Part 4: It's All Coming Back

"What's the word, Sam-O?" Dean said brightly into his cell phone as he answered his brother's call. He was in a particularly good mood ever since Sasha allowed him to split off and do the physical digging around while the incubus stuck to asking students and faculty questions.

Dean was a good interrogator—probably the best of the three when they weren't relying on Sam to cheat—but high school students weren't exactly Dean's forte. Besides, the whole high school atmosphere made Dean feel on edge. He didn't have much for fond memories of school in general. He never had exceptional grades. Couldn't go out for sports. Had little to no time for friends. The 'nostalgia' was starting to get to him. He needed air.

Therefore, he was currently up on the school roof checking the area for any signs of the paranormal. So far he hadn't found anything too incriminating, other than a few very anatomically correct pieces of graffiti.

"You sound too happy," Sam said, more than likely at least half-serious, "Did you kill a teenager? I know they can be annoying, but killing the people we're trying to save could be seen as counterproductive."

"Hardy-har, Francis," Dean griped, "Just enjoying the unseasonably warm weather is all." It was forty degrees. Not exactly warm but better than what the weather would usually be like at the beginning of March. "So didja get anything knew? How'd you do with having a look at the police reports?"

"Better than usual, actually," Sam said, "They bought the P.I. bit, but would only let me look at the reports, not make a copy. Of course I happened to see over one of the clerk's shoulders when she typed in the code for the copy machine, so…once I was alone…" Dean could hear the small bit of pride Sam was allowing himself over that.

"Nice," Dean nodded in approval. He had walked his way closer to the edge on the north side of the building. The view was pretty impressive as long as Dean didn't get close enough to look down. "Back at the hotel then, huh? Anything in the reports we didn't already know?" Dean walked along about a foot from the edge as he went, searching for any ominous signs, symbols, or residue. He just hoped he didn't stumble across any ectoplasm. They hadn't swept the entire building for EMF after all.

"Well, it looks like there's even more inconsistency with the different deaths," Sam started in, "None of them happened at the same time of day. Some were morning, others afternoon, some during practice or after hours even. At least we can rule out anything nocturnal or hampered by time constraints. Otherwise, it looks like the school hadn't gotten the chance to cover much up before we found out what we did before. The only extra thing in the reports I found interesting was that there was always more than one person that found the bodies."

"That's kinda odd," Dean agreed. For a moment he had thought he spotted a hex bag in a corner of the roof but it was just a rotting pine cone. He stood back up straight and ran a hand through his hair, thinking. "Makes me think it is one of the students and they always make sure to have someone with them when the bodies are found so no one suspects they did it."

"So whoever it is figures they're less likely to be blamed if they're not always going, 'oh, look, I found another body!'" Sam added, "Makes sense. The reports don't say the names of the people who found the bodies each time though. If we knew then we could probably narrow things down. Assuming the killer even does the whole return to the scene of the crime cliché."

Dean shrugged to himself. "Better to go on then nothing. I'm gonna check in with Sasha again in twenty minutes or so. Maybe he knows who found the bodies. We split to cover more ground."

There was a pause on Sam's end of the line and Dean could practically see his brother's grin growing. "Had to get away from the high schoolers, huh? Guess that's better than shooting them."

Dean made a face, knowing that Sam would be able to 'see' it just like he could 'see' that smirk. "Wait till you meet this Leven kid, Sammy. Sasha and I already had the pleasure. Bet you'll shut up then. Besides, even if I wanted to get a shot off, I couldn't bring any weapons in this place, remember? God damn metal detector." Dean had circled back to the door that led up to the roof, having found nothing of interest. He sat on an old crate that had been left up there from who knows what and ignored Sam's light chuckling. "Hey, listen…" he began, "I've been wondering. What's your take on the whole…Cam situation?"

Again there was a pause. When Sam spoke again it seemed that he had been taken completely by surprise by Dean's question. "What do you mean?" Sam asked, suddenly concerned, "I thought you liked him. Do you have a bad feeling about something? Nothing happened, did it?"

"No, no. Nothing like that," Dean tried to reassure Sam quickly, "Still not meeting Cam til the bell rings. And I do like the guy, I just…" Dean shifted uncomfortably on his crate, "I keep thinking there's something I don't know, ya know? Like…did they ever have a thing? Did Sasha ever have a thing with any of those old friends? He's never said anything but…"

"Dean," Sam cut in, somewhere between stern and amused sounding now, "Please tell me you're not seriously agonizing over Sasha's past involvements. Not after the amount you've had. Maybe he did have a thing with someone that was more than just a night, but does it really matter now?"

Dean hated it when Sam made that much sense so effortlessly. "No. Shouldn't and doesn't," Dean said firmly, "Past is past, you know I always say that. It's just…" Dean didn't know how to explain it. He just felt uneasy even though he wasn't lying when he said he was happy for Sasha finally getting the chance to make up with his old friends.

There was a sigh over the line. "Dean," Sam said patronizingly, "It's pretty obvious why this bothers you so much. Having to be around possible past involvements is completely different than just knowing about them. Imagine what it would be like for Sasha if we ran into Cassie somewhere, no matter how much he may know that's over."

Yikes. Cassie. Dean hadn't thought about that.

"Besides, were you paying attention to the 'Cam is straight' conversation," Sam said with humor in his tone again, "I know that's sort of a relative term with an incubus, but I think you're safe. I mean…I suppose it's possible Sasha and his friends all fooled around when they were younger. Think of what they are. Isn't it sort of a given?"

And Dean had started to feel so much better about things. "Thanks, Sammy. You're the best," Dean ground out.

Sam let out a jovial laugh. "Sorry, sorry. It's just funny—you being jealous. I realize that as an incubus Sasha's gotten around quite a bit. But it's not like you're any different. Everything changes when you're not just in it for the sex, Dean. I think you know that. I'm sure Sasha gets just as crazy thinking of you with other people too, past or not."

Huh. That actually made Dean feel a little better again. Still, Dean shook his head to clear it. "Enough with the pep talk," he chided his brother, since he couldn't admit that talks like this were part of what kept him sane day to day, "Get back to work on those files and research. Let us know if you find anything big. We'll see you in the parking lot about quarter to four, okay? Don't go wasting time surfing for porn now. The clock's a tickin'." Dean grinned to himself when Sam responded with an irritated sigh. He was half serious with that warning though. As far as Dean knew the last time Sam had had sex was over a year ago. That just couldn't be healthy.

Dean pocketed his cell phone after Sam said very tersely, "Goodbye, Dean," and continued to sit on his crate. He had fifteen more minutes until he had told Sasha he would meet him in the auditorium again. He had managed to sweep his intended areas of the school fairly quickly, but he had no intention of heading back down early. Dean thrived on Sam and Sasha's company—he really did—and often welcomed extra faces when the occasion arrived, like when Bobby helped them out from time to time. But he couldn't remember when he had last had some time alone. It was seldom that he wanted any but it was nice just sitting up on the roof in the not too cold weather by himself. Dean really did like a good view when he wasn't thinking about the heights part. And Pittsburgh had one fine skyline.

The familiar leather jacket about Dean was heavy on his shoulders. Their father's journal was tucked into his inner pocket. It was the closest thing to a weapon Dean could bring into the school, so he had insisted upon it even though Sam was usually the one to cart the thing around. Dean pulled it out of his pocket now and stared at the cover for a moment. It wasn't anything magnificent. No markings or intricate design. Dean liked it that way and assumed his father had too for the same reasons. It was practical. Ironic when one thought about what it held within its pages.

Flipping the journal open to pass the time, Dean found himself drawn to the incubus entry. He and Sam had periodically added things with Sasha's help, but they hadn't really gone back to their father's original entry since having a real live incubus join the team. Dean remembered the part at the beginning where John had written a disclaimer about not hunting an incubus or succubus unless it was certain they were killing, but Dean hadn't really gone over the rest all that much himself. He could see where the handwriting changed but there was nothing that stood out too much for him, nothing he didn't already know.

That is until Dean noticed something hidden in the margins. It was written so small in his father's familiar scrawl that Dean wasn't surprised they had missed it before. It said simply 'hunt' followed by the date '2/24/1984'. Dean was amazed because that would have been about a week and twenty-five years ago. Meaning, it would have been one of his father's first real hunts after meeting up with Missouri and those at the Roadhouse.

Dean couldn't resist the pull to turn to the front of the journal and find that older entry. He flipped back quickly. In the beginning John hadn't organized things as neatly into sections of creature by creature, which was why the incubus information was so far from its actual hunt. Back then John still wrote like writing in a journal, not about his own feelings as he did in the first few months of writing but still with a more personal approach.

Dean swallowed thickly when he found the date again at the top of a page near the front. Ellen had said that an early run-in with an incubus had changed John's perspective about them—hence the 'no hunting' policy. Dean was burning with curiosity to know why. He felt no shame at all when he started reading.

February, 24th 1984

It's 4AM but I couldn't wait to document what happened tonight, afraid I'd miss something or forget. I can't forget. Not those eyes and those tiny little hands, almost as small as Sammy's. It was supposed to be routine. Easy. That's what McCormack said. I should have listened to Ellen's warning. She's young but she knows these hunters better than I do. I should have listened.

I met up with McCormack at the Roadhouse at 10PM. Early for hunters. I left the boys with Ellen and she tried to warn me again, tried to find out what we were hunting, but I didn't listen and McCormack wouldn't let on what the hunt was for. He had seemed trustworthy enough over the past month, one of the few most willing to share information. When he said he had a lead on some creatures a few towns north, I said sure. Any experience is good experience. Damn it. I didn't know how wrong I was…

"What are we hunting, Mac?" John asked as they drove. Everyone called Harold McCormack 'Mac'. John had picked up on that right away. "No offense, but I don't exactly feel too keen on this being a surprise."

Mac's laugh was low and gruff, like a man who had drank and smoked his whole life—which John knew was mostly true. "Nothing to get too worried over, Winchester. These things are strong. Strong as anything you'll ever hunt, but that's why the lesson is important. You wanna learn this life, gotta learn how to make an opponent's strengths work against them, how to get the supernatural working for you and make any kind of power mean nothing other than power of your own weapons. You wanna know what we're hunting?" he asked, looking at John sideways as John drove. Mac had his own truck but he had said John needed to get used to driving quick getaways if he was ever going to hunt alone.

"Yeah, Mac, I wanna know," John assured him.

"Well then. Ever hear of a succubus?"

Like with most of the things John had heard about since he met Missouri Mosely, his first internal response was a desire to laugh. Some things just couldn't be real. "Demons that kill people with sex?" he supplied, knowing at least that much about the myths, "They're real too?"

"And they don't just kill for the fun of it. It's how they feed. Need sex as much as food, these freaks. Not that some men aren't much the same," Mac leered.

"Right."

John didn't particularly like Harold McCormack. The guy was dirty and rough around the edges, older than John by at least ten years with premature grey along his sideburns. His face was always darkly unshaven and he almost religiously wore this old cowboy hat for luck. John had always been a jeans and T-shirt with a flannel for warmth kind of guy, but he hoped he always managed to wash his clothing more often than these other hunters.

Still, whether he liked Mac or not, John knew that he needed as many allies as he could get if he was ever going to find out what really took his Mary from him. He needed to learn everything. Each new hunt brought him one step closer to solving that mystery and bringing justice to his wife's killer. He believed that with everything in him. He had to.

"So we're hunting a succubus? You gonna fill me in any more than that or just put a loaded gun in my hand when we get there and point."

Mac chuckled gruffly again. "You're a funny one, Winchester. Hope you manage to hang onto that. But no, you ain't gotta worry about being unprepared. Or about guns just yet, for that matter. Tonight you're gonna learn how to draw a Devil's Trap. Good tool for capturing a lot of things, truth me told. Anything with demon blood is susceptible. Now these things are strong, no lie there, but they won't be able to move more'n ten feet once we get them in a trap. And no, we're not talking about hunting just a succubus. There'll be a pair of 'em. An incubus too, the male kind. Trying to play off all 'Ozzie and Harriet' over in Battle Creek. Stay on 121 here. Won't be much farther."

Two of them, an incubus and a succubus that apparently had super-strength, and Mac was all calm and collected like they were going for a Sunday drive.

John had shot and killed a shapeshifter not too long ago that had taken the form of a man he thought he could trust. He had shot him in the head. Point blank. Without even being sure he was doing the right thing. But even after that John was nowhere near thinking he could handle anything that was thrown at him.

"Keep it cool, Winchester," Mac said, having picked up on John's unease, "I got plenty more to tell ya. Now they're gonna have a human guise on at first, but what these things really look like," Mac let out something like a whoop, "Lemme tell ya…"

John was gripping the Impala's steering wheel so tight by the time Mac finished his detailed description of these things, the skin was white around his knuckles. Claws? Fangs? Wings? The scariest thing John had seen so far—other than his wife going up in flames above Sammy's crib—was a Hellhound. That was scary enough.

The thing John was most interested in was how to kill these things. That he could use. That he understood.

"Iron is your new best friend, Winchester," Mac said, pulling out a bowie knife from somewhere inside his jacket that made John nervous for how sharp it looked, "Handy as rock salt and much more deadly when you're not tracking spooks. Always have an iron weapon on ya. Always. Some things it's the only way to kill 'em. These god damn sex demons fall under that category. Gotta get 'em in the heart. Remember that." Mac put his own knife away but reached down to his ankle and unhooked a hidden sheath bearing a much smaller blade. He set it between them. "You put this on when we get there. Call it a gift. It'll come in handy."

John nodded. Gifts from hunters were always purposeful and reminded John just what kind of life he had set out for himself to live. "Got it," John said, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel, "Anything else I need to know?" John glanced to the side at Mac, having seen a sign that read 'Battle Lake: 10 miles'. He saw the older hunter grin wide and ominous like a jack-o-lantern back at him.

"Whatever you do," Mac said, "Keep this in mind. Know what you are. Know what they are. There is no compromise."

After reaching the town of Battle Lake, John feared Mac was going to direct him right into a residential area. As it turned out the incubus/succubus couple they were hunting had rented out a cabin just north of town. It wasn't exactly tourist season in February. Not in small town Nebraska. It made John confident that Mac was on the level about this hunt.

They parked the Impala back in the trees and walked the rest of the way. John had his new gun loaded with iron bullets and the gifted ankle blade securely attached. Mac was armed much the same but also carried a spray-can of paint. He had shown John what the Devil's Trap needed to look like and why, explaining the corners and symbols and how the pentagram had been misinterpreted as a sign of the devil for centuries. It was a protective mark that held anything with demon blood captive.

Sneaking quietly through the night they reached the cabin quickly. John was surprised to find the back door unlocked. But then why would monsters fear nosy neighbors or burglars, he thought.

They needed to set up the trap fast, before either demon woke up and came downstairs to investigate. There was an entryway into the main downstairs room directly from the stairs. Mac painted the Devil's Trap on the floor just inside that entryway. Even with John's eyes adjusting to the dark it was still hard to make out the design of the trap.

"Now what?" John whispered impatiently. They hadn't heard any signs of stirring.

Mac was still crouched by the Devil's Trap double checking that there were no gaps in the lines. He turned back to John all smiles but his expression immediately dropped. "John!"

It didn't take Mac calling him 'John' instead of 'Winchester' for John to recognize he was in trouble, even before he felt strong heavy claws on his shoulders. Suddenly, John was eating the wall and he could barely focus on his surroundings anymore. It had happened so fast. He fell straight to the floor after impact, his senses almost too dim after the blow to his head for him to hear the nearby sounds of fighting. He felt like his nose had been smashed up into his head. Strong, in reference to these creatures, was a vast understatement.

But John Winchester was no weakling when it came to fighting, regardless of the harsh blow. He was a Marine. He had trained to be stellar in the face of impossible odds for years.

Pushing up onto his feet, John quickly took stock of the situation. Mac was clearly in worse shape than he was right now, held up against the opposite wall by black taloned fingers wrapped around his throat. John was overcome by a moment of awe as he finally saw the creature fully. All the aspects Mac had prepared him for were there—the height, the horns, the wings. White skin fell away to the deepest green on the creature's extremities, looking almost black in the dark.

John shook his head. He couldn't hesitate. He pulled the ankle blade from its sheath and leapt across the room, managing a fierce stab into the creature's side before it even knew he had recovered. It was the male, the incubus, John realized, making it hopefully the stronger of the two and leaving a weaker kill for later. The incubus roared a feral growl when John stabbed it, but John wasn't finished. He twisted the knife before ripping it free again, leaving a gaping wound in his wake.

A moment later John was on the floor but he had been successful. Mac was released from those deadly claws as the incubus clutched at where he was bleeding. Blue veins began to rapidly spread out from the wound, a sign of the iron's poison to these demons.

Two things happened at once after that, trapping John between two very different looking worlds. The first was a woman's scream that preceded the appearance of what John assumed was the succubus. She had stumbled upon the trap, entering through the main doorway as they had hoped for both of them, and now that she was captured she pounded on the invisible barrier at the trap's edge.

John was startled by how human she looked. Her hair was such a pale blonde it seemed white in the dark of the room, her face beautiful, her body so fragile looking in a slim nightgown. She howled for her mate and John flinched when her eyes flashed red.

The second thing that happened was Mac's quick response to having the incubus distracted and wounded. Mac rushed the larger creature, forcing the incubus back towards his mate in the Devil's Trap. The incubus tried to fight but the wound in his side had been too aptly made. In barely an eye blink both creatures were inside the Devil's Trap, leaving Mac and John both panting and sore just out of harm's reach.

John wanted to feel relief, to feel justified hatred for these things playing at being human, but as he got to his feet again something seemed wrong. The incubus was slowly transforming back into that human mask, lying on the floor now. In his human form he was wearing sleep pants identical to a pair of John's that Mary had bought for him last year.

But it wasn't just coincidence or the perfect guises that swayed John to sympathy. The man bleeding in the Devil's Trap had short brown hair and green eyes that were quickly dimming. His wife hovered over him, holding his head in her lap. There were no red eyes now. No claws. No wings. The pair was just a scared couple crumbled there on the floor. Hurt. Invaded. They looked so young…

"Know what you are. Know what they are," Mac said to John firmly, clearly noticing John's uncertainty. The older hunter picked up the ankle blade from where John had dropped it on the floor. "No compromise."

"But Mac…"

"None. Not ever." Mac thrust the knife towards John. "Heard it a million times, Winchester. Don't believe what you see. They're just demons. That's all any of 'em are."

"You monster!" screamed the succubus, her voice loud and shrill with hysterics, "You call us demons? We haven't done anything!"

"Hn," Mac huffed uncaringly, not even bothering to turn back and look at the pair on the floor. They were at Mac's back but John could see them both clearly. Mac continued to hold the ankle blade out towards him. "Tell me," he said without hesitation, "If the thing that killed your wife walked up to you with a smile and acted human, would you show mercy then?"

John felt his expression fall into a snarl. That was unfair. An unfair comparison. This wasn't the same. Mac hadn't actually told John about any deaths or other evils in town as a result of this couple being here. He said as much to Mac now. "How do you know they've hurt anyone?"

Again, Mac looked dismissive and uncaring of the demon couple, though he still wore that wide grin that made John shiver. It wasn't manic. It wasn't wild or crazed. It was unhindered certainty.

John wasn't certain. He doubted. He couldn't help feeling that this had to be wrong.

"You think I want to wait for the body count to start?" Mac scoffed, "A good hunter gets 'em early. We kill 'em now, we never have to worry about someone paying the price come the day they get hungry."

"We don't kill people!" the succubus defended, clutching her fading husband to her body tighter. The veins, blue and sickly, almost covered all of him now. He could barely move. Barely speak. "We don't even feed on humans anymore," she sobbed, "Only each other…" Tenderly, she brought her hand to her husband's face and smoothed a thumb over his pale cheek. Her nightgown, once light blue, was stained a deep red from his blood.

"Laurel…" the incubus tried to speak. He looked at her so lovingly but it was clear his eyes couldn't quite focus.

"Mac," John implored, still refusing to take the knife from him, "Maybe you're wrong. How can we be sure? These people…"

"They're not people. They're demons. Don't get your wires crossed this early in the game, Winchester. They're the bad guys. We're the good guys. End of story."

"Please. Help us," the succubus beseeched of John now, her once red eyes a pale blue that matched what was still unmarred of her nightgown, "You know this is wrong. I can feel it. You're not like this other man. You're confused. You're angry. I understand that. But you're not blinded by it," she spat at Mac.

Immediately, Mac turned, John's ankle blade still in one hand while the other reached fluidly to the back of his jeans to pull his gun. He aimed it square at the succubus' chest. "That's enough outta you. My wires aren't crossed. I know what's what. You don't wanna be apart of this," he said back at John, "Fine. But I came here to do a job." Determined as ever Mac turned his attention back on the succubus and cocked his gun, ready to fire without any thought of mercy.

John could have just stood there. Could have trusted that a more experienced hunter knew better than he did. But if John really thought about it all he was doing was listening to what Mac had told him. Know what they are. Know what you are. Mac was right. There was no compromise. John knew the answers. And Mac was the one who was wrong.

It didn't surprise John at all how easily he pulled his own gun and aimed it at Mac's head.

"I can't let you do that," he said evenly, steady as he had ever been in the service or out of it, "I'll take the risk that I'm wrong, but I can't let you kill these people without a reason."

"They're demons," Mac insisted, his face filled with disbelieving fury at finding John's gun in his face, "What other reason do you need? You point that at me over them? You saw what they really look like. Some things ain't black or white, I'll give you that, but this is. Now, you came here to learn something. You wanna stay bystander, be my guest. You interfere…we're gonna have a problem." The threat in those words was unmistakable.

So was the threat in John's. "Yes," he said, cocking his own hammer to prove just how serious he was, "We will have a problem. Put the gun down, Mac. This isn't what hunters do."

"And what would you know about what hunters do?"

John had to stop and think about that because the truth was he didn't know anything. He didn't even know which direction he was headed half the time. "You're right. You're absolutely right. But I do know what John Winchester does, and what he doesn't do is point a gun at innocent people. What's that tell you, Mac?" John took a step closer, his gun aimed evenly.

There was that grin again, slowly creeping and only half visible with Mac turned towards where he had his gun pointed at the succubus. John thought about how certain the grin looked, how assured. He still wasn't certain or sure of anything, but he knew killing these people had to be wrong.

The incubus was shaking uncontrollably now, covered head to toe in those veins and wheezing like he couldn't get any air. Apparently getting the heart wasn't as necessary as Mac had made it sound. It just would have been quicker. The wound John inflicted was deep; the incubus only had a few minutes left to live, if that.

"Shoot then," Mac said, brimming with the confidence that showed in his grin. The succubus wasn't paying him any attention anymore, more concerned with soothing her dying husband. "You'll have to shoot me," Mac said again, "Because I'm going to." His gun was aimed just as steadily as John's. He wasn't bluffing.

The succubus looked up finally, her eyes filled with tears, her voice pleading. She still paid no mind to Mac, though her fear of him was obvious. She looked to John. "Please," she begged. She was so young. So young.

As young as Mary had been when she died.

"Mac…"

"Too late, John," Mac said, and even as he spoke his trigger was already pulling back. The sound of the gun firing spurned John's own trigger finger to act, creating a horrible gunshot echo that rang in his ears.

Too late. Too late…

Mac was dead on the floor…and so was the succubus, knocked onto her back with her husband still half in her arms.

John's gun dropped from his hand and he dove for the Devil's Trap. There was nothing he could do; Mac's aim had been too good. He got her right in the heart, killing her instantly. Her eyes lay open and red again as she shifted back into her true form. Other than the mostly white skin, her coloring was different than her husband's—a deep, deep blue. She looked so wrong like that with her blood-stained nightgown still around her.

John crumbled to the floor half inside the Devil's Trap next to her, sure that the incubus was also dead. He buried his face in his hands and choked back a sob. "Oh, God, Mary…I don't know what I'm doing…"

Suddenly, John jumped near out of his skin at the feeling of trembling fingers grabbing to pull his own from his face. John's fight instincts kicked in and he almost lashed out at whoever was touching him, but thankfully he realized almost immediately that he was under no threat. It was the incubus. He was still alive. John was so angry at himself for not noticing right away. The incubus still looked human; of course he was alive.

"Oh god…" John said again, grasping the hand that had groped for his, "Can you…can you hear me? I'm sorry. God, I…I'm so sorry. I wasn't fast enough."

The incubus' eyes were filled so much by those veins that they didn't even look green anymore. He stared up at John, unable to see him. His wife's limbs were sprawled about him but he didn't seem to notice that either. It was obvious he was trying to speak.

"I'm sorry…Mac seemed so sure, I…I should have listened to Ellen," John grumbled pitiably to himself. He didn't care that he might have to face an aftermath of Mac's hunter buddies. Everything was wrong. And everything had been wrong since Mary was taken from him. He couldn't recognize who the true monsters were. He didn't know how. Not yet.

"L-Laurel…?" managed the incubus, the man beside John's legs.

John felt tears well up within him. "I'm sorry," he said again, "I couldn't save her." He couldn't save anyone. "Tell me what to do. There has to be something I can do."

The incubus convulsed and shuddered in reply. There was barely any spark of life left in his face. He only managed one final plea before the last of the light in his eyes went out. "My…son…" he breathed.

Oh god. The impact of those words was far greater than the weight of the bodies beside John on the floor, or of Mac's a few feet away. The green incubus transformed just as his wife had when death finally claimed him, but John's blood was cold for a different reason.

A son. They had a son somewhere in this house. And John had let both of them die.

John bound immediately up the stairs in search for the child, looking in every room he came to. Finally, at the end of the upstairs hallway there was a gently closed door, just slightly ajar. John pushed on it and the door swung open before him revealing the sobering sight of a nursery.

A gasp left John as he entered. There was a nightlight plugged into the wall that was just bright enough for him to see that the child was awake. He was standing himself up in the crib with his hands on the bars to steady him. They were such tiny hands. The child couldn't have been that much older than Sam, not even a year old. He stared at John, at the stranger that had just entered his room, with a curious expression. John didn't dare move, afraid he might frighten the boy. Besides, there was blood on his clothing. How could he go to this child after what he had done?

That thought reminded John that he had already asked that question more than once concerning his own children. And the answer was the same tonight as it had been before.

Because he had to.

As John walked closer to the crib his heart ached at seeing those tiny little hands reaching up for him, completely trusting and wanting to be held. Without the support of his hands on the bars, however, the child's chubby, unsure legs dropped him right onto his diapered bottom in the middle of the crib. A chuckle rose within John that he couldn't release. It seemed too wrong to laugh.

There was a pout on the boy's face when John finally lifted him out of the crib, but it soon vanished when the little boy realized he had gotten his way. He was one of those children that would go to anyone. Sam was like that too, though Dean certainly hadn't been. "Hey, little man," John whispered, forcing a smile and for his wet eyes to dry. The boy looked so normal. Pale hair like his mother's. Chubby cheeks. A onesie on that looked too small for him already.

The boy tilted his head at John and spoke impressively clear. "Mama?" he questioned, probably wondering why this strange man was here instead of her.

John's heart burned in his chest. He thought of his own sons and what this would be like for them one day if he failed. This boy was too young to understand what horrors John had helped bring upon him. "I'm sorry," he said to the plump little thing in his arms. How could it matter that this was a child incubus? How? All these people had been was a family, they weren't monsters. "I don't know what to do with you," John admitted, "Mac said you had…another home. Another place that you come from. Home," he said again slowly, "Do you understand home? Do you know how to get home?" John knew it was fruitless, but he had to try something.

Again the boy's head tilted, regarding John curiously. He took one of his tiny little hands and pressed it to John's cheek, rubbing up and down on the stubble. The boy giggled and pulled his hand away, "Home," he said, and before John could recognize that the weight in his arms was suddenly lighter, the boy vanished as if he had never been there.

McCormack told me about these spells, these ways an incubus or succubus had of going back to where they came from instantly. I can only hope the boy made it home. I hope someone found him. That someone understands.

I burned the place to the ground after I was sure the boy wasn't in another room. What else could I do? I keep thinking there had to have been something. Anything. I retrieved the ankle blade McCormack gave me too, even though I know it will only remind me of what happened.

When I got back to the Roadhouse all I said was that the hunt had gone bad. No one questioned it. I checked on the boys while they slept, and when Ellen came in I told her everything.

Never again. Not like that. Not because I saw too late where the greys started and ended. I'll never forget that little boy. His tiny hands. His eyes. The way they looked at me so trusting, with a color so amazingly—

"Hey there. Anyone ever tell you, you look sexy all alone up on a roof like this?"

"Jesus!" Dean nearly threw the journal up into the air he was so startled. Being ripped from his father's thoughts and after seeing things so clearly through his father's eyes was more than a little jarring. Especially when the culprit for causing Dean's alarm was a seventeen-year-old flirt with bright turquoise hair.

Dean grimaced as he looked up and saw Leven standing inside the doorway that led back off the roof.

"Are you stalking me now?" Dean accused, only half kidding, "Get the jump on me like that again and you might just take a nosedive off the side of the building. See if fairies really can fly," he grumbled. Dean then immediately blanched. He hadn't really just said that. Was he the biggest dick in the world?

Apparently not, since Leven was falling over himself laughing. The kid entered fully onto the roof carrying what looked like lunch. He wasn't barefoot anymore and had obviously changed after his morning dance practice. He had on skinny jeans that showed off his lack of hips, a graphic T, and an unzipped bomber jacket that Dean kind of liked.

"You eating lunch up here?" Dean asked as Leven pulled another crate up next to him, "It's frickin' forty degrees out."

"Says the guy who thought this would be a nice place to read," Leven smirked back. He pulled his feet up cross-legged on the crate and opened his bag lunch. It looked like a sandwich. "Whatcha reading anyway?" Leven asked, trying to peer around at the journal and maybe discern a title.

Dean quickly tucked the journal away. He would have to leave behind what he had read for now, but he definitely wanted to revisit it later, and probably have a nice long talk about it with Sam. "Nothing you need to know about," Dean said, "So you actually going to tell me why you're eating up here alone instead of with friends, or do I gotta coerce it outta you?"

A wider smirk quirked at Leven's lips. "Coerce, huh? Does that involve—"

"Seriously now," Dean jumped in before anything stomach-churning could follow the beginning of that sentence, "Can't be for the sun," Dean added with a nod up at the clouded over sky.

Leven's smirk faded almost immediately, the whole light-hearted persona slipping just as Dean had seen before. Maybe it was because they were alone that Leven didn't try to pull the mask back on right away. "Those friends you mentioned?" he said, picking at his sandwich rather than eating it, "Yeah, I don't…really have any."

That caught Dean's attention. "New to the school?"

The not-quite frown twitched. "Not so much what with the going here since kindergarten thing." Leven picked a little more at his sandwich and then set it down without taking a bite. "It's not so bad up here," he tried to smile, "Least nobody bugs me."

"But you're the lead in the school play, right? Doesn't that sorta go with being popular?" Dean didn't understand this.

"Uh," Leven blinked at Dean like he was absolutely out of his mind, "Did you actually go to high school?"

Well…huh. Dean supposed it was true that he didn't exactly pay attention to school politics back when he went.

"I mean, I guess there's a handful of pretty cool people in the show, but they're all uber-young. Mostly freshmen. We have lunch at different times. No classes together. Sorta puts a damper on things."

It hit Dean then what was probably the reason for such alienation towards Leven from his classmates. It made him want to wrap his hands around something very tightly. "Don't tell me it's coz of something stupid like the gay thing?" he asked. It sort of surprised Dean how offhandedly he just said that.

Leven huffed out a laugh. "Easy for you to say. You've already been through this shit."

"Uh…yeah," Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, "Not so much, kid. This is all sorta…new for me."

Leven gaped at him skeptically.

"Okay, so I obviously broadcast it pretty loudly that the redhead is mine," Dean admitted, "And he's not much better. Actually, he's worse. But it's not all normal, cut and dry." Dean tried to think of how best to explain things, but there wasn't any real way to do it other than to just come right out and tell the truth. "I'm not gay, alright?" he said, knowing how weird that sounded given certain details, "At least…I'm not into other guys. Just him. And me and him being an us, well, that's only been since December."

There. That wasn't so hard. In fact, that was probably about as coherent as Dean had ever been able to explain his and Sasha's relationship.

Leven was silent, however, and Dean feared for a moment that the kid might be offended for some reason. When Dean looked up, Leven was just staring at him.

"Shit," the kid said finally, "You're like…every gay boy's romantic wet dream come true." He eyed Dean up and down again like he wanted to eat him for lunch instead of his sandwich.

Dean felt strangely dirty hearing Leven say that. "What?"

Laughter rose up in Leven immediately and spilled freely out of him again. "You're straight," he said, "Crazy hot. Like melt me into a puddle hot. And Red gets you to fall in love with him so deeply, you switch teams for him. That's like straight out of a gay romance novel, yaoi Japanese comic book kinda crap. Your man must be hot 'n heavy like nobody's business. And I've seen him so I know that at least half a that's true." Leven winked at Dean as he said that. It was kind of Sasha-like actually, which disturbed Dean to no end.

"Kid, you are beyond creeping me out," Dean said, "But I think there may have been a compliment in there somewhere so I'll just say thanks and leave it. Probably…safer." Dean shifted on his crate.

Again, Leven started laughing. Dean decided it suited the kid. He had a feeling it didn't happen nearly as much as Leven would have people believe.

"So, kids your age treat you like crap for being different. Huh," Dean nodded, "Good to know not much has changed since I went to high school. Stupidity, it ran a-rampant. But don't let 'em get to you," Dean said more seriously, looking over at Leven on his parallel crate, "It's how they win. And those kind of people…they don't deserve to win."

Leven's smile stretched as wide as Dean had yet seen it. "No worries there," he assured Dean, finally picking his sandwich up again and taking a large bite. He spoke around his chewing. "They can all go blow themselves. No ones changing my stripes for me. The one thing that's worse than having people hate you for what you are and what you can't change is letting them get you to hate yourself for it too." Leven nodded to himself as he swallowed. "That's what Wade says. She can be pretty cool when she wants to be."

Dean understood that as little brother speak for 'I love my sister'. "You talk to the redhead yet?" Dean asked, figuring that switching gears was probably a good idea, "And it's Sasha, if ya wanna know. I'm Dean."

"Introductions at last," Leven beamed. He held out the hand that wasn't currently holding a sandwich and Dean took it with a sideways grin. They shook. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Only-Gay-For-His-Boyfriend. So is the real last name Sexy or Smoldering? Coz you have all of the above working for you in spades." Leven waggled an eyebrow.

God damn it. Dean pulled his hand back from the kid's lingering hold. "Okay, you need to cut that out right now," Dean warned, using his all-business voice, "Frankly, it gives me the willies, and you know I'm taken. Is that whole 'all gay men want a straight guy' thing true or what?"

The otherwise pleasant expression on Leven's face twisted into a grimace. "Uh, no. I can vouch that I have no intentions on any of the breeders on the football team. But really?" Leven said, looking at Dean in a way that said he really wanted Dean to pay attention, "Gay or straight, I'll take any guy as long as he wants me. The details don't matter as much. Ya know?" Leven took another large bite of his sandwich.

"Yeah," Dean said with a more genuine smile again, "I know just what you mean. So you laying off then?" Dean asked. The jailbait flirting was really grating on him.

"I make no promises," Leven grinned as he gave Dean the once over yet again, "You wouldn't happen to have a younger brother, would you?" he added with another wink.

Oh that was just too good. Dean was sorely tempted to find some way to set Sam up over that but then he really didn't want to have to let Leven down in the end. "Actually, I do," Dean admitted, "And he's here with us too. But," he went on before Leven's moon eyes could get any bigger, "He's still too old for you. He's possibly even straighter than me, and not in any mood to change that. And really...he's not nearly as pretty. I'd just be setting you up for disappointment," Dean grinned.

Leven laughed. "Damn. I'd take another you if one existed. But…I'll try to lay off if it makes you queasy. You're cool. I don't want you running for the hills just yet. I'm just impatient, I guess. Kinda don't wanna have to wait for my prince to come, or whatever. I just want him here now. Typical stupid teenager stuff, huh?"

Well, Dean never did like to lie unless he had to. "Pretty much, yeah," he said with a smirk. Their crates were close enough that he managed to buck Leven in the shoulder. "And that ain't so bad. There'll be stupid adult stuff for you to agonize over before ya know it, kid. Ain't life grand?"

Dean's cell phone suddenly started to vibrate in his pocket, meaning he had a new text message. Dean knew to check his watch before looking at his phone, and his assumption was right too. He was way late to meet up with Sasha and had a pretty good idea what the text would say. It made him smirk anyway to read the 'don't make me come looking for you or there will be punishment later' that had come to him from Sasha's phone. Oh, but he so enjoyed that kind of punishment.

"You gonna keep chowing down up here?" Dean asked as he looked up from his phone, and then realized how unnecessary that question was since Leven had somehow managed to finish off the sandwich when he wasn't looking and was now downing the last bite, "Well then," Dean shrugged, "Unless you gotta run off to class, wanna come with me to meet up with Sasha downstairs? We really do want to talk to you about all these accidents."

"I have a free period next," Leven said, crumpling up his now empty brown paper bag and getting up off the crate, "But even if I had the ACTs coming up, I'd still choose an afternoon with two hot guys over class. Can I at least keep referencing to the hot?" Leven said with a wave of his hand at Dean, realizing that what he had said had made Dean grimace again, "It's just pretty well impossible for me not to. Call it a character flaw."

Disturbed as Dean wanted to be, he couldn't help laughing. "Whatever. But you flirt with my incubus and there'll be hell to pay." Dean went for the roof door ahead of Leven and opened it.

"You call him your incubus?" Leven said, swooning as he placed a dramatic hand over his heart, "Oh, that's love all right. The good ones really are all either gay or taken, and just my luck, this time they had to be both."

Dean held the door open for Leven then, mainly because he needed a minute to mentally yell at himself for letting 'incubus' slip out of his mouth so easily like that. That would not have been good in different company. Dean really needed to get his head on straight. No pun intended, he thought wryly.

He had almost forgotten about the hunt he had read about in his father's journal, but it came back to him as he and Leven walked back down the stairs. Something was bothering Dean about it, besides the obvious horrors and unfortunate events that had been what led John Winchester to leave Sasha's kind alone. Dean knew there was something he was missing, something important. He just couldn't quite figure out what.

tbc...

A/N: There is no reason that weekly updates should make me feel like I'm starving you, but I do. I used to post every four days! The thing is folks, the wedding is over. I have more free time. I need to use some of it for my original work. But I swear you will never go more than a week without an update. I couldn't bear it!

Thoughts on the chapter? You guys sort of review in waves, up and down, aside from you very consistent regulars. I just hope it isn't down-swooping for any particular reason, and if it is, I would like to know why.

Deangirl found this awesome part from the ComicCon panel for Supernatural that mentions GossipGirl, which is where Sasha's actor is from. I'll have to post a link on the website. Hilarious and ironic.

I so meant for this chapter to go much further into the story, and then John totally took over. I like writing early John, back when I still liked him. Please do try and read the Origins comic. It's very good, even though for some reason they get a few details wrong, like Jo's age. Stupid. Also, I've just finished reading "Watchmen" which has a movie coming out in March with Daddy Winchester. Oh how I love me some JDM. Mmmm. Anyway, I recommend if you haven't ever read "Watchmen".

Okay, my honey needs loving. More soon! And I promise we'll get to the heart of things a bit more next.

Crim