Underneath

It's John’s third night searching when he finds the last two vampires, curled up together on the floor of a cabin in the woods with a half-empty whiskey bottle between them and a dying generator providing the only light.

He decides to go in straight away, because who knows by now if the girl is even still alive, and it's blind luck to find vampires fast asleep when dawn is still hours away. It means he’ll have to kill both of them in one go, though; they can follow him outside like this, and in the dark they’ve got all the advantages. He has his shotgun, a hand scythe, his usual knives and that's it. Everything else he would have thought to bring against vampires, Elkins had said, is all useless.

John slips away from the tiny window, moves carefully in the dark around the front of the cabin. The single door to the place is locked, but looks old enough for a strong blow to bring it down. He grips the shotgun in one hand, withdraws the scythe from its holster inside his jacket with the other, and kicks the door hard just below the lock.

It doesn't budge.

John kicks it again and the door gives in, but he may as well have just knocked and called out his name for all the element of surprise he has left; they'll already be awake. There’s no going back now though, so he moves in, back against the door, and comes face to face with his first vampires.

One is standing up, looking blearily at the intruder, an oddly human expression on its face, like it doesn't believe this is really happening. John brings down the scythe, and its head is off before it can raise a hand. Behind it, the other is scrambling back on the ground, and as the first vampire's body falls and John raises the blade again it grabs the whiskey bottle and throws it at John’s head.

It catches him on the forehead, not exceptionally hard, but it's enough time for it to move, and it's on him in an instant, fast as all hell, eyes flashing an odd flat yellow and teeth sinking into John’s hand when he raises it to block his neck. He falls back, and the shock makes him lose his grip on the scythe and it drops, barely missing John’s face as the thing’s hands scramble for his throat, teeth still latched on his hand like a rabid animal. He manages to push it away enough to get some distance, to raise his other arm, and then the barrel of the shotgun is against the vampire's throat. It growls, opens its mouth slightly like it's going to say something, and John yanks his hand away from its mouth and pulls the trigger.

Everything goes silent then, and stays that way for a minute, but he can see the creature screaming, lying on the ground next to its dead companion with half of its face blown away. John grabs the scythe with his bleeding right hand, pulls himself to his knees, raises it above his head. The vampire screams silently again, the pain on its face almost pitiful, and he grabs it by the hair that's still left and slices through its neck.

He drops the head onto the rough wooden floor. Just enough sound has come back that he can tell the cabin is otherwise quiet, and still. He'd wanted to get an idea of the girl's possible location when he got in, but the door had blown that idea. He glances around; the place is full of junk, crammed with piles of stuff the vampires have obviously collected. In the corner, half-blocked by a torn curtain and mounds of old clothes, he sees a small camp bed on which part of an unconscious figure is visible.

John stands, carefully, because the bottle had hit him hard enough, and the hearing loss from the shotgun blast is gradually replacing itself with a loud ringing that can't signal anything good. The noise hadn't woken the girl, either, which is not a good sign.

He slips the scythe back into its holder and cycles the shotgun. Then he steps over the vampire bodies and assorted debris, and pulls back the curtain hiding the bed.

He'd seen a photograph of her, black and white, and had known then, even before Elkins confirmed it, that this was the type vampires would go for, all pale and delicate. She’s more so in real life, more so now. They’ve had her for a while.

He’s prepared for the worst. Carefully, aiming the gun, he presses two fingers against her neck, the side that doesn't have the ugly bite mark on it. There's a pulse, and it's not too fast, so she isn’t dying or dead, and that's pretty much the first thing that's gone right on this hunt.
He shifts his hand to her shoulder and shakes it gently, still holding the gun.

The girl stirs, and he braces for her to scream, but she just opens her eyes and looks up at him, then at the gun, then up at him again. Whatever it is they've done to her, she is obviously long past the point of being surprised at anything.

“Listen. Clara,” he says as gently as he can, “I'm going to help you. I’m going to take you back to your brother, but you have to help me, alright?”

She pauses, then nods, eyes still flicking between him and the gun.

“How many of them were there?”

“Two,” she rasps, then coughs.

“That's good. And they bit you, is that right?”

Nod.

“Okay.” He grips her shoulder tighter. “You need to remember this bit very carefully, Clara. Did either of them give you any blood to drink?”

She looks confused, and shakes her head.

He lets out a breath, relieved, and lowers the gun slightly. “Okay. I'm going to help you up. You'll have to hold on to me.”

It doesn’t do much good; she’s too weak to get a grip and he ends up practically carrying her past the trash and bodies and out the door. At the edge of the clearing, he rests her down so she can lean against a tree and goes back in, tucking the gun into its makeshift holster. He doesn't know if vampires can track you down when they haven't actually met you, or if there even are any more vampires in the world now that those two are dead, but it's better to be careful and after all, there's whiskey all over the floor already. He lights a match.

The girl is sitting on the ground gazing at the cabin vaguely; John pulls her up as gently as he can. “Okay, my car's not far from here. We have to move.”

“Just wait a minute,” she mumbles, pulling back. The reflected light from the cabin is orange on her skin as it starts to flare up behind them. “There's only two, I said there's only two, they're gone, can we -”

“No.” He takes her by the upper arm and pulls her up and forward again. She staggers, almost falling, and he feels bad at that. He would have carried her further if it weren't for the fact that he hardly trusts his balance right now. The blow to his head is starting to make itself known, numbness replaced will a dull crawling ache.

He'd parked by the highway, and he leads them back now along the narrow track he had come in by. He’d lied to her; it’s at least a twenty minute trek back, and that’s when one of you isn’t half dead from blood loss. It's dark and wet and cold, and the monotonous scenery turns time into an endless loop: the girl stumbles, John catches her, half-carries her until she can walk again, she walks again until she can't and she stumbles again. The scythe is heavy against the ribs on his opposite side, a constant reminder of what he doesn’t want to think about.

Finally, the trees thin and in the new light from the stars he sees the car, parked a few yards down off the side of the road. It’s unlocked; he gets the door open and eases her into the seat.
“Wait,” She stops him before he closes the door, head leaning back against the leather as she looks up at him blearily. “How - how'd you know my name?”

“Move your feet.” She pulls them in reluctantly, and he closes the door. He feels her watching him as he goes around the other side; that scared, tired look he knows so well. It all looks genuine, but the suspicion is still there even in his possibly-concussed brain: she didn't wake up through two gunshots, but woke up when he prodded her. She does have a pulse, that’s something, but for all he knows it could go away. For all he knows, vampires might have pulses. As much as he wants to, he can't let her go back to her brother's place, not yet.

He grabs an old blanket from the back seat and then sits down next to her in the car. She's still looking at him like she’s not sure yet if he’s much of an improvement over vampires. “Can I just ask a -”

“You’re Clara Thomas. Your older brother reported you missing five days ago,” he says. “There's been a few disappearances around here over the last year. I figured it was vampires and tracked them down to the cabin. I have to keep you with me for a few hours to make sure you're okay, and then you can go and see your brother.”

She relaxes, very slightly. “Can I go to a hospital?”

“Hospital won't do you good right now. There's medicine back at my place.”

She nods. Looks too scared to ask more questions, which as he reminds himself, is another good sign.

He offers her the blanket and she takes it. He would have offered his jacket, but the scythe's in there, hidden for now. As she wraps it around her shoulders and huddles there John takes some deep breaths, tries to get his eyes to focus right, to will the pounding in his head down to something bearable. Finally he turns the keys in the ignition, starts the car off slow, tall black trees sliding by on either side of them.

The drive's about twenty minutes and she's silent again. On the outskirts of the town John considers, for the third time, changing his plan and getting a different room for them to wait in. Over the last year or two Dean has been morphing from protected to backup but despite his son's enthusiasm there's still a part of him that hesitates. He could be putting them all in danger.

But it's too late for that now; he can't risk the attention of being seen with a missing girl and a motel clerk is bound to remember anyone that wakes him up at four am covered in blood.
He helps her out of the car – although that's not strictly necessary, she seems to be able to stand pretty well now – and leads her to the door with the gold '14' on it. The outside air is cool now he hasn’t been moving, and the room greets him with a rush of comforting warm air. The curtains on the barred windows are open, and the inside is lit with the soft blue glow that appears well before dawn. He leaves it like that, as the thought alone of turning on the main light makes him wince.

“You can sit down.” He deadlocks the door behind them. She sits on the sagging sofa as he goes to the counter off to the side that serves as a kitchen. He gets a packet of electrolyte powder from the first aid kit and empties it into one of the motel glasses, mixing it with water from the tap. She looks at him cautiously when he holds the glass out to her. “Drink it. It'll help with the dehydration. I have to go check on something.”

“Thanks,” she says softly.

The door to the bedroom’s locked, of course; he unlocks it and opens the door gently so it won’t creak. The bed closer to the door is empty; that one is his, technically. For a second he looks over the figures on the other bed, Sam curled up near the wall, Dean sprawled out on his front. It’s only a moment before Dean seems to sense something is watching him. His eyes snap open, his hand twitching towards the gun under the pillow, before he recognizes his father and stops. He smiles, relaxing.

John kneels down beside the bed. “Dean, I want you to listen carefully.” Dean stops smiling and nods. John keeps his voice low, so that he can still hear the other room, so she can't hear in. “I’m going to put this –” he pulls the shotgun from its holster, holds it up – “on the table here. I’ll be in the next room for the rest of the night. If you hear me yell for you, I want you to come out there and shoot whatever's in there with me, in the head. It has to be in the head, okay son?”

Dean nods. “You want me to wait by the door?”

“You don't need to. You go right ahead and go back to sleep if you want to, I know you’ll wake up. Just come out if you hear me yell. Alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy. Your brother okay?”

“He's better now. Ate his dinner.”

“That's good.” He stands up, pulls the blankets up slightly over Dean’s shoulder as he turns onto his side. He wonders why the sight of the two of them seems so sad, suddenly.

He heads back to the main room, pressing the button to lock the bedroom door behind him. She's still sitting on the couch. No escape attempt, then. Her situation is looking better and better.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Nobody.”

She nods, ducks her head. She looks scared, as well. Maybe not as scared as he’d expect a girl in her position to look, but it’s possible that he's still feeding off the goodwill from the rescue. “Will you tell me why I'm here?”

There's no reason to keep it from her anymore, now that she’s locked in the room. “Quarantine,” he says. “Far as anyone knows, it can take hours for somebody to turn properly, and I have to make sure you're not a vampire.”

“But I told you I didn't drink anything!”

“And vampires can lie.”

She looks away, like she's hurt. “How… how long?”

“Once the sun's up, we'll take you outside and see how you react.” He'll have to call Elkins afterwards to double check. Have to tell her brother to look for signs. “Sunrise is an hour or two away, we'll just have to wait till then.”

She wraps her arms around herself, and doesn’t look up at his answer, as if the insinuation that she might be lying is still more worrying to her than being kept against her will and forcibly tested for sunburn. That's another good sign.

But she still looks pale, and tired, and is possibly in shock. And now that it's dark and quiet his own fatigue is coming back fast. He pours some more coffee from the thermos in the bag, but it might as well be water at this stage, he's passed the point where caffeine can do much to help. She’s finished her drink, so he gets her a beer from the tiny fridge, as a small peace offering which she accepts. Then he sits down on the sofa, in between her and the bedroom door. It's locked of course, and Dean’s a better shot than he is, but it's habit by now.

She holds the bottle delicately. “You're not having any.”

“I try not to drink on the job.” She's shy, trying to make conversation, which is an unusual coping mechanism, but it could be much worse.

“So this is your job?”

“Your brother hired me. Remember?”

“Oh. Oh yeah.” He wonders if she's concussed. She stares at the other side of the room thoughtfully. “I'm tired.”

He’s tired too. He is nearly passing out. He should get up and turn on the main light, but the thought of moving is too much. “It's better if you don't go to sleep until we get you looked at.”
She nods, rubbing her cheek absently. She puts the bottle on the ground and leans back into the sofa. Looks at him. She speaks softly. “My brother, he can be protective, I mean, really protective.”

He doesn't answer.

“I - don't get a chance to meet many people.”

And he’s used to this, actually, would have seen it coming earlier if it weren't for his exhausted state. Girls get all caught up in the adrenaline and life-and-death, and they're too distracted to notice the wedding band, or they just pretend not to. She's up close next to him before he can come up with something conciliatory, so he just says “No.” He doesn't look at her.

“It's okay,” she says quietly. “I want to. You saved me.” One hand’s already slipping in between his shirt and jacket, and he grabs her wrist, harder than he'd meant to, because she winces. The scythe's on that side.

“Okay,” he says firmly. “Okay girl, you should probably back off.”

She seems to do so, tugging her hand gently until he releases it from his grip. But then she keeps her hand in his, stroking it softly. Something in the gesture finally makes him turn his face, to look at her. She looks so pale. Looks like death itself.

Then she’s closer, stroking his face, and he has no idea how to react.

“Girl, you're going to have to stop that right now.”

She doesn’t. “It's okay,” she says.

His forehead throbs, he feels his vision going blurrier, the room unsteady around him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t react as she shifts closer, sits across him, not straddling, just resting across his lap. Her movements are slightly uncertain still, like she's pretending an experience she doesn't have. She takes his hand, slides it up under her tattered skirt so that it’s resting on the side of her hip.

“Wait,” he says quietly.

“It's okay,” she says again. Her eyes are on his, other hand stroking through his hair, along his jaw, and Christ, he just feels so tired.

He still doesn't move; he can barely see. Just a blur of white face and one hand in his hair and the other's undoing his belt.

Her fingers are cool against the skin that's exposed. He closes his eyes, hears fabric shifting, and all he can feel is the cool press of softness, comfort as she moves closer, opens her mouth softly against his.

“There,” she says.

He opens his eyes and pulls her forward, weight back into the sofa behind him, and he hears her moan in something like pain and knows that it's over for him.

One hand’s still at her waist, hipbone sharp under his fingers as he helps her move, as she rocks on him gently, and it should be fast and wrong and dirty but it's slow, and soothing, one hand wrapped around his neck, the other in his hair, and he barely knows where his hands are or what he's doing, can barely feel it as she speeds up. He's lost, and tired, and her voice is soft and she says “Shh, shh, just let go.”

He moans. He tightens his arm around her waist, skin so smooth and cool under his rough palm, guiding her, gripping her tighter as he loses his grip on everything.

The world disappears and his life is draining, blood on her thighs and teeth gripping softly on his neck.

John pulls back, enough to see her face, to see that in the dim near-dawn light her eyes are empty and yellow.

He'd known. He'd known since this started, since the cabin, really. On some level he had known and he had brought her here anyway.

Let go, she says, and it's silence and soft earth and rest, and she pulls him in to kiss his neck, teeth digging in, and the last rush of it fills him, overpowers him -

She's on the ground before he registers, and afterwards John wonders if he would have had a chance if pushing her away had been something conscious, rather than something instant and instinctual, whether that unnatural speed could have brought him down before he could reach the scythe. But there's none of the shrieking or jumping he'd expected, has come to know from her like. She just curls around to right herself slowly and pulls herself up from the floor, slow enough for John to do up his pants and pull the scythe from his jacket.

She stands before him on the carpet, shoulders hunched, small, delicate.

“No,” she says calmly as he stands up, facing her.

He doesn't answer.

“No, no, it's okay,” she repeats, voice rising slightly as she shrinks back, backing away. Her eyes flash again, blank, metallic. “It's okay, John, please, you don't have to.”

He shakes his head as he steps forward, wearily. Feels the slow slide of blood on his neck.

Another step back, her voice rising. “I wouldn't, John, please! I wasn't going to - please, I wanted you to be my mate!”

He lunges forward, grabs her by the hair. He's expecting another jump, but she doesn't, just looks into his eyes as he raises the scythe. Surprised but not scared, like she doesn't believe that he'll really do it.

“I know,” he says quietly. The blade goes straight through, clean and tight. He drops the head next to the body that slumps to the floor.

His neck is sticky with blood, and he wipes at it, touching the puncture holes. The bleeding's almost stopped already; she'd only hit the vein, and not that deep, like she had wanted to do this slow. He looks down at the body in front of him. It looks like a broken statue.

Whatever reaction he should be having to this - and he is aware and experienced enough to know that it should be something - isn't coming to the surface. It’s buried, hidden under fatigue and pain and blood loss until he just feels numb. He's glad for it.

He is still standing, thinking it over vaguely, when he hears a noise behind him.

John turns quickly, gripping the scythe, and sees Dean, half hidden behind the bedroom door, shotgun in hand.

He’s flooded with sickening panic, but just a second of looking at the boy tells him that although Dean looks scared, he doesn't have the expression on his face John would expect if he had seen them five minutes earlier. The relief rushes out as anger, and he storms at him. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

Dean steps forward slightly, even as he looks like he wants to cringe back. “I - I heard someone yelling.”

“Did you hear me yelling, Dean?”

He ducks his head. “No sir.”

“I told you to only come out if I called you. You could have -” But he stops there, because the tiredness has made Dean's face more open than usual and he can see it closing down, his eyes distant with guilt, filing this away to beat himself with later, and at that moment, after what he's just done, it’s not something he wants to see.

He stops, reaches out to squeeze Dean’s shoulder. Through his worn shirt his skin is still hot from sleep. He’s still holding the gun tight.

“It's okay, Dean,” he says without looking at him. “Go back to your brother.”

It takes Dean a second too long to move, like he's thinking of protesting but has thought better of it, but then he nods. He pushes the gun into John’s hands before turning and slipping away, closing the door behind him.

It kills him now to thing of what could have happened, what his son could have seen, what she could have done, all because he'd let down his guard. Because he’d been weak, let that thing tempt him.

He doesn't move for a while, thinking it all over. The body behind him isn't going anywhere.

---

By late morning John is driving back into town, the body scoured and burnt and buried under several feet of dirt in the thick woods near the nest. He had also made the call, the type he'd thought at the beginning would never get any easier, the type that now rolls off his tongue like the lies he tells strangers. I'm sorry. I was too late. Somewhere along the line the distinction between real compassion and the type you put on had got blurry, and he can’t always tell what side he’s on.

The town center is ridiculously bright and sunny, lit with colors he knows are there but can't seem to register. He finds a supermarket, buys some detergent to get the blood stains out of the carpet. He'd cleaned up the worst of it as best he could with the hydrogen peroxide from the first aid kit, but there are still darker patches on the brown carpet and he can't risk drawing attention to the room. On the way back, he stops to get food for the boys.

When he arrives back at the room the they're already up. Dean looks relieved, and Sam barely registers his return, because he’s still young enough to think that people arrive home safe like the sun rises. He pays attention to the pizza though, so he has his appetite back, and seems happy enough at the situation. It's not hard to please a ten-year-old. John watches them eat for a minute before heading into the bedroom. He should want to eat, want to sleep, but he doesn't.

He's sitting on the bed when Dean comes in. The confidence missing last night is back, and he smiles at John and lowers his voice to whisper: “It was a succubus, right? Last night.”
John hesitates. He could tell him the truth; that would be useful for the future, but that might raise too many questions about the circumstances. He’d have to explain, for one, the half-dressed state of the body.

“That's right,” he says. He'll question about exactly what Dean knows about succubi later, where he got the information from, and whether it was from Sam, who's far too young to be reading that sort of thing.

Dean is grinning at the thought. “Oh man. That is so cool.”

“It’s not really. Look Dean, Sammy's well enough to get some fresh air now. I want you to take him out for a while, to the library or something.”

“Sure.”

“Keep a close eye on him. And don't tell him about what happened.”

“Of course I won't.” He looks surprised that John would bother mentioning it.

“Good boy.”

He listens to them leaving. Muffled voices, the tv shutting off, and then the door closes, leaving the room in silence.

He stares at the unmade bed opposite, noon light from the other room barely reaching it, the surroundings a perpetual twilight. He'll clean the blood, wash away what’s happened, and then he’ll try to rest.