Kings of the Night (Part One)
part one
Bobby Singer had spent ten years of his hunting career chasing demons and monsters across America. All he had to his name was a duffel bag, a rusty Ford pick-up and a Rottweiler curled up in the cab. He'd spent a lot of those years with Rufus, had buddied up with a few other hunters along the way, and by the time that he'd first lain eyes on Singer Salvage he was world-weary and dog tired.
He'd declared that he was getting out of the life whilst the going was still good, and Rufus had laughed in his face. Less than two years later, and the two phone lines in his kitchen had grown to twelve, to fifteen, and the name Bobby Singer was being tossed around the hunting community with the same casual regard as had previously been reserved for Harvelle's Roadhouse alone.
For all of his grumbling and grouching - and there was plenty of that, that was for goddamned sure - Bobby couldn't really complain. From the moment that he'd realized that his Karen was gone forever, there'd been a small part of him that had known that he'd never be able to leave the life completely. Hunting was an addiction in the same way that drinking and gambling were, only twice as lethal.
He settled into his new role as the go-to man for information happily enough, and for the following five years, his life never strayed from that familiar monotony.
Until, that was, he first caught wind of the Winchesters.
**
The first rumors drifted to him slowly. The occasional hunter off-handedly mentioning that a hunt they were looking into had already been solved; a few reports of a couple of new hunters on the scene. At first, Bobby dismissed them.
Hunting was a rough gig, and it had a hell of a turn around. There was always normal people who had lost family members or loved ones stumbling across their world, and many of them found a new purpose in the hunt for vengeance. Many of them sought revenge in the solid weight of a shotgun, and the unfamiliar curl of a Latin exorcism on their tongues. Some of them made it - gradually learnt the skills they needed to survive, took their time and played it safe. Others didn’t.
It was a month later that he got the name Winchester, from a hunter called Davidson who’d come away from his most recent hunt with a few new scars and fear in his eyes when he regaled Bobby with the news that he hadn’t been the only hunter tracking the wendigo through the Minnesotan mountains that week.
“Three of them,” He swore, face strangely solemn. Last time Bobby had seen him, the guy had been full of energy, barely able to sit still. Somehow, the hunter didn’t think that it was his friend’s concussion or broken arm that seemed to have altered his mood. “Scary sons of bitches. I tell you, if I never have to see them again? I’ll die happy.”
**
The salvage yard was quiet and calm, birds flitting above overhead and Rumsfeld curled up sleeping in his kennel. Bobby was washing dishes, back door propped open in an effort to drag in some cooler air; it was the dog days of summer now, and the oppressive heat made the air feel thick and heavy on his tongue.
“Can’t wait for the goddamn winter,” The hunter muttered to himself, dumping the last of the week’s dishes on the draining board, scowling when he had to shuffle a few mugs around to make everything fit. If his Karen could see him now, he knew that she’d be far less than impressed - she’d always instead that dishes had to be washed every night, regardless of how many there was.
He glanced up out of instinct, eyes surveying the yard before dropping to Rumsfeld’s dog house, frowning when he found it empty. The dog had proven himself to be a fairly fantastic guard dog, especially given his age, and it wasn’t often that he gave into the urge to wander off. But that wasn’t to say that it didn’t happen - the long chain attached to the wooden kennel’s frame was there for a reason, even if Bobby had foolishly forgotten to attach it that morning.
Scowling to himself, he tersely dried his hands on his pants, raising his fingers to his lips and letting out a shriek whistle as he stepped out of the house and onto the porch. He froze.
The dusty lot was no longer deserted. Now, two teenagers leant up against the porch railing and a third - older - man stood at the bottom of the porch steps, arms crossed over his chest. The new angle gave him the perfect view of Rumsfeld, perhaps the most reliable guard dog he’d ever had, cowering in the back corner of his kennel and Bobby shivered at the realization that there was something seriously amiss.
“Can I help you?” He demanded, leaning against the doorframe in a move that he hoped looked casual. Just to the left of him, now within an arm’s reach, his shotgun rested against the wall.
“I sure hope so.” The eldest man drawled. He smiled, and Bobby wondered if it was supposed to look friendly - the glint in his eyes made it seem threatening, and the hunter’s hand reached for the shotgun without thought. “The name’s John Winchester. These are my boys: Sam and Dean.”
He inclined his head towards the teenagers, and Bobby turned his head a little to get a better look at the two of them. Both of them were handsome, defined cheekbones and strong jaws, and both of them looked just as ease as their father. The blonde one, perhaps a little older than Bobby’s initial estimation of a teenager, had the same muscled physique as his father; his brother was slight and willowy, all long bones and lean muscles, a mop of dark hair curling around his ears.
Both of them were grinning in a way that was making Bobby more than a little uncomfortable.
“I’ve heard of you,” He shrugged, reaching a hand up to adjust his cap, trying to wipe the sweat from his brow without them noticing. He wasn’t sure he was entirely successful, judging by the way that the youngest boy’s grin seemed to sharpen in amusement. “But that still doesn’t explain why the hell you suddenly decided to show up on my property unannounced. By law, I could shoot the three of you where you stand.”
John didn’t seemed perturbed, just shrugged his shoulders in a fluid movement that just screamed predator. “Rumor has it that you’re the go-to guy for information. We’re hunting a demon, yellow eyed sucker, and we seem to have hit a road block.”
“Ever heard of a phone?” Bobby snarked.
John just shrugged again. “I like to have a name to match to a face, what can I say. Now, you gonna help us or not?”
Bobby raised an eyebrow at the man’s sheer audacity and refusal to be cowed. He had half a mind to turn them away, but his curiosity had well and truly been piqued, and he sighed instead.
“No weapons in the house.” He relented, kicking the large metal bucket that stood just outside of the door, before he retreated a few steps inside. John’s eyes trailed slowly and deliberately down to the shotgun in the hunter’s hand, and when he grinned again, he seemed genuinely amused.
His feet didn’t make a sound as he made his way up the steps and across the porch, and Bobby refused to show his surprise - there was a reason that he’d never got them seen to. There was a certain security to knowing that the creaking of the wood would alert him to anyone headed towards the door, but John avoided the rotten parts as if he’d lived there for years.
He didn’t hesitate in pulling his handgun from the back of his pants, dropping it into the bucket. Bobby expected another gun, perhaps a knife or two to sit alongside it, but John dropped in one solitary switchblade before he stepped aside. The older boy, Dean, added another gun and Sam tossed in two knives, and Bobby raised an eyebrow when they followed their father inside.
“That’s it?”
John tilted his head, something almost menacing in his eyes. “Do I look like a man who needs a weapon to feel safe, Singer?”
He certainly didn’t, so Bobby let it slide, grumbling under his breath as he led them through the house and towards the study.
“Tell me more about this demon.” He instructed them, nodding to the mismatched chairs dotted around the room as he sunk into his own. Sam and Dean both moved towards the window seat without so much as a spare glance, sinking down in an eerily synchronized manner, and John chose the cushy armchair on the other side of the desk.
“Started a fire in a nursery that killed the mother, though the child escaped unharmed.” John reeled off easily, kicking back in the seat. “In the week before, there was unexplained electrical storms, crop failures… Lots of pretty biblical shit.”
Bobby nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds like an upper-level guy, someone a little more powerful than your standard black-eyed baddie of the week. You say he had yellow eyes? Good, that narrows it down a little.”
He hummed thoughtfully, spinning in his seat to rifle through the bookcase behind him. A long moment of searching produced a thick, leather-bound book with no writing on the cover; it had been a gift from Pastor Jim years ago, something he’d collected from another man of the cloth during a year of travelling.
It had taken Bobby a while to translate it, but it had proven itself more than useful - it seemed, once he was finally able to make sense of it - that it was some kind of demonic index. It held the names of not just demons themselves, but also their masters and creators, and a list of tools developed by hunters over the years, with the specific purpose of killing them.
The last entry had been filled in by none other than Samuel Colt himself, containing only a large, two-page wide drawing of his fabled gun like no other, signed at the bottom with a small squiggle.
“This’ll help,” He nodded, dropping the thick book down onto the desk with a loud thud. Dust flew up, thickening the air, and Bobby fought back the urge to sneeze as he curtly wiped down the cover with the back of his sleeve. “Never come across a demon that wasn’t listed in these pages somewhere. But it’s gonna take a while.”
He didn’t miss the look that John’s sons shared, exasperated and restless, hands and feet tapping in a staggered rhythm. They reminded Bobby of the caged wild cats in a zoo - pacing backwards and forwards, never sitting still for more than a few moments. He hadn’t liked it then, with a foot of glass between him and those animals, and he liked it even less in the confines of his study.
John simply shrugged, shifting his weight to find a slightly comfier position in his seat.
“We’ve got time.”
Bobby rolled his eyes, longing for the bottle of whisky he kept stashed in his desk but unwilling to share it. “We’re not talking a couple of hours here, Winchester. I’m talking days, weeks… maybe even months.”
John didn’t seem too put out by the news, snagging a manilla folder off the top of a high stack of papers with little care for Bobby’s privacy. He resisted the urge to snatch it back like a toddler, and instead raised an eyebrow at the action, watching silently as John studied the folder intently, flicked it open after a long moment.
The words INCUBUS - ST LOUIS were hurriedly scrawled across the top in Bobby’s hurried scrawl, and he knew that inside were the detailed case notes that Caleb had sent over the night before. He’d meant to pass them on to Joshua, knew that the hunter was just finished up a job in Nashville and had figured that he could swing by on the way back to his brother’s house.
It looked like he wouldn’t have to bother.
“Boys,” John said gruffly, rising to his feet in a smooth movement, keeping the folder in his hand even as he moved towards the door. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a way to pass our time while we wait. We’ll phone when we’re done, Singer. Check in on you.”
Bobby didn’t doubt it in the slightest.
He didn’t get up and see them to the door, just listened as the front door swung shut and the boys laughed in the yard; the place fell silent again, and Bobby reached for the bottle of Jack with a shaking hand.
**
Sam’s fingers tapped restlessly against the diner table, an inconsistent rhythm that came from various Metallica songs strung together without thought; under the table, his knee bounced beneath the warm weight of his brother’s proprietary hand.
John rolled his eyes, taking in the way that his youngest son’s eyes were focused firmly on the diner’s window, temple resting against the back of the vinyl booth and face tipped so far forwards that his face was almost touching the glass. Out of all of them, he’d always been the most restless, bursting with so much energy that John had long-since abandoned his attempts to get the teenager to sit still.
He was still seventeen, young and reckless and John knew that his wolf was never too far from the surface. His eldest son was the one with the easy grin and the infallible charm, the one that screamed trouble in the easy sprawl of his limbs, but Sam was the one to watch.
“Hello, there,” A perky, female voice announced from next to John’s shoulder. She was young, nervous in their presence, and her voice trembled in a way that made John grin to himself. “What can I get you?”
Sam turned from the window, shook his head in fond amusement when Dean eyed her up and down without any care for subtlety.
“Three burgers,” He drawled, green eyes dancing with mischief and something a little darker. “Bloody as you can get ‘em, sweetheart.”
Sam snickered, shifting his weight to rest against his brother’s side, leant his head in to nuzzle against the older man’s neck even as Dean shifted his arm to accommodate him there. The waitress faltered, pen halting mid-stroke, watched with an open mouth as Sam nipped at the soft skin there. A hot blush made its way across her cheeks, and John watched in amusement as the pen threatened to spill from her fingers.
“Sam,” He warned after a few moments, nudging the younger werewolf’s foot with his own. “Cut it out before this young girl passes out on us.”
The seventeen-year-old pulled back casually, staying tucked into his brother’s side even as he slouched a little lower, reached a hand out to spin the salt shaker with nimble fingers. The waitress, whose nametag read Lucy, seemed frozen for a few moments before she managed to collect herself for long enough to scurry into the depths of the kitchen.
John couldn’t help the chuckle that broke free.
“Little tease,” Dean grinned, but his arm pulled Sam in closer and he turned his head to nuzzle against Sam’s hair. “Getting her all riled up like that. Bet she’ll be too embarrassed to come back out now, sends someone else instead.”
Sam grinned, looking more proud than he had a right to be. He tipped the salt shaker onto its side, nudging the small object until it began to roll on the edge in a wide circle. Dean’s hands twitched in temptation, obviously more than a little drawn to the idea of reaching over and knocking it off balance, but a sharp glare from Sam had him leaving them where they were.
“So,” The youngest Winchester started casually, eyes still trained resolutely on the spinning salt shaker. “We’re after an incubus?”
John shrugged, winking at Dean as he reached over and knocked the shaker off balance, sending it careening onto the tabletop with a sharp clang. Salt spilled across the surface, and a few people stationed in nearby booths glared over at them. “That’s what the research would suggest. Seems to be attacking men between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, which is slightly atypical but not unheard of. So far it’s killed twelve and left four in the hospital.”
A waitress interrupted them, setting down three baskets of burgers and fries on the table, before scurrying away just as quickly as she’d come. John wondered, absently, if Lucy had warned her about sticking around for too long - regaled her with the knowledge of his sons’ somewhat exhibitionist ways.
“So he hasn’t skipped town?” Dean inquired, shoving a few fries in his mouth even as he spoke. “Kind of unusual for him to stick around for so long, isn’t it?”
John shrugged again. “Some incubi prefer to have one haunting ground. Whilst most of them skip around, there’s been stories of some staying in one place for as long as ten years. It makes it easy to scope out local haunting grounds - where they’re most likely to get lucky, or where people are least likely to notice them. Maybe he just got a little bit too cocky.”
Sam grinned. “So we’re setting a trap for him? Dean and I go in ‘undercover’ and see if we can lure him off to his death? Sounds fun to me. I bet I can pull him first.”
“There’s a slight glitch to that plan,” Dean frowned. “We’re werewolves. He’ll clock us as soon as we’re through the door.”
John tilted his head, pausing to take a bite out of his burger. The flavors hit his tongue pleasantly; clearly, Lucy had been listening when they said that they liked their burgers bloody. Whilst it had nothing on the taste of a raw catch, a fallen deer or even a rabbit, it was the best burger John had eaten in a long time.
“Not necessarily. Incubi can recognize their own kind, but apart from the whole ‘feeding off sexual energies’ thing, they’re otherwise pretty human.” He pointed out. “It’s not like he’ll be able to smell us or anything. A trap could work… and even if it doesn’t, we’ll be able to keep an eye on him from the inside, at least.”
Dean nodded slowly. “Okay, yeah. Trap it is.”
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