Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural

Author's Note: Set before the pilot, I'm not sure what is cannon or not so if I've grossly misrepresented something that is cannon I apologize.

My judgement on John Winchester is withheld. I believe he loves his sons, but I'm not sure he was the best parent he could've been. However, regardless of that (he could've been for all I know) I'm pretty sure he had to have had his dark moments-- at least in the beginning.

The "she" mentioned in the first paragraph is Missouri Mosely from "Home."

I hope you enjoy!


Evil walked this house.

That's what she'd said… he'd gone to her for guidance, advice, knowledge. And she had lifted the veil, she had those words, she had given him knowledge he could never escape.

He couldn't get those words out of his head. They echoed every where he looked; they reverberated off the walls and drowned out all other thoughts; blurring images and numbing emotions. Not even the wailing blocked them out, no matter how loud it got, how intense it seemed—it didn't overpower the sheer horror of those words.

Evil walked this house.

The words were surreal; unreal… evil had walked the house?

His house...?

His home…?

The home where he'd put up dry-wall, where he'd insulated the plumbing, where he'd bought a new water heater; where he'd oiled the door hinges and fixed floor boards.

The home where he'd taken his wife, where he'd told her she was safe, where he'd watched her cook for him, where they'd taken showers together; where he'd held her, kissed her, made love to her, tickled her, teased her, laughed with her, watched her swell with his child…

Evil walked this house.

The home where he'd cradled his son. Where he'd watched him take his first step, say his first word, call him "Daddy"; where they'd played hide and seek and horsy, where he'd stood in the doorway and watched his wife read their child fairy tales and tuck him in.

The home where his wife had smiled and told him she was pregnant again, where they'd cuddled on the big bed with both their sons and relished in the completeness of their life.

Evil walked this house.

The home that had been ravaged by flames.

The home where his wife had died—murdered, mutilated, burned…

Evil walked this house.

Fuck! The wailing should at least drown out those fuckin words.

The drinks weren't helping. It didn't matter how many he had, how many empty bottles littered the floor—the words wouldn't let him be. The images wouldn't fade… her expression wouldn't fade—the wailing wouldn't stop…

Evil.

He'd always believed it existed. He'd seen it action before, read about it in newspapers, seen it on television. It was out there… but that was the key, it was out there. Not in his home; not in the niche he'd created for the people he most treasured…

… for his Mary.

He'd paid his dues… he'd submerged himself in the evil of humanity. In the things people could, would do to each other when push came to shove. He'd seen desperation turn even the kind into monsters.

… the wailing couldn't drown them out…

He'd seen evil in his father's eyes when the drink went to his head, he'd heard it in his voice, felt it in his fists.

… the wailing couldn't drown them out…

But Evil should have stayed away from Mary; Evil had no place near his wife, near his beautiful, pure Mary with her smile and her laughter and her joy…

Evil walked this house.

Evil should have fuckin stayed away from his wife! What the fuck was the point of having locks and security systems and goddamned shotguns if evil could just fuckin walk the house. If evil could just fuckin stroll in and snatch purity and goodness away without a single goddamned warning—what the fuck was the point of anything

Evil walked this house.

What the fuck was the point of that goddamn wailing if it wasn't going to drown out the words… the expression on Mary's—

"Daddy?" The quiet word was fearful and barely audible above the useless wailing filling the room's every crevice.

His head shot up; bleary, bloodshot eyes fastened on the small, blonde boy standing to his side and a few feet away. The small, blonde boy with his eyes fastened on the floor and his little hands fisted at his sides.

"What?" he slurred, the word sharp as the bottle slipped from his fingers and tumbled across the room, spilling amber liquid on the motel rug.

The boy didn't look up, didn't move; when he spoke again the words were even more hesitant, more quiet, "I—need—somethi- somethin to-to--"

The stuttering and hesitancy and fear were all so abnormal coming from this formerly vivacious boy that John stared at him for a moment—wondering if maybe this wasn't his son…

… no, no… this was his son, his mind stated— his son who'd barely spoken in the last two months. His son who no longer vibrated with excitement about everything, no longer chattered with uninhibited glee about the nonsensical.

His son who's gaze was still fastened to the floor…

"You what?" he asked, scowling as his tongue refused to cooperate and he slurred again.

He shifted, lost his balance and slipped to the carpet.

On his knees, he glared at his son, why didn't the kid say something? It was beginning freak him the fuck out—this silence! His son wasn't silent! Never, not unless he had a fever and even then he talked! His son talked about everything; his son knew his numbers and how to read! His son read with his Mom every night! His son read those kid version of classics... had a book shelf in his room full of them… his mother made sure of it…

... it had all burned…

Evil walked this house.

… the wailing couldn't drown them out…

"You what!" He growled—suddenly irrationally enraged with the kid. Why didn't he talk! Why didn't he look at him?

The blonde head shook, the child took a small step backwards, "Nu-nothin…" the word was barely audible above the wailing; but John heard it, John hated it…

… that word, that tone, that wailing…

"Look at me." He commanded, the boy said nothing, instead took another tiny step backwards.

John reached out and grabbed a small arm, "I said look at me!" He growled, yanking the child closer to him.

And the boy did.

The boy fastened wide, hazel eyes on him.

Evil walked this house.

… the wailing couldn't drown them out…

Wide, hazel eyes…

… Mary's eyes…

Terrified.

The boy's terror infuriated him. How dare he be afraid? What the fuck did he have to be afraid of? Was he the one who saw all the purity and good in his life stuck to a goddamned ceiling? Did he watch the woman he loved, the woman he'd sworn to protect, the woman he'd built a life around ignite into fuckin flames?

His grip tightened, "I asked you a fuckin question!" He hissed.

Evil walked this house.

"You what! What the hell do you want? What do you want from me? Huh? I don't fuckin know what happened! I don't know how to fix it! I don't know what the hell is goin on!"

… the wailing couldn't drown them out…

Terror danced and flickered in those hazel eyes – like flames…

Flames crystallized into tears; tears that did nothing to diminish the terror…

… terror…

He was terrorizing his son…

His son; this was son… no, his mind cried. NO, his son wouldn't look at him like this. His son loved him, admired him, his son was not scared of him. His son wouldn't know that terror…

Evil walked this house.

Evil.

That changed everything.

Evil had paraded itself among his family, had touched his home, his sons, his wife…

Evil should have stayed away from his wife.

"Stop it!" He roared, when a tear slid down the boy's cheek.

He grabbed the child's other arm as well, gripping him tightly by the shoulders, "Stop it right this fuckin minute!" --stop being scared; stop being scared of mea tiny voice pleaded.

If anything, though, the terror seemed to intensify in the child's wide eyes.

John couldn't take it; the tiny voice told him to stop— to release the boy… Mary's son…

… but the voice was blurred by dancing flames, by crystallized terror, by the never-ending, useless wailing…

"STOP with the tears!" He yelled, "Right NOW! STOP IT! I don't have time for that shit!"

Evil walked this house.

Evil should have stayed away from his wife.

It would have to pay. John would make it pay.

The boy trembled under John's hold, breathing in small gasps, his eyes terror filled—tear-filled. Another tear slipped down the boy's cheek.

"What did I just say!" he hissed, "STOP IT. Tears are for goddamned babies and I have enough to fuckin deal with, with one! I don't need two! You're not a baby!"

... the wailing couldn't drown them out…

... the wailing…

… wailing…

"Understand me? You're not a goddamned baby! So grow the fuck up! Right NOW." With a hard shake that rattled the child's entire frame, he roared, "STOP CRYING!"

… wailing…

Evil walked this house.

His house.

His home.

Mary's home.

… the wailing couldn't drown them out…

Beneath his hands the boy trembled—the boy—his son—feared him.

… the wailing…

"Another boy, John... another son."

She'd smiled at him, handed him another baby, another son…

"Dean has a brother. He'll be so excited."

She'd smiled.

His wife— his beautiful wife…

… the wailing couldn't drown them out…

… the wailing did nothing, but remind him— fire.

"I—I'm s-so-sorry…" the boy offered, looking up at the man that had once been his Daddy.

John blinked, the world lurching about him for a moment.

"Stop crying." He repeated, loosening his hold and giving the boy another shake, though considerably less violent…

… wailing…

… fire…

With a sloppy and uncoordinated move, he shoved the child from his side and crawled on his hands and knees towards the bottle he'd dropped earlier.

It wasn't helping.

He knew that. Even as he brought it to his lips and drained what hadn't spilled, he knew that—but he relished it anyway… relished the way it burned as it slid down his throat.

… fire…

"Sorry, huh?" he snarled at the child who'd staggered backwards several steps, his gaze on the floor again. "You're sorry?" the words were slurring again, his vision blurring as he staggered to his feet, "You're fuckin sorry?" He growled, bringing the bottle to his lips again…

… drops of the liquid fire touched his tongue…

…only drops…

… the bottle was empty…

… the wailing continued…

… wailing…

… the bottle was empty…

… fire…

… fire…

… Evil…

Evil walked this house.

He whirled the empty bottle towards the door of the motel room with enough force to shatter it.

Glass sprinkled the room.

The wailing somehow intensified.

… wailing…

… it couldn't drown them out…

"What goddamn good is your sorry! Is your sorry gonna bring her back? Is your sorry gonna erase it! The image— of her, of Mary—on the fuckin ceiling! PINNED TO THE GODDAMNED CEILING! ON FIRE!"

The world shifted and slid away from him as he paced the small room; with each step he took, the child cringed, drawing into himself more and more, his gaze fastened steadily on the floor, tiny hands fisted at his sides.

He felt, more than saw the child; knew it was there… knew it was his… knew he should stop; but the words didn't want to stop. He'd kept them inside; he'd locked them away—told himself he was crazy, it was impossible. Others had confirmed the thought for him—it was impossible, it was crazy…

Evil walked this house.

It wasn't crazy. He wasn't crazy.

God, how he wished he were crazy…

"… on the goddamned ceiling! BLEEDING! Slashed in the stomach! Fuck!" He moaned, the pain of it almost physical.

"ALIVE! She was alive…!" He groaned, a wave of nausea washing over him as he remembered the expression… her eyes…

"Bleeding…!" he whimpered, his pacing slowing down as the shifting world and stabs of sorrow became too much to bear, "Alive… looking at me…"

Tears distorted the room, "… waiting for me…" he slid to his knees, his eyes sliding shut as the agony of the moment slammed into him again— with such force it took his breath.

"… and the fire… god, she— it exploded and she— she burned..."

Evil walked this house.

He let his body slide to the floor, gasping for breath as the waves of images descended upon him; each more horrifying then the last—ending with her eyes…

… with the flames…

… fire…

The images to heavy for him to endure, he buried his face in the worn, grimy motel rug and sobbed. Sobbed for the life that had been stolen from him, for the death of a world he'd worked so hard to create; sobbed for the look on his wife's face—frozen in terror, sobbed for all the laughter they'd never share, all the dreams they'd never see through; sobbed because the veil had been lifted—and he now possessed knowledge he could would never escape.

Evil walked this house.

Somewhere in the dim recesses of his mind a conscious part of him, the part that remains detached even in the most agonizing of moments, registered that his son was once again muttering I'm sorry and that the wailing had finally stopped.


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