My Dad ~~ Badass Killer of Pussy Cats
Title: My Dad ~~ Badass Killer of Pussy Cats
Author: CeCe Away
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Through Season One spoilers~kinda~not really
Disclaimer: I imagine that I'm in charge of everything.
Recipient: mikiya2200
Word Count: 5400
Prompt: John and Sam together on a hunt. For some reason Dean can't hunt with them and they have to make it work somehow. I would love to see that, although Sam doesn't really like hunting, he is still focused on a hunt and not recklessly endangering them somehow, so no hiding injuries from John that would eventually put them in danger somehow. I'm pretty open to how you want to injure Sam (or both of them?) on that hunt, whatever gets your muse going is fine with me! :D I'd love this to be somewhere in s1 somehow, so after Jess was killed and them maybe somehow bonding a little over that?
Summary: Pretty much follows the prompt
Art by m14mouse
Sam woke to a blaring concentration of pain on his left thigh. Everything narrowed down to that point, his muscles clamping hard around it as his breathing picked up speed. Light flickered through his closed eyelids and when he lifted them he realized it was the brightness of a fire burning near him. Instinctually, he shifted away, but found his wrists bound fast to the silver pegs they carried in their packs for shapeshifters and werewolves, only now driven into the cold ground on either side of his head.
Panicked and hazy with pain, Sam pulled against the strips of flannel that held his arms captive and sucked in a hiss at the spike of pain in his leg.
"Sam. Easy."
His gaze wrenched up to a silhouette on his other side, a black shadow in the dark night. He didn't understand what happened. How he ended up staked out to the ground beneath a canopy of indistinct swaying branches. What was going on? His brain was so muddled he couldn't think. Sweat broke out across his face, coated his neck. He tried squirming away and another wave of agony pulsed through his thigh, digging his shoulder blades in the soil as his entire body stiffened and head rocked back.
"Sam." The silhouette bent close, moving into the guttering firelight that chased shadows from hard, lean features and Sam's heart slammed violently against his ribcage.
Dad?
~~~
Twelve hours earlier
"A what?"
"Grazta." John folded his arms over his chest.
"Never heard of it," Dean growled."Thought now that we had the colt out of the vamps' hands, going after the demon was the big thing with you. Now you want to go off and hunt an overgrown pussy cat?"
"A pussy cat that's gotten more aggressive with each passing day. You'd be fine with it if it was you going." John sighed inwardly. The message about the hunt had been in his voicemail-Pastor Jim's final message, final request before that bitch came a'callin to slit his throat. He was doing this hunt. He owed Jim that.
John changed his tactic. "Look. Killing the demon is still the priority, but we are Hunters first and when there's people being slaughtered by something only a few miles away that we know how to take care of, we go. It's an easy job. Sam and I will be back tomorrow afternoon."
"Then why can't I-"
"I need you here. I need you to narrow down that list of every baby born around six months ago in this town."
"To the month? That's going to take forever." Dean frowned. "Be nice if we could pinpoint it within one week. Better yet a day."
"Got a crystal ball that can do that? 'Cause the electrical storms and dying cattle and figuring out which six-month-old the yellow eyed demon's going after are our only leads. That bastard's coming here, Dean. Soon. Within a month, possibly weeks and we need to be ready."
"Fine. I get that. But Sam's much better at research. Leave him here to do it."
John opened his mouth to argue, but there wasn't an explanation he was willing to give his sons. Dean scowled at him, not understanding why John was so adamant that Sam accompany him on this two-man job instead of him when they'd only arrived in Salvation minutes ago. It was an abrupt departure from what used to be their norm before Sam went-or rather walked out-to attend Stanford.
Sam had been quiet, sitting on the motel bed with printouts of hospital records and applications for social security numbers spread out around him on the faded orange bedspread. Every so often he glanced up between Dean and John. John felt his youngest's gaze settle over him like an accusation. He knew Sam didn't understand it either, the direct order for Dean to remain and research while he and Sam went off on another hunt. Kid probably thought it was just another power struggle between them.
Which was better than the truth-that there was no way he was leaving Sam alone in a town brimming with signs and omens suggesting that the murdering sonofabitch demon that killed Mary was on his way, not with what the demon wanted his child for. Might as well tie his son up with a pretty bow and hand him over . . . John forcefully uncurled his fists, unclenched his jaw, so his perceptive sons wouldn't sense the fear and conflict roiling through him, but they were already peering at him strangely.
John tamped down the cold clammy fear snaking up his throat. Now that he was back with his sons and the endgame was on the horizon, he was sticking to Sam like spit frozen in ice. No half-assed demon was getting around John to get at his youngest. And once they killed the damned thing, Sam would never have to know what the demon had planned. He'd never have to worry about some freaky power cropping up like the other physic kid's had. Thank God Sam hadn't yet manifested anything like that.
"Sam, let's roll." John fell back on his old stand-by. He was in charge. No arguments. "Dean. I want to know what house and what day that sick bastard is coming to."
Grabbing his bag, he walked out the door, fully expecting to be obeyed, the grief of losing Jim so uselessly kicking up dust behind each weary tread of his boots.
~~~
It was dusk by the time they hiked into the forest and started scouting out the coordinates Jim had left. A hollowness opened inside John's heart, thinking about the preacher.
"Don't let it get too close," he barked at Sam.
"I won't, Dad."
"A shot three inches from the armpit will get through the thinnest part of the hide."
Sam nodded.
"You're loaded with iron?"
"Yeah, Dad. You've asked three times. You okay?"
John pushed a branch aside, holding it back to let Sam pass. "Yeah." He frowned. "Yeah."
Sam gave him a weak smile and nodded, hitching the duffle higher onto his shoulder, neither mentioning how Jim's murder had rattled him for which John was grateful.
"Just don't let it get too close." John let Sam take the lead now, let the boy follow the tracks they'd picked up twenty minutes ago because sighting giant grazta prints wasn't foremost on his mind with his chest swimming with grief. "You know, the claws."
"I'll keep my distance." Usually at this point, Sam's voice would be pinched with annoyance. Not tonight. Guess Jim's death had rattled them both. Crouching, Sam ran long fingers in the dip of a paw print. "It stopped here. Not too long ago."
John crouched beside Sam, inspecting the fresh tracks. He envisioned the large fabled beast stopping to scent the air.
"Think it caught wind of something?" Sam kept his voice low.
John nodded. Tiny prickles rose along the back of his neck. He pointed at another track with the muzzle of his shotgun. "See how the toes dug in when it twisted back around?"
Sam's head lifted to peer into the surrounding darkness. "Us. It caught our scent."
"Slow and easy, I want you to get behind me. Get your rifle in position."
"Yessir." No questioning, no arguments. Not on the job when it counted and a swell of pride sloshed over into John's hollowness, filling it just a little.
John remained still, feeling Sam ease away. He sensed the beast watching them somewhere up ahead. Waiting until he heard the soft thud of the duffle hitting dirt and the click of Sam cocking his rifle, John stood fluidly and pumped a round into the brush, more to flush the beast out than to attempt to get a shot through the thick hide.
There was a cry like glass grinding across a whetstone. To his right the brush shook just before three hundred pounds of furious barreling grazta charged out at him. John swung the shotgun around but before he fired, two rifle shots barked out in quick succession and the beast stumbled, lumbering forward on a collision course with the ground.
John dove out of its path where the beast's momentum plowed a furrow of dirt and flying leaves through the tangled vegetation where it thudded to its side, pluming clouds of dust and debris into the air.
"Dad!" Sam came running, those liquid eyes scouring every inch of John before he'd even stopped next to him.
Straightening, John held his hand up. "I'm good."
Seeming unsatisfied, Sam nodded, his frown conveying he didn't like how close John had let the grazda get to him.
John wholeheartedly agreed with the kid on that one. He cuffed a palm over Sam's shoulder. "Nice shooting."
He felt the surprised flinch travel through the kid's body and John mentally sighed. Together they moved closer to the beast, pushing broken limbs aside with the long barrels of their guns. The grazta lay on its side, chest lifting and falling in heaving pants. It looked eerily like one of those weird-ass hairless cats. An overgrown gigantic one. In the moonlight blood shone like black tar across the leathery hide.
Well, that wasn't so hard. Time to finish the job and head back to Dean. John pressed the end of his shotgun at the area where the big cat's hide was the thinnest . . . and everything went to hell.
The grazta sprang up in a coil of muscle, teeth and claws, knocking John sideways into the bushes. Leaves and dirt swam in his twirling vision. Snarls coated the air. A shot rang out. Sam shouted.
Wrestling free of the tangling foliage, John lunged out of the brush and found Sam, standing there, blinking rapidly. He saw John and lifted his arm to point toward a swath of still fluttering broken bushes. "Ran off . . . that way." His voice came out small.
John charged forward to go after the thing while the trail was fresh.
Sam just stood there.
Something wasn't right. John stopped, squinted in the darkness, taking in the form of his son. Sam took a step forward and crumpled to the ground.
"Sam!" Grazta forgotten, John ran back to Sam, skidding to his knees and turned the kid over. "Son, what's going on? He get at you?"
Sam looked up at him, his throat working. Long fingers dragged up to clasp at John's sleeve. Frantically, John swept his hands along the kid, searching for injury, hoping beyond hope that-shit. Hope just took a nosedive in the dirt because Sam's jeans were torn. Right there on his thigh, three jagged swipes.
Dammit dammit dammit. John's pulse kicked into high gear, roaring through his veins. In a blink he had his knife out and the jeans cut open above the nasty seeping claw marks ruining his son's flesh.
John sank back, his muscles going slack with the shock of what that meant.
Venom. A quick death.
Sam's fingers went lax, dropping from his sleeve.
No. NO!
Not with what John knew. Twenty minutes. They had twenty minutes-probably seventeen by now-to get the venom out before it saturated Sam's system and would be too late.
John became a flurry of motion, scrabbling after the duffle where Sam dropped it and grabbing up an entire broken clump of the bush he'd been thrown into. Heat. The damn supernatural venom was attracted to heat. Get a hot enough fire going and he'd draw the poison from his son.
Pouring lighter fluid over the branches, John scouted around for suitable kindling. He didn't have time to go searching. Lips set in a hard line, John used the knife on a lock of Sam's hair from just behind his ear and tossed that under the branches. Lighting a match he tossed it on the pile and brown locks whooshed to flame. It wouldn't take long for the lighter fluid to do the rest.
Quickly, he unloaded the shells from his shotgun and placed the muzzle into the fire.
Less than fifteen minutes left.
He was going to have to do this quick and mean. His son was dead if he didn't, but the pain was going to be excruciating. Even semi-conscious, the kid was going to buck and fight him. He needed Dean here to hold Sam still, and for the hundredth time in the last five minutes, John regretted leaving his oldest behind.
Except Sam didn't have time for futile wishes. Like always, John would figure this out. His head snapped up, feeling eyes on him. The grazta was still out there and they'd only managed to make it mad.
Snagging the duffle closer, John pulled out the pegs they used when they ran out of silver bullets and with the butt of Sam's rifle drove them into the ground. He had Sam's wrists secured with strips from his shirt-easier on the skin than the coarse rope they had-when Sam roused. His features scrunched in a tightness of pain. He flinched and his eyes flared wide. Panicked, he pulled against the pegs and immediately hissed, trying to curl as a jolt of pain must have exploded in his leg.
"Sam. Easy." The confused fear coming from his son broke something deep inside John.
Sweat broke across the kid's face and he tried squirming away, but it was too much for him. The thin body stiffened so tightly John worried he'd break bones.
"Sam." John bent close, relieved when Sam seemed to be able to focus on him. Firelight flickered over the sweat-streaked planes and angles of lean features.
Dad?
John cupped Sam's face. "Shhh, it's going to be okay."
"Wha . . . what's going on?" He strained his arms. "Why am I-?"
"Trust me, Sam." He didn't have time to explain, wasn't even certain that time hadn't already run out. He reached over his son, picked up the shotgun, praying it was hot enough, sat across Sam's legs-and pressed the length of his shotgun barrel across the first slash.
Sam screamed. He bucked. His back arched off the ground.
From the dark brush beyond, the grazta snarled.
John held steady. It was working. He could see it. Black sludge pulled from the wounds, wrapping around the heated metal as though the nasty venom had a life of its own. Maybe it did.
As soon as the barrel was covered, John shook it over the fire where the sludge was only too happy to fall, twisting and slithering to get at the flames.
He pushed the hot gun back onto Sam's thigh and the boy screamed again. John shut the awful cry out of his mind, focusing on his task. He had to do this. Had to save his son, even if it meant hurting him. He had to. He was not going to let him die.
Sam abruptly stopped screaming. The boy's hands were opening and closing into fists, tendons bulging at his neck.
"Breathe, Sam!"
Part Two http://cece-away.livejournal.com/31579.html