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Why is hunting so hard?
Not in the technical sense.
The mental sense.
Why is hunting so hard, mentally?
When you sit back and analyze the willpower required to perform a job such as monster hunting, you realize that not only does it take a physical toll on the body, but also an emotional one. Going across the country, hunting creatures that you know want you dead, finding death around every corner, and hearing about your fellow hunters being killed on the job. It was so much to take in. There's so much to deal with daily.
And then it just gets worse.
Overland Park, KS. Not exactly a quiet town, but certainly not bustling to the degree of New York City or Los Angeles. Though if you asked the residents, they would say quite the opposite, both in regards to busy traffic and price point. News articles flashed all across KMBC about individuals going missing, only to wind up dead several days later. The signs all pointed to vampires. The way that the majority of their blood was drained from their bodies was a dead giveaway, and the trio was certain that they had found a connection between the victims. They were all women, aged between twenty and thirty, with deep brown hair, all last seen at one of the many local bars.
It was going to be difficult, they knew, as the size of Overland Park made it nearly impossible to find the bar that was going to be hit next. They had to split up. Sam went to Talk of the Town, (Y/N) went to The Other Place, and Dean went to Maloney’s Sports Bar and Grill. They spent the entire night staking out their locations, sending update texts in a group chat they created for the occasion. They were there until last call.
But it was all to no avail.
The next morning, an Amber Alert was activated on their phones. When the news article came out thirty minutes later, it was revealed that a child, no older than six years old, was taken from a playground outside of the apartment complex she lived in. No one saw who took her. She just vanished. Then it hit them.
Vampires can’t just vanish.
They had gotten it wrong.
After the victims vanished, it took them three days before they appeared once again, which meant that the three of them had a limited amount of time to figure out which monster it was, find the hideout, and save the girl. Tensions were high, and everyone was feeling it.
(Y/N) and Sam opted to head out, with (Y/N) heading to the apartment complex to interview the little girl’s mother, while Sam got dropped off at the coroner’s office to get a more in-depth look at the latest victims. Dean offered to stay back at the motel to look at all the records that they had grabbed from their previous visits to the police station and coroner’s office to try and find a connection from there.
The meeting with the little girl’s mother went as expected. Nothing of importance. It was just slurred words with tears and snot running down her face. The poor woman was a wreck. (Y/N) was the more sympathetic of the three, at least that was how he was able to portray himself. He was able to get her talking. Granted, it wasn’t helpful, as she couldn’t help but spill every last bit of information about her daughter as if telling her biography, and while (Y/N) could understand that grief could cause people’s mental stability to go off the deep end, he didn’t have time to help the mom when he knew her daughter was out there alive. The sooner they could get her back, the better.
After the talk with the girl’s mother, (Y/N) walked back out to the Impala and plopped into the driver’s side. He pulled out his phone, dialed Sam’s number, and pressed it against his ear. It rang only a couple of times before Sam’s voice rang through.
“Hey,” he answered.
“Hey, Sam,” (Y/N) ran his fingers through his hair. “Just got done talking with the girl’s mom, Angie, and she was just hysterical. Couldn’t give me any relevant information because all she could do was sob. I’m pretty sure my suit has some snot and tears on it.”
Sam sighed. “Alright, well, they just got done wheeling the victims in here. I’m gonna be away from my phone for a while to see if I can get to the bottom of this, so why don’t you head back to the motel with Dean? I’ll give you a call when I’m done.”
“Sounds good. Have fun putting your hands in dead people.”
Sam grunted on the other end, which caused (Y/N) to chuckle before he hung up the phone. With that, he turned on the car, the engine roaring to life, backed out of the parking spot, and made his way back to the motel.
It wasn’t that long of a drive, seven or eight minutes with mild traffic. It was a Motel 6, just off of Metcalf and I-435. For a chain motel, it was awful, and they didn’t have many expectations going into it. Any of the motels or hotels in the surrounding area would’ve been better, but the Motel 6 was the cheapest, at least for Overland Park.
He parked the Impala in front of their room door and turned off the engine. His muscles relaxed into the leather seat as he leaned his head back. He sat there for a moment, thoughts scattered about his mind, as if the twist in the case had blown a gust of wind against his brain. What could it be? Everything had pointed to vampires, yet they had missed something. The hope that Sam would find something while searching the decedents boiled within (Y/N), and he set a goal for himself to come up with a way to further examine the evidence if all else failed with the autopsies.
Perhaps if he lay on the cheap motel bed, it would be comfortable enough to restart his decision-making skills.
(Y/N) pocketed the keys and stepped out of the car. Just as he closed the driver’s side door, a muffled crash was heard. Instinctively, his ears perked up and his heart raced with fresh adrenaline. He rushed to the door of their room in just enough time to hear the slam of something inside.
Dean had been the only one to stay back.
He was in trouble.
He fished the motel room key out of his pocket, a basic metal key that most chain motels and hotels no longer used, and shoved it into the keyhole. To the right, the key got stuck; to the left, the door unlocked. He pushed the hollow door open, and it snagged on something, causing the door to ricochet back. (Y/N) used his forearm to stop it from hitting him as he stepped into the room and surveyed the scene. His hand froze atop the gun in his waistband as he got a good look at the room.
It was completely trashed, and the only one who was there was Dean. Not a monster in sight.
Cheap blankets and pillows were strewn across the floor, the TV had been ripped from the wall, the small brown table had been turned over, and there was a trail of broken glass that led into the bathroom. Dean paced around the room, his head lowered, fists clenched at his sides. Every couple of seconds, he would pick something up and throw it. A couple of holes had been left in the walls.
“Dean, what the fuck?” (Y/N) asked as he moved his hand from his gun.
Dean didn’t answer. It was as if he was completely zoned out. As if he wasn’t entirely present.
“Dean, dude, you gotta calm down. What the Hell happened?” (Y/N) took a step closer, but his words still didn’t seem to reach him.
It was a cycle, of sorts. He would pace, then throw something. Pace, then throw. Pace, then throw. (Y/N) held out his hands, palms up in a look of surrender.
“Dean, come on, this isn’t helping anything.” His voice was calmer now. “Let’s just sit down, and I can help-”
(Y/N) was interrupted when Dean ripped the corded phone from the wall and threw it, unintentionally, in his direction. While he moved quickly enough to avoid getting hit in the face, the phone still smacked the side of his forehead. He jumped and cursed as one of his hands bolted up to hold onto the spot where the phone had hit him.
Then, it stopped.
Dean froze, his muscles tense and eyes wide. He stood there, as if he were afraid to move, as he watched (Y/N) look up at him. A small cut was revealed right at the corner of (Y/N)’s forehead as he moved his hand away, the open wound already pooling with a dribble of blood.
“Dean, what the Hell?” (Y/N) breathed.
His voice broke Dean from his trance as he rushed over to him. He placed a hand on (Y/N)’s arm as he moved his head to get a better look.
“Son of a bitch, are you alright?” Dean asked.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, I just-”
“Come on, sit.” Dean pulled him over to one of the beds that had since been stripped of all the bedding.
“Dean, I’m fine.”
“Sit.”
Though his words were stern, his tone was still meek. Hesitantly, (Y/N) complied and sat at the edge of the bed. Silently, Dean removed (Y/N)’s hand from his forehead. There was, indeed, a small cut present. Under the cut, however, a bruise and bump had already begun to form. Dean cursed under his breath as he walked away, over the trail of glass, and into the bathroom. He returned momentarily with a semi-warm, damp washcloth. He pressed it against the bump gingerly, which caused (Y/N) to wince. Dean took notice, but said nothing. Instead, he had (Y/N) hold the washcloth in place as he walked over to his duffel bag, which had been thrown halfway across the room during his episode. Only when he stepped back to the bed did (Y/N) speak.
“What was that about?”
Dean stopped for a moment. He shifted on his feet. “I don’t know,” he breathed out.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it. You destroyed the damn room…”
“I know,”
“Why?”
Dean reached up and removed the washcloth from (Y/N)’s head. He untwisted the cap on the bottle of hydrogen peroxide in his hand, held the washcloth right below the cut, and poured a tiny bit of the liquid on it. The cut foamed for a second before it dissipated.
“It’s because of the hunt, isn’t it?” (Y/N) asked.
Dean’s silence confirmed his suspicions.
“Dean, we don’t know what it is.”
“We should’ve known; otherwise that girl would’ve been fine.”
“But we didn’t,”
“And because of that, the girl is missing.”
Dean dabbed the washcloth against the cut before he set it to the side. He pulled a Band-Aid out of his pocket and tore off one of the sides. He put it over the cut and pulled the other piece of paper, smoothing the bandaid down carefully. Before he could pull his hand back, (Y/N) grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand down to get his attention. Dean’s brows raised.
“Dean,” (Y/N) began, his voice stern. “We can’t focus on what we could have done. We can only focus on what we can do. Everything added up to a vampire. The blood draining, the holes in their bodies, the times that the victims were taken, it all added up to vampires. You thought so, I thought so, Sam thought so. We were all wrong. What we can’t afford to do right now is blame ourselves for that girl getting taken. After the victims’ disappearances, they reappeared three days later. A whole seventy-two hours. It’s not a lot of time, but it’s time. We can still save her, Dean.”
Dean swallowed the lump in his throat, his Adam’s Apple bobbing. He looked away for a moment before their eyes reconnected.
“So instead of going around and getting pissy and destroying shit in the room that we’re renting, we can buck up and look for what we missed. We can save the girl, and everything will be alright.” (Y/N) continued.
Pause.
“Alright?”
Dean pressed his lips together and nodded. “Alright,” he replied softly.
(Y/N) gave a small, curt nod before he released Dean’s wrist. Dean stayed in place and let out a sigh. He couldn’t help but let his eyes wander to the dark bruise that was forming around the tan band-aid. He reached a thumb up and brushed it over the latex.
“Does it look bad?” (Y/N) asked.
“It’s going to.”
(Y/N)’s shoulders slumped, his hands limply folded in his lap. “Gotta admit, they don’t make landlines that durable anymore. Hell, do they even make landlines anymore?”
“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered.
“Dean, it wasn’t your fault.”
“I was the one who threw it.”
“You were angry and upset. You didn’t even know I was there.”
“Still, I should’ve-”
“Dean, really. I forgive you, alright? Shit like this happens. Plus, if you really meant to throw it at me, then you wouldn’t have missed as much as you did.” He smiled.
Dean slowly mirrored his grin. “You’re too forgiving of me sometimes.”
“No,” (Y/N) shook his head. “I’m just as forgiving as you should be with yourself. Maybe you should take some notes sometimes.”
As Dean pulled his hand away from his forehead, he smirked, leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to the band-aid.
“I’ll try to remember that.”