Chapter Text
Hunting for Christmas
Chapter Three – God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
John Winchester continued to push the Impala west on I-80, playing leapfrog with Caleb in his big blue Chevy truck. Caleb kept up his good-natured playfulness, grinning and tapping on his horn, but John knew he had an ulterior motive. He was making sure John stayed awake because he was pushing thirty-six hours without any sleep, and he'd had precious little over the past week.
Sometimes, Dean would sit in the front seat next to John watching him, asking him questions, changing cassettes in the tape player when John didn't notice that they were listening to the same tape a second time. Dean watched for Caleb's truck to pass them so he could grin and pump his fist, while Caleb grinned back and tapped his horn. Other times, Dean would slip over the seat and sit with Sammy, checking to see if he was still feverish, coaxing him to drink Gatorade or just watching him while he slept. Sam slept most of the time, feverish and fretful.
They picked up Travis outside of Iowa City. Caleb pulled alongside John, motioning to make a pit stop. John nodded because he needed gas, and Travis followed them off the highway to the first gas station they came to.
“John?” Travis greeted. The two men clasped hands, and Travis clapped John on the shoulder. “I see you've already met up with Caleb.” He nodded toward the young hunter, who was gassing up his truck at the next pump over from the Impala.
“Yeah. Seems to be a good man.” John's hands shook as he ran them through his hair.
“Damn, John. You look like hell.” Travis's voice was full of concern. His eyes fell on Dean, staring out at him from the back window of the Impala. “Bobby said you had the boys with you. The little one still sick?”
“Yeah. I'm afraid he's no better. If anything, he's worse.” John let out a shaky sigh.
“Travis?” Caleb came over to join the two men. “You wouldn't believe the crap this man's into.”
“I can believe a lot,” Travis answered.
“The man's got a fucking demon on his ass.” There was no trace of Caleb's wide grin as he watched Travis's uncomprehending face. “An honest-to-God demon . . . for real . . . I saw it . . . with my own eyes.”
“You mean like a—”
“I mean like a straight-out-of-Hell, damned-to-Hell demon.” Caleb and Travis both looked at John—Caleb apparently seeking backup and Travis seeking confirmation.
John raised his hands to try to calm the two men before things got out of hand. “It's a demon,” he said, confirming Caleb's story.
Caleb paced a few steps, shaking his head. “The man's a shit magnet if I ever saw one, I mean, I've never hunted a demon; don't know anybody who has. You?”
“I've heard tell—”
“Look.” John's patience was wearing thin. “Bobby's doing research on this. He's found some information. I just need to get to Bobby's. I need to get my kids off the road and get them to safety.”
John was losing his grip. This trip had turned into one giant nightmare. He was sleep-deprived, his nerves were worn raw, and all he could think was these two seemed to want to blame him for all this shit, as if it was somehow his fault. “I don't need this crap!” He nailed first Caleb, then Travis with dark, hard eyes. “I thought Bobby sent you two out to help me, not to interrogate me.” He jerked the gas pump out of the Impala and slammed it back into its cradle. “If you're not gonna help me, get the fuck out of my way.”
“Now hold on, John,” Travis said. “We are here to help, and nobody's trying to interrogate you. We're just a little amazed, maybe.”
Caleb stepped back, holding up his hands. “I'm sorry, John. I got your back. You know I do. But Travis deserves to know what he's up against. I already know. I've seen it, and I'm still here. I'm gonna see this through all the way to Bobby's.” He turned to Travis. “How 'bout you, Travis? You willing to see this through?”
“Yeah, I'm in.”
Caleb's wide grin finally made an appearance. “Well, what do you say, John? You ready to get this caravan back on the road?”
John nodded and watched as the young hunter held his head up high and marched back to his truck.
“I'm not sure I know quite what to think of that boy,” John said as he turned to Travis.
“He's a good boy,” Travis reassured him. “He's a good hunter, too. Been hunting with his dad and an uncle since he was about fifteen or so. A little excitable, maybe, but that's just because he's young, I guess.” Travis gazed after Caleb as the young hunter settled himself in his truck, ready to continue on this mission. “You can trust him.”
John felt a little better. He'd hunted with Travis more than a few times. Travis had been hunting for years—longer than Bobby—and John had learned a lot from the man. For the most part, he got along with Travis and trusted him as much as he trusted anybody. Maybe that made them friends by default. Perhaps he could be friends with Caleb, too. The guy did seem to have good instincts, and he was good in a fight. Another friend by default. John climbed into the Impala, a little smile curling his lips. Seems he was gaining a few friends, even if it was by default.
….........................................................................
The caravan stopped once more just north of Omaha, where they intended to pick up I-29 North to Sioux Falls. Three more hours on the road, and they would be at Bobby's.
The men argued again as they gassed up. Caleb was worked up and bitching about John's driving. He insisted that John was getting worse, and keeping him awake was nearly impossible. He said John was a danger to himself, his sons and everybody else on the road. It was all Travis could do to keep the two hunters from getting into a fistfight. John grumbled that Caleb needed his big kid's ass beat, and Caleb smirked that when he knocked John's ass out, he'd be doing everybody on the interstate a favor.
Finally, Travis managed to cut through John's clouded judgment and get him to take an hour's nap in the Impala's front seat while Sam continued to sleep in the back. Travis and Caleb took Dean to get something to eat. Dean picked at his food, worrying about Sam, until Caleb ordered cherry pie. The two men drank coffee and struggled not to talk about demons in front of Dean.
…..............................................................................................
It was nearly eight p.m. when Bobby heard the Impala's engine rumbling up the driveway. He went to meet the caravan as Caleb's truck and finally Travis's van pulled in behind John.
“John?” Bobby greeted his friend. “You look awful.”
“You should'a seen him before we made him stop and take a nap.” Caleb came up behind Bobby.
John ducked his head, a resigned smile on his face. “I owe you for that one, I guess. Thanks.”
“You owe me quite a few, you stubborn bastard.” Caleb's words were harsh, but his broad, bright smile had returned.
“Damn if these two hotheads ain't a handful and a half,” Travis said as he joined the group.
“Well, lets get your stuff in the house.” Bobby helped John unload his duffel bags from the trunk of the Impala.
Dean appeared at the side of the car, his dark blond hair cropped short and his green eyes tired. “Sammy's still 'sleep,” he yawned.
“Dean, can you speak to Uncle Bobby?” John reminded.
John did instill respect into the boys. Bobby would give him that.
“Hey, Uncle Bobby.” Dean stepped around behind his father to where Bobby was standing and extended his hand.
Bobby took the small hand in his and gave the boy an affectionate pat on the back with his other hand—not quite a hug, but he wasn't sure the boy would appreciate a full-out bear hug. Best to take things slow. “Hey, Dean. Are you hungry?”
Dean nodded.
“Good. I made Lasagna for dinner.” Bobby placed a hand on the boy's back, steering him toward the house. “How 'bout you boys?” he asked, turning to look back at Travis and Caleb. “You stayin' for dinner?”
Caleb quickly fell into step with Bobby and Dean. “Bobby Singer's world-famous Lasagna? You bet your—”
“Watch your language, boy,” Bobby groused. “There's children around.” He looked at Dean. “Children with big ears that I better not hear repeating any of Caleb's bad language.”
Dean grinned up at Bobby, acknowledging and ignoring Bobby's warning at the same time. “I never ate any Lasagnas before.” He said the word like he thought it was something made up.
“You like Spaghetti?” Caleb chimed in.
“Yeah.”
“Well, you'll like Lasagna,” the young hunter assured him. “It's kinda like Spaghetti's cousin.”
Bobby rolled his eyes and looked back to see Travis walking alongside John, who cradled in his arms a sleeping Sam, wrapped in a blanket.
…..........................................................................................................
Travis left first, refusing dinner in favor of getting home to his family.
Sam wasn't able to eat Lasagna, but Bobby had some chicken noodle soup he microwaved. Dean managed to get some of the soup into his sick little brother before John carried Sam to bed and tucked him in.
After dinner, John walked Caleb out to his truck. Apparently, the two men had developed a bond during this ordeal. It was volatile. Bobby could see the same headstrong nature in both hunters, but there seemed to be a grudging respect. It wouldn't surprise Bobby to see the two men hunting together if—Bobby stopped dead in his musings. There might not be any more hunting for John. In fact, there might not be a future for John or the boys at all if they didn't get this demon thing sorted out.
Once Caleb was gone, Bobby and John settled at Bobby's desk with mugs of coffee and several ancient texts surrounding them. “Little Sammy looks pretty bad.” Bobby glanced at John but didn't keep his eyes on the man long, not wanting to seem judgmental and piss John off. “It ain't no run-of-the-mill cold he's got, is it?” Bobby absently turned a couple of pages in the book lying in front of him. He wanted to give John a chance to talk, but he didn't want to press.
“No. He gets better, and then he gets worse.” John looked squarely at Bobby. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair greasy. His face was drawn and covered with a few days growth of his thick, dark beard. The man was exhausted. “Every time the demon has been near, Sammy's gotten worse. Sometimes he's gotten worse when I haven't seen the demon, but I think the demon's been near without showing himself . . . or herself.”
“Equal opportunity possessor. Nice,” Bobby groused.
“Guess it doesn't matter to a demon what body it rides or who it kills.”
“I'm convinced you're right. It's a demon. There's been a wave of foul weather and storms following in your wake, all the way from Erie.” Bobby heaved a deep sigh. “That's a clear omen. Also, the demon that followed you left a trail of dead bodies. That's another sign, although it's not always the case.” Bobby's fingers trailed across the page of the book he'd been leafing through. “There's plenty of ancient lore of possession, and the Catholic church still has some priests that perform exorcisms where the victim survives. Most famous was The Exorcist.”
John looked doubtful. “Thought that was a movie.”
“It was based on documented accounts of an actual exorcism—Hollywooded up—but. . .”
“We need a priest?” John asked.
“No, I don't think so. That's the good news.” Bobby raised his brows and gave John a sneaky little grin. “I got a couple of exorcisms. I think I could get rid of the son-of-a-bitch.”
“You think it'll come after us here?” John glanced toward the stairs, up toward where his boys were sleeping.
“Yeah, maybe. We'll be ready, though.”
“You sure about that?” John queried.
“Not really,” Bobby answered lamely.
…..........................................................................................
One did not simply waltz out of Hell. Only high-level demons were sent to the surface on missions. The assignments were few and far between and highly prized by Lucifer's most loyal.
She was not a powerful demon. She was at best a fourth-rate, maybe even lower-level demon, unknown to the powerful—one of the masses. The fact that she was unknown was the reason she was topside. She was unknown and clever. She stayed in the shadows, exploring the deep recesses—the hidden places in Hell—until she found a way out.
She lived as she pleased on Earth, not by the rules of man and not by the rules of Hell. As long as she kept hidden—remained unknown—she was safe. But she was about to change all that. After a couple of centuries, she was bored with this pointless life. With this child, she was about to grab power in Hell.
Her new meat suit was a good one—a female—tall, long-limbed, lithe and powerful. She felt good in this body. The time for play was over. Even though she was weak by demon standards, she was powerful enough to take on the hunter and his friend. She made no elaborate plans. She would go in head-on, kill them all and take the child.
Excitement coursed through her veins as she approached the door to the old house. She already knew that the two men were downstairs and both boys were upstairs. She would gut the two men first and then go after the child.
She stood on the porch, ready to kick in the front door, when she suddenly felt him: a dark hand reaching up from the deep pit of Hell. He called her by name. She felt the black nothingness, the deep coldness of despair rise up through her meat suit, twisting through her. The pain consumed her like flames as the hand of her master fused with her soul and ripped her free of the body she was riding, pulling her back down through the earth and into the bowels of Hell.
“The boy is mine,” a dark voice echoed in her brain like a deadly caress. “But you—a demon so clever as you—are mine, too, and I have use for you.” Dark laughter flooded through her, and she didn't know if it was his laughter or her own. “Time to come home, Ruby. I have a plan for you.”
She saw her last glimpse of earth for the next eighteen years. She would not be able to hide this time. She was no longer unknown.
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A scream, long and low, filled John's head. When his eyes met Bobby's, he knew the other hunter had heard the scream as well. It was unlike anything John had ever heard. It was a rasping, deathlike, evil sound that rose in both volume and tone until his ears ached and his head throbbed as it echoed through his brain.
John followed Bobby as he ran to the front door, jerking it open just in time to see the woman writhing in agony. Black smoke, the same black smoke that John saw escape the waitress at Biggerson's, pulsed from the woman's mouth and nose. It oozed out as if struggling to break free, but was sucked back in. The woman's body jerked and seized with each pulse until she finally collapsed, dead on Bobby's porch.
Both men stood stunned, mouths agape, eyes fixed on the lifeless body left behind by the demon.
“What the hell was that?” Bobby questioned. “Spontaneous demon combustion?”
“I don't know,” John answered.
“You think it's dead or just gone?”
“I don't know.” John repeated. “Back at the restaurant, that thing kinda . . . I don't know . . .” He flung his hand out, imitating the way the demon had flown out of the body and across the sky. “. . . smoked out.”
“This looked more like it imploded.” Bobby raised a brow at John, giving him a slight shrug. “Looked kinda painful. I'd say something more powerful than that demon grabbed it.”
“Why? What do you think it was?”
“I don't know, but let's not look a gift horse in the mouth.”
This was unholy; demonic without a doubt. The demon was gone, perhaps dead, but John was sure of only one thing: Whatever had ended this demon's chase of his boys was powerful and couldn't be at all good. This whole thing, up to and including the death of the demon, felt evil.
“Come on,” said Bobby, his voice breaking through John's dark thoughts. “We gotta clean this mess up before the cops get wind of a body. Ain't no way to explain this away.”
After they burned the body, John lingered on the porch while Bobby went to shower. He swirled a shot of Jack in his glass. He could remember only one time when he'd been this emotionally drained. That was six years ago, when he'd sat on the hood of the Impala holding an infant Sammy, with a four-year-old Dean clinging to his side. His home, his wife, his whole life was blazing out of control, soon to be no more than a pile of ashes.
This time, all his little family had gotten out alive, but he had a strange feeling this gift came with strings attached, and he was not looking forward to finding out what those strings were. He'd rather know what he was dealing with.
“Hello, John.” The deep voice came from a shadowy figure standing in the dark drive.
John Winchester stood, squared his shoulders, and carefully controlled his face to show no fear as he faced this new threat.
“What? No thank-you?”
The oily, smooth voice grated on John's last strained nerve, but he refused to answer, refused to react.
“You've been given a gift. The demon is gone. Your son is well.”
“And what's the cost? What do you expect in return?”
“Why, John,” the man scolded. “It's a gift. There is no payment. “But. . .” There was a small sliver of white teeth, a ghost of a mocking smile. “. . . your son will come to me. When the time is right.”
“You can't have my son,” John growled. “I'll kill you first.”
“John,”—strange yellow eyes flashed in the darkness—“you can't kill me.”
“Make no mistake. I will figure it out. I will hunt you down, and I will kill you,” John promised.
“You can try,” the demon laughed.
The silence that followed his disappearance echoed through the darkness and deep into John's heart. John made a vow to the darkness. He would raise his boys to fight, to hate evil, to hunt down supernatural creatures and kill them, every single one. He would teach his boys that there would be no compromise with monsters. A thing was either human or it was not, and anything not human was to be killed.
….................................................................................
The next morning was Christmas Eve, and Bobby was up a little earlier than he was used to. Since he'd been flying solo for so many years, he'd fallen into his own pattern of sleep and turned into a night owl. He generally stayed up with his books and the occasional movie until three or four in the morning and then stayed in bed until around noon. Last night, instead of a movie, it had been a spontaneous exorcism and a bonfire. He had even more reason than usual to stay in bed late, but that wasn't possible.
Unlike Bobby, John had apparently trained himself to sleep through the sound of little feet trampling up and down the stairs at the ungodly hour of six-thirty. How many reasons could a kid find to go back up the stairs anyway? And apparently, if one went up the stairs for whatever reason, the other couldn't possibly wait downstairs. He had to go up the stairs too, and then they both had to come back down. They sounded like a herd of ponies galloping through the house.
Bobby knew it was time to get up, even if it was o'dark-thirty, when he heard the kitchen cabinets banging. Whatever was going on in there, he was sure it needed supervising. He tossed the covers back with a huge sigh. Given his choice, he'd rather hit the shower before he started the day, but he wasn't sure he had time. It sounded like his kitchen needed protecting, and he could still hear John's loud snores. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. He quickly threw on the jeans and T-shirt he'd taken off last night, reckoning that his shower would have to wait until John decided to get out of bed and tend to his boys.
“Guys, you're not tearing up my kitchen, are you?”
“No. I got it, Uncle Bobby.” Dean looked up from the table as Bobby entered. The little one, Sammy, was sitting at the table, bowl of cereal and milk in front of him, which he seemed to be enjoying well enough—if a milky, toothy grin was any indication. A neatly poured glass of orange juice was in front of him, within range, but clearly out of the knock-over danger zone. He had a napkin tucked into his shirt.
“Sammy was hungry and I didn't want to wake you up. Are you mad at me?” Dean clearly knew he'd taken liberties, but there was no damage to the kitchen. The kid knew how to take care of his brother, and Bobby could see that he would do just that and face the consequences, even if it meant the rage of a crotchety old man who might be capable of anything. Of course, Bobby wasn't really old. He was just a few years John's senior, but he felt old. He'd been old all his life, thanks to his father. He'd never been a kid, and he knew the boys thought he was ancient.
“Nah.” Bobby mussed the soft brown hair on the top of Sam's head and received a giggle for his show of affection. To look at the child now, you would never know he'd been so sick. He was the picture of scrawny-six-year-old health. “I woke up hungry myself. Thought I might make pancakes.”
“Pancakes,” Sam whispered to Dean, his hazel eyes peering up at his brother as if he were sharing a dark secret. He pushed his unfinished cereal away, and Dean reached out quickly, grabbing the bowl before the contents could splash across the table. He gave Sam a warning glance. There was something in that boy that was decidedly older than ten.
Dean took the bowl to the sink. “Thanks, Uncle Bobby. I love pancakes.”
“Pancakes are my favorite,” Sam said, following his brother's lead.
“I'll help you with breakfast,” John spoke from the door. “Want me to make some coffee?” He made his way over to the coffeemaker while Bobby got milk, bacon and eggs from the refrigerator. “I think I might've had one too many of that cheap whiskey last night. I don't usually out-sleep the boys.”
“Yeah, well. I got something better for Christmas Eve.”
John scrubbed his hand across his face. “I might have to pass tonight. It's wearing a little heavy on me this morning.”
“We'll see,” Bobby huffed.
…..........................................................................................
After breakfast, John left on a run into town for supplies and to get a little Christmas for the boys. Bobby settled on the porch with the morning paper and a hot cup of coffee, intending to keep an eye on the boys while they explored the salvage yard, but he soon decided it was too cold outside. Dean assured him he was experienced enough to keep Sam and himself both out of trouble. Bobby gave him a hard look and warned them to stay out of his tools before he made his way back into the warm house and stretched out on the sofa. The plan worked out well, as the boys enjoyed exploring the yard and playing in the rusted out cars. Bobby drifted off to catch up on the sleep he'd given up in favor of pancakes. He couldn't complain, though. It was the best sleep he'd had in quite a while.
After lunch, John settled the boys in the back of Bobby's pickup, and all four of them headed down a narrow road deep into the woods behind the salvage yard.
“Keep your heads down, boys, and don't be hanging off the side!” Bobby yelled back to the brothers as he pushed the truck through a gauntlet of overgrown trees that scraped the top of the cab and flapped along the side.
“Damn, Bobby.” John ducked, even though he was safe in the cab with the windows rolled up. He glanced through the back window, nervously checking on his sons. “I take it you don't drive back here often.”
The road was little more than a faint memory of two ruts stretching into the back of Bobby's property.
“No. Ain't been back here in years, but we'll make it.” He gave John a reassuring smile as they bounced along. It didn't seem to work well, because John just laughed nervously in return. “Not much further,” said Bobby, trying again to reassure him.
“Good,” John said with a nod as a particularly long limb slapped the window. He jerked his head back to check on the boys again.
They finally reached a point where what little there was of a path seemed to end altogether. Bobby threw the truck into park and jumped out of the cab. John was already at the side of the truck bed, reaching in to pull Sam out, while Dean had climbed up and was jumping down from the side.
Sam was laughing hysterically, clinging to John. The child's laughter echoed through the quiet woods sounding like pure, innocent joy to Bobby's ears.
“That was fun!” Sam exclaimed as John lowered him to the ground. He turned to Dean for confirmation. “Was that great or what?”
Dean shoved him playfully on the shoulder. “Yeah, it was great,” he laughed.
“Come on, guys. Now we walk.” Bobby grabbed an ax from the truck, handed it to John, and then pulled out a saw.
John slung the ax across his shoulder, and the two men started walking into the woods with the two boys between them. “Let's go find a tree,” John said.
“A Christmas tree? A real live one?”
Sam's little voice danced across Bobby's heart. You'd think the boy had never had a real live Christmas tree. Bobby glanced at John. The man's face was pensive as he watched his young son jumping around with glee.
“Can I pick it out? I want a real big one.” Sam's little arms stretched to indicate just how tall he wanted the tree to be. “Come on, Dean.” He grabbed his brother and the two boys ran ahead.
“Don't get too far. Dean!” John called out.
“I got it, Dad,” Dean called back.
Bobby swallowed around the lump that formed in his throat. “That boy's never had a real Christmas tree, huh?”
“No. I'm afraid this time of year is kind of . . . difficult.” John scrubbed his free hand across his face. “Seems like the Christmas stuff was really more Mary's thing. I just—”
“Well, it was more Karen's thing too. I ain't really paid much mind to Christmas myself in more years than I care to admit to, but I ain't got kids, John,” Bobby admonished. He wondered if John would take offense. It wasn't his place, really.
But John's eyes were sincere. “I really appreciate this. That demon almost got my boys. She almost killed Sammy. . .” He let the rest of those thoughts trail off unspoken. “Not only that, but you having me and the boys for Christmas—it's easier. Besides,” he said, holding out his arms, ax choked up in one hand, indicating the woods around them, “you got all these trees for the boys to choose from and a house to put one in.”
“You're welcome.” Both men chuckled. “And I have to admit,” Bobby went on, “I'm enjoying the kids. I coulda done without all the demon stuff . . . ” This time Bobby left his words hanging out unspoken.
“Thanks, Bobby.”
By the time the men caught up with them, Sam and Dean had picked out a nice fir tree that seemed appropriate enough. It was about a seven-footer, a little flat on one side, but no tree was perfect. Bobby figured they'd put the flat side to the wall, and no one would ever know the difference. Besides, the only grownups likely to see the tree were right here, and neither of them would criticize the boys when they seemed so proud of their choice.
That evening, they decorated the tree. John had bought cookies and stuff to make hot chocolate. They popped corn and Bobby brought out a bag of cranberries. He trusted Dean with the needle and thread, and Sam's job was to hand the pieces to Dean so that he could string them together and make a garland. Of course, they both had to try not to eat all the popcorn before they got the tree decorated.
Bobby pulled out decorations that he'd packed away after Karen died, and everyone hung balls on the tree. Last of all, he gave the boys strands of tinsel to throw over it all and make the tree sparkle. Bobby broke out the High West Whiskey, and they laughed and tried to remember the words to some Christmas songs. Even Dean didn't feel too old to snuggle up next to his dad, while Sam curled up with Bobby, and they watched the lights on their tree blink on and off.
It was John who broke into his favorite Christmas song, saying he hadn't sung it in years. His deep baritone voice was surprisingly smooth.
“God rest ye merry gentlemen.
Let nothing you dismay.
Remember, Christ, our Savior
Was born on Christmas Day
To save us all from Satan's power
When we were gone astray.
O tidings of comfort and Joy,
Comfort and joy,
O tidings of comfort and Joy.”
John had a contemplative look in his eyes, as if he'd never really thought about the words of the song before. Perhaps they'd never seemed so relevant. “Let us hope,” he spoke absently.
“Yeah, we can do that,” Bobby answered and raised his glass.
“Do you think Santa will know where to find us?” Sam's voice was little more than a whisper in Bobby's ear.
“I'm sure Santa will find you,” Bobby answered.
“And he'll find Dean, too?”
“And Dean, too.”
Christmas morning was almost here, and for the first time in too many years, Bobby was looking forward to the day.
…............................................................................................................
End