’ll break his neck,” Darren threatened, forcing Dean’s head into an awkward position.

“You sure about that?” John’s finger pressed quickly against the trigger- leaving a perfect hole in the center of the man wearing the Corona tee’s head.

“Aaron!” Darren shouted as the other man’s body fell to the foot of the bed before coming to rest on the floor.

“You won’t make it out of town,” Marabelle growled at John.

“I wouldn’t bet on that, Lady,” he said, aiming the .45 at her head. “One last time, let my son go.”

“You won’t shoot her.”

“Willing to bet?” He cocked the weapon.

Reluctantly Darren loosened his grip on Dean’s neck.

“Un-do the cuffs.”

Marabelle carefully reached into the front pocket of her uniform and pulled out a small set of keys. Her brown eyes carefully looked from Dean, to John, to Aaron, and back to Darren and Dean. Aware of the weight of the gun aimed at her, Marabelle tossed the keys at Dean— hitting him square in the chest.

With a small chime they fell to the floor at Dean’s bare feet.

“Pick them up,” John ordered Darren.

“You want him free, you pick them up,” Marabelle challenged as Darren stooped to pick up the small silver keys.

“Pick. Them. UP.” Darren flinched at the edge to the older man’s voice as he wrapped his thin fingers around the cooling metal. “Take the cuffs off.” With shaking fingers, Darren undid the cuffs.

“You sick sonuvabitch,” Dean spat, tearing the duct tape from his parched lips- landing a solid left jab to Darren’s jaw, knocking the man to the floor.

“Dean, clear the room and get the car.” John threw the room key and the Impala keys at him. Anxious to get on the road and find Sam, Dean took the keys and left.

“Where’s my son?”

“He just left,” Marabelle answered, a hint of amusement to her thick voice.

“My other son.”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“What about you?”

“Gerald Martins,” Darren whispered, eyes locked onto the dead stare of his brother.

“Where’d he take him?”

“2525 Rowlings Drive.”

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” John asked the younger man at his feet.

“You’ll never make it out of town alive,” Marabelle said, as Darren shook his head to the negative in answer to John’s question.

“Well now, that is a threat I would love to see carried out,” he said, with his first smile of the day as he pulled the trigger.

The roar of the Impala’s engine signaled Dean’s arrival as Marabelle’s body sank to the floor— landing with a dull thud.

“Please,” Darren pleaded from his spot on the floor, “don’t kill me. I won’t tell anyone. I promise. Just please, don’t kill me.”

“Do you know what he did to my boys?” For a long moment Darren stared up at John from the rapidly growing pool of blood on the carpet from both his brother and aunt’s bodies, before he slowly bobbed his head affirmatively. “Who brought them here?”

Swallowing hard, Darren looked up and stared down the barrel of John’s .45. The large black void of the barrel seemed to stretch into infinity for the young man staring down it.

“Who brought them here?”

“Me and Aaron.”

“Was he your brother?” John asked. Darren nodded. “Did you love your brother?” Darren nodded his head again. “Good.”

The tear sitting in the corner of Darren’s eye mingled with blood, bone and fragments of brain as it silently slid down the young man’s face.

Flipping the safety on, John quickly slid the weapon into his coat pocket.

“Are they dead?” Dean asked, as his father slid into the passenger seat.

“Yes,” he confirmed, noting his eldest son’s attire— a pair of jeans, his boots and the same blood stained shirt from moments ago.

With a tight nod, the younger hunter put the car in reverse and peeled from the parking lot.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

“Dean,” John said, softly, “pull over.”

Gritting his teeth, he complied with his father’s soft spoken command. Reaching into the backseat, John Winchester wrapped his fingers into the fabric of the canvas bag doubling as a first aid kit and pulled it into the front seat.

“Why are we stopping, dad?” Dean asked, watching his father’s bruised fingers slide the zipper on the bag open and remove a few items. “We have to find Sam.”

“We will, son,” he said, softly as he carefully took hold of one of Dean’s raw, bruised wrists. “But first, let’s get these covered up.”

Silence surrounded the father and son as John quietly set about smoothing Neosporin around Dean’s wrist. Keeping the bandage as loose as he could, John wrapped gauze around the wound- sealing it with a small piece of medical tape.

“This is taking too long,” Dean seethed, as his dad repeated the ministrations to his other wrist. “The sonuvabitch took Sammy.”

“I know.” He applied a piece of tape to the end of the gauze- already feeling the heat of Dean’s anger. “I saw him.”

“You know where he is?” John nodded. “Where?”

John knew then, from Dean’s clipped actions and the fuming pissed tone in his voice, just how badly he’d fucked up with Dean by not taking the chance and rescuing Sam first. Someday he’d make it up to him— to both of them— he’d find a way.

End Part Three