Chapter Text
Dean slumped onto the motel bed.
The sheets were scratchy and hard, yet somehow also damp. Gross— but he was exhausted and couldn't find the energy to care; maybe he would in the morning. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, it was the first time he'd let himself relax all day.
Sleep had become a luxury he could barely afford, even with all the stolen identities and credit cards. He definitely wasn't getting as much shut eye as he should've been, but that was the price he had to pay for... for something. He didn't really know. Keeping people safe? Finding his mom's killer?
Yeah, that sounded good, sounded right.
The idea granted him some peace of mind. It made this whole business feel less like he was just chasing his tail and gave him something to look forward to. At least, he thought he felt that way. That's how his dad felt and it made sense, so that's how Dean decided to feel too.
Things were easier when they agreed.
The motel door creaked open loudly. His dad stood in the doorway, struggling with a large, carboard box that was practically falling apart at the seams.
"You just gonna lay there or are you gonna get up and help me?" John's voice carried a familiar edge of irritation that made the hairs on Dean's neck stand up.
Dean snapped to his feet instantly and took the box out of his dad's hands. It was heavy as shit.
"The hell is in here?" He asked, placing the box on his bed. He grimaced as dirt and dust from the carboard smeared onto his already questionable sheets.
"Remember the witch from a couple weeks ago," John said.
Dean did remember— not so much the actual hunt but the feeling he had afterwards. He had some semblance of remorse after finishing the job but that was quickly crushed by his dad. You don't feel bad for a rabid dog when you put it down.
"Turns out," John continued, "she may have been more useful than we thought."
John carefully traced the line of tape on the top of the box with his pocket knife. When he opened it, a plume of grime wafted upwards. Inside were dozens of books. They looked old and delicate, like the ornate leather that covered them could fall off at any moment. Dean was scared to even breathe in their direction.
"Spell books?" Dean asked through tired eyes.
"No. Encyclopedias."
Dean looked at his dad, confused.
"Encyclopedias of creatures, Dean," John clarified slowly. His tone wasn't exactly patronizing but it wasn't encouraging either. John liked to operate in a weird gray area most of the time.
Dean nodded, slightly abashed. "So, you think we are gonna find the thing that killed mom in those?"
"That's the plan," John sighed, handing a thick book to Dean.
He suppressed a weary sigh. So much for sleeping.
"You good to stay up tonight?" John asked. They both knew it wasn’t a question and they both knew the answer was already decided.
"Yes, sir," Dean said softly, forcing a thin, polite smile. He hoped he was convincingly masking his fatigue.
"Good," John said, patting the back of Dean's neck.
Dean couldn't help the small swell of pride that stirred in his stomach.
Dean sauntered over to the only desk in the room and pulled out a chair. It was small, wooden, and looked like it had been glued together but he knew better than to sit on the bed when he was this out of it.
The chair creaked under his weight. It was uncomfortably hard and he found himself shifting constantly. John glanced in his direction.
He was sitting on a leather recliner in the other corner of the room, book laying comfortably in his lap like a napping baby. The look he shot Dean was clearly a be quiet or you’re going to be sitting on the pavement outside kind of look.
It was impressive how much he could communicate with just a glare.
Dean swallowed, shoulders stiffening. He sank slowly back into the chair, muscles taut with his eyes carefully fixed on the page.
He glanced down at the book in his hand only to realize he had been rereading the same page for the last five minutes.
It was about something called a Kongamato. It looked more like a dinosaur than any monster he’d ever seen. It had a pterodactyl like body that tapered off into a giant beak. That could definitely do some damage.
The idea of being picked up and tossed around, hundreds of feet in the air by one of those things sent shivers down his spine.
He flipped the page quickly, trying to shake the image but, as if to mock him, the next page only had a bigger, more detailed, illustration of the creature.
A giant red circle was haphazardly sketched around its beak with some notes hastily written in the margins of the page.
needed for vigor nostrum—
ask Teddy, might know a guy who sells
”Jesus, people actually hunt these things?” Dean said incredulously.
He turned the book to face his dad and pointed a finger at the giant picture.
John lowered his reading glasses and squinted. “Yeah they do. I knew a hunter from the Congo, once—” he cut himself off, slashing a hand in the air. His voice suddenly hardened. “It doesn’t matter, could you focus?”
His dad switched on a dime like that often. Sometimes it felt like playing chess with a kid who kept changing the rules. It was jarring but Dean didn’t mind it so much anymore, he had learned to roll with the punches.
He simply nodded and murmured a quiet apology. His eyes flicked back to the page.
They must’ve read at least three books each that night. Some were lighter than others. Dean hoped his dad hadn’t picked up on the fact that he was intentionally going for the shorter ones.
He wasn't like Sam— books never managed to hold his attention. But then again, he never really had time to read anything that would interest himself.
"Hey," Dean said tentatively, "I think I might have something here."
John perked up, settling down his book and looking at Dean.
Dean cleared his throat. "Okay, here it says there's something called an Ifrit. They're powerful spirits of smoke and fire that are associated with misfortune, destruction, and death. And it also says that they try to appear to be helpful— I mean isn't that what it was doing the night mom died? You said it was standing over Sam's crib right? Maybe it was pretending to take care of him or something...?" His words trailed off as his confidence began to waver under John's intense stare.
John took a long, measured breath, rubbing his eyes. Dean felt heat rise to his cheeks in the extended silence. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything at all.
"Its something," John finally said, voice flat, giving no indication to whether he actually cared about Dean's theory.
Dean chewed the inside of his cheek, quiet disappointment settling heavy in his gut. "Right," he whispered, turning back to his book and ignoring the dull ache behind his eyes.
After a minute John started up again. "Dean, Just—" he sighed heavily, shaking his head. "Just get some sleep."
"I'm fine Dad," Dean protested weakly, his knee began bouncing up and down. It was an unconscious movement, something he did when he got nervous. "Seriously I can keep helping. I'm not tired."
Faint streaks of early morning sunlight had already begun filtering through the motel's ragged curtains.
"Dean," John said sternly, narrowing his eyes in warning.
Dean felt the argument die in his throat. He couldn't help but feel inadequacy knotting painfully in his chest. John was only asking him to rest because Dean wasn't being useful enough. Why else would he tell him to sleep?
He should've never spouted off that stupid theory. He internally berated himself a little more before dropping his shoulders and setting down his third book. "Okay," he conceded quietly.
He shuffled over to his bed and laid the box on the floor next to him.
Dean peeled off his jacket and boots before allowing himself to be absorbed by the harsh fabric. Despite his exhaustion, he couldn't drift off— but he didn't dare to move. Instead, he laid there for hours, mechanically moving his chest up and down in a false show of relaxation.
It was only when he heard John close his own book and settle into the bed next to him, that Dean could finally fall asleep.