Work Text:
Fires rage across the bow
Warning shots failed again somehow
Without you—without you
I'll never hold.
Young hearts grown old;
I don't know myself anymore.
Lander, Wyoming. Demon-signs in the air. John should be out, should be working. Instead he’s watching the clock on the bedside table in this spare little motel room, listening to the echoing tick as it moves toward midnight. It’s set to storm, outside. Wind whips around the eaves of the motel. It’s loud, but he’s focused, sober, and then the clock ticks to twelve a.m. and it’s November second. Again.
He closes his eyes. For a second, he wishes his boys were here. Sam’s safe, though, as much as he can be away from his family. Dean’s away on a ghost hunt in West Virginia, which even his reckless, cocksure kid should be able to handle on his own. With the Chevy and the new shotgun John gave him, he’s as armed as he can be. John could wish someone was there to watch Dean's back, but—well. If wishes were horses. If things were different.
Nineteen years gone. Long enough that John’s stopped questioning it, really. There’s evil in the world, no doubt about it. Every year, summer slips away into fall, and with the cold weather rising comes the reminder that there’s a darkness over the earth. A malady, somewhere, deep in the core. John doesn’t know if that’s hell, or what, but it’s there sure enough. Every winter that comes, he thinks, maybe this time. His mother used to say that he was a stubborn little cuss and, well, she wasn’t wrong.
He holds an arm around his bound-up ribs, careful as he lays back on the creaky mattress. Nineteen years. It’s a long time to be stubborn.
They’d talked, back then, about having kids. What they’d be like, what mix of him and her would come out in a baby they made. Whether they’d be boys or girls, whether they’d be tall, strong, smart. Right after Sam was born, that’s maybe the happiest John has ever been. His whole life was about perfect, right then. It was a real warm summer, and Dean was happy as hell to be a big brother all of a sudden. Took it real serious, in his little kid way—and they’d laughed about that, but they were proud, too. Proud of the good, sweet boy they’d made. She’d get this soft secret smile, watching Dean talk earnestly to a wide-eyed baby Sam, and John—
The wind gusts, sharp, rattling the motel eaves. John rubs a hand over his face, over the stubble that’s gone so thick he might as well admit it’s a beard, now. He guesses he can sell that with a state trooper disguise when he goes to question the widow tomorrow. And, hell, if the widow’s a demon then he certainly doesn’t have to worry about its opinion of his grooming habits. He shifts a little on the bed, ignores the twinge from his broken rib. Right at this moment, he hopes it is a demon. Hopes he’ll be fast enough to catch it, to strap it down and pour salt and holy water in its mouth and watch it bleed, watch it scream. Wants to hear it spout all the usual hellish bull so he can sort through it and find the truth he’ll be able to hone into a weapon.
She used to say he was a gentle soul. John smiles to himself, looking up at the dim ceiling. He wonders what the boys would have to say about that.
The clock’s still ticking, loud, filling up the room. If John lets it, it’ll put him to sleep. Forecast says it’s meant to snow tonight, maybe tomorrow. Electrical storms over the forest say a little different. Whatever comes, John will be prepared. He hasn’t been caught flat-footed in a fair few years, and he’s not about to start now.