Disclaimer: It all belongs to Erik Kripke and Warner Bros
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Erik Kripke and Warner Bros. More's the pity.
Summary: The word has spread, even a little, and he couldn't ignore it.
If I Didn't Know You, I Would Hunt You
It stood on the night table, the only beautiful thing in the dingy motel room. His clothes might be worn and patched, his duffel bag battered, his weapons--though kept well-oiled or sharp, as each one required--almost as old as their wielder, but the frame surrounding the photo gleamed golden in the light from the small lamp with which it shared the table for he never allowed a hint of dust to remain. From the photo, the faces of a woman and a young girl, the woman's features more lively and good-natured than beautiful, laughed at the picture taker.
They had been gone for fifteen years now and there was not a day he did not feel their loss as keenly as a knife wound, not a night when the loneliness and grief did not threaten to drown him. But he would not let it. He had long since tracked down and killed the supernatural beast that had taken his family, but he could not stop. Not while other evil stalked the night and threatened other families. He knew he would never stop until he was stopped by something faster and more terrible than he. He did not fear it: On that day, he would no longer need a photograph to see them.
He studied the weapons laid out carefully on the bed. They would be called to battle soon enough. The storm on the horizon was moving closer. Everyone in the hunting world knew about the Hellgate in Wyoming being opened, about the demons that had poured through before it could be closed again, about the havoc they had been wreaking over the last sixteen months. It was said, at first, that John Winchester's boys had been responsible for opening the Gate, but Ellen Harvelle, who had lost The Roadhouse to darkness but who had refused to be beaten and had opened a new haven for hunters, had made sure that everyone learned otherwise. She had been there, with Bobby Singer and the Winchester brothers, when the Gate had been opened by the minion of a Demon Lord, and together they had closed it before more demons could escape.
So the hounds had been called off the Winchesters, but that was then and now…word had reached a few of them about one of the brothers, speaking of something he had dismissed at first as just a wild tale, but which he could no longer discredit. Hunters learned to be careful, because it was hard to trust easily when you hunted things that could look like people you knew, and so most hunted alone or with one partner at most.
But with something this big--the few hunters who had heard the story and come to believe it had decided to join forces because this hunt would not be easy. It wasn't just the Winchester boy and whatever demonic power he might have they would have to fight, but also his brother and probably Bobby Singer. He shook his head. Hard to believe that someone as demon savvy as Singer would not be on their side.
Singer should know better than to let emotions cloud his judgment. Whatever Winchester had once been, he was not that anymore.
Tomorrow he would meet up with the others and they would head toward Canonsburg, where the Winchesters had last been seen. And they would track them down, no matter how long it took.
The room lit with a brilliant flare of lightning, and a great rumble of thunder followed seconds later. The storm was almost on them, and he and the others could not afford to fail. Whatever Hell's ultimate intentions were, its agent now among them could not be permitted to live.
He picked up the antique revolver, its pearl handle speaking of a less utilitarian age, and studied it for a minute before preparing to load the single bullet. This gun was used rarely, and only for special kills. He touched the bullet, made of consecrated iron, a cross carved on one side, and the letters "DW" on the other.
For Dean Winchester. The bullet's intended target.
Because he was here, out of Hell and walking this Earth, whole and well in a body that should be ripped to shreds by hellhounds and decayed from months in a grave.
And no one did that without making one hell of a deal with the Devil.
A/N: (MINISCULE SPOILER FOR 4.04. BASICALLY, JUST A NAME OF A HUNTER) I was kind of surprised that Travis appeared not to have heard anything about not only Sam—then again, Gordon was buckets 'o crazy and may not have confided in very many people—but also Dean. In the last two months before Dean died, Sam was talking to everyone. You would think the word that one of the boys was headed for Hell would have spread. For this story, I just assumed it had to at least a few people.
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