3A/N: Hihi! So, I debated pretty heavily on whether to post this or not and I decided, what the heck. Fair warning, this will be a lengthy fic and it WILL be a while before I update. It will happen, rest assured, but I have other fics that I have to finish first. Prior commitments, promises of completion and all that jazz. But this was killing me, so I gave the plot bunny a carrot and maybe it will be happy for a while so I can fulfill my obligations and, therefore, dedicate my time to this one.
I love Supernatural! I have so many other fics (yeah, those fics I mentioned before?) that I have to finish and post.
Please, review and tell me what you think!
The Kansas night was cold and clear and the ground was already white with frost. Most of the lights were off in the two-story white house as the family inside prepared for bed. John Winchester stood in the kitchen, preparing a Coke Float for himself and Mary. He'd been working extra hours at the mechanic's shop ever since Sammy was born to ensure they had a decent financial cushion, just in case. Mary spent her days at home with their children and he felt they deserved a treat before bed.
The boys weren't difficult, in fact, it seemed to be the worst thing for four-year-old Dean to hear Sammy cry. More than once, when John had come home late, he'd found his older boy asleep in the crib with his brother. On those nights, Sammy never cried.
Mary walked from Sam's nursery to Dean's room and found the toddler sitting on the bed holding his favorite book, The Little Engine That Could.
"Dean," she admonished gently, smiling down into his green eyes. "We've already read our story tonight. It's time to sleep."
"Just one more?" Dean pleaded.
Mary sighed, unable to resist her son's wide-eyed hope. "One more," she agreed.
"Yes!" Dean cheered softly to avoid waking Sammy. He slid over to the far side of his bed so Mary could sit down. She cuddled him close and began the fourth reading of the story.
"Alright," she said once she had turned the last page. "Now, then, you go to sleep, mister," she tapped his nose and kissed his forehead.
Thunder rumbled in the distance and Dean looked up nervously.
Mary petted his hair. He'd hated storms ever since he was born and it pained her every time she saw him afraid. "Don't worry," she soothed. "It won't last long."
"I'm not afraid," he insisted in his tiny voice. "I just don't want Sammy to be afraid."
She nodded and kissed his cheek. "Sammy's fine," she promised. "You have Angels watching over you."
"Sammy too?" Dean asked.
"Sammy too," she told him and clicked off his lamp. "Good night, Dean."
Goo' night, Mommy," Dean yawned.
Thunder rumbled again, louder and longer this time and Mary checked on Sammy one more time. When she opened the door and saw John already by the crib, she smiled and went downstairs. She froze at the bottom of steps, horror filling her to the brim when she saw John standing in the kitchen.
John was in the kitchen. Who was in Sammy's nursery?
She ran back upstairs, taking the steps two at a time and crashed through the nursery door.
"Get away from my son!" she shrieked and threw herself at the shadowed figure, fear and protective, maternal anger fueling her attack.
"Mary?" John's panicked voice called from below.
"Mommy?"
The figure stumbled under her initial attack, then, Mary felt a searing pain rip across her stomach. She kept her grip on the shadow, wrestling it away from the crib even as she felt warm blood pouring down her front. In the hall light, she caught sight of yellow eyes.
The thunder suddenly stopped.
The yellow-eyed shadow gripped her throat in an iron grip. "You're too late," it hissed, its breath smelling of sulfur and death.
John's footsteps were pounding up the stairs. "Mary?!"
Her eyes were steel and she realized she was the one facing the window. She flexed her hand, preparing to drive her nails into those evil, yellow eyes and, if nothing else, force them both through the glass. Anything to get this monster away from her boys.
The sky ripped apart like fabric, blood-red lightning pounded the earth as a brilliant fireball plummeted to earth and an explosion shook the ground. She could see the shockwave coming, like liquid light, and everything it passed through burst into flames.
The shadow smiled—she could see the fangs in its mouth—and it hissed with pleasure.
"What's happening?" Horror tore the question from her bloody lips. The shockwave was still coming.
"War," the shadow breathed with delight and vanished.
Mary moved between the crib and the window just as John appeared in the doorway. He saw the shockwave crossing the street and the fire behind it. Summoning the last of her strength, Mary shoved the crib toward him and saw Dean run to John and clutch his leg in terror.
John scooped Sammy up into his arms and turned to shield both boys with his body.
The shockwave hit the house and Mary screamed.
"Dean! Take Sammy!" John shouted over the roar of the flames. He pushed the bundle of blankets into the toddler's arms. "Take Sammy and don't let go, no matter what!" He lifted both boys and ran through the house. The frame was groaning as the fire ate the supports and he smelled burned hair and skin. Where the front door had been, there was a gaping hole in the wall and John leaped through it. He hit the ground hard and felt an unimaginable pain licking up his right leg. He staggered and fell to the charred ground, twisting to land on his side to protect his sons. He smothered the flames with his hands, crying out as the pain spread to his fingers and palms.
Sammy was crying.
"Shhh, it's okay, Sammy," Dean's little voice soothed as he kept his head bowed over his brother. "It's okay, Sammy. Don't cry," he urged, his own voice broken with sobs.
John sat there in the yard. The scorched grass stabbed him like spines and the glowing embers and glistening, black vitrified dirt turned the entire area into a terrifying Hell-scape. All he could focus on was trying to remember how to breathe.
"Dad?" Dean's quiet voice pierced the fog of his panic. "Where is Mommy?"
John looked at his son helplessly and tears pooled in his eyes at his last memory of Mary. Then, his gaze hardened and he stood, snarling with the pain in his leg.
"Dean, take care of Sammy," he instructed firmly. "No matter what happens, take care of Sammy, do you understand? I'm gonna try and get her out."
"Yes sir," Dean said.
John walked toward the burning house and Dean's heart soared. Dad was going to get Mommy!
John halted his approach, confronted with the wall of flames and the unescapable truth.
Mary was gone.
If only I had gotten there sooner, she'd be alive right now!
Dean's little heart clenched, squeezing more tears out of his eyes when he saw his dad stop in front of the house, knowing it only meant one thing.
Mommy was gone.
Tears slipped down John's face, evaporating in the heat of the fire. But the fire was inside of him too, burning, burning through him until there was nothing left to feed it, until he was empty and dark and cold.
"No! Go away! Leave Sammy alone!"
Dean's angry screams tore John's gaze away from the house, away from the fire and he saw a shadowed figure standing over his son. Dean was curled over on his side to keep Sammy away from…whoever it was. John moved toward his sons, his hands clenched into wrathful fists. The fire had burned the life out of him and in its place, in the darkness it left behind, was death. In one smooth movement, he stepped in front of his sons and drove his fist into the figure's face, snapping its head around.
"You," he seethed dangerously, "get away from my boys!"
The figure straightened and suddenly, it became a man. No, not a man…
"That's exactly what dear, sweet Mary said to me," he mocked, touching his split lip and suddenly, it wasn't split anymore. Yellow eyes smirked at him in the firelight. "Do you people have no sense of hospitality?"
John's entire being trembled with rage. "What are you talking about?"
The…thing, cocked its head as though it was amused by John's ignorance.
"You—you did this?!" John's voice was low with the strength of his rage and grief.
Yellow-eyes shrugged and cast an appraising glance over the blazing home. "Not entirely," he confessed, disappointment tinging his voice. "But, what can I say? Sometimes the best results are unexpected."
John could see nothing else but the monster before him. "I am going to rip you apart!" he growled and took a threatening step forward, reaching for the thing's throat.
"Ah-ah-ah," Yellow-eyes held up an admonishing hand. "Consider how this will end, Johnny-Boy." The fingers it held up suddenly lengthened into talons. "You've already lost Mary. What about your boys?"
John resisted the urge to look at his sons, refusing to take his eyes off of the threat. He could see the razor-sharp edges of those talons and he knew what the outcome of a fight would be. Then, his sons would be undefended. Dean would protect Sammy, he knew. But he could see, in those glittering yellow eyes, that this thing would have no qualms about ripping his little boy apart.
Yellow-eyes' thin mouth split in a smile that showed his fangs as he saw the thoughts crossing John's tortured eyes.
"I'm in a good mood today, John," he said and the hand returned to normal. "So, I'll let you walk away this time. Be glad for small favors. If I was in a bad mood, I'd leave you alive long enough to watch."
John backed away until his foot bumped Dean's shoe. He could hear the toddler murmuring softly to his whimpering baby brother. His grief was insurmountable and the loathing never left his eyes.
"This isn't over," he vowed darkly.
Yellow-eyes looked up at the black and red sky. "You're exactly right, John," he agreed amiable. "This is far from over," he hissed gleefully and vanished in a cloud of black smoke.
Rain began to fall, thick and warm like blood and John knelt by his boys, bending over them to shield them from the downpour. The heat from the fires had easily overcome the November cold and for that, he was oddly grateful. He had nothing to protect his sons. No blankets, clothing, weapons and no one he could go to for help. He looked around, finally taking in the rest of the area. All of the houses were ablaze and there wasn't an intact vehicle to be seen. He could see deep, jagged fissures splitting the ground and in the distance, he could hear screams.
"Dean, get up," he ordered and pulled his son to his feet. Dean had yet to relinquish his grip on Sammy. "Come here." John led him toward the backyard, pulled two of the charred boards loose and nudged Dean through the fence. "I'm going to find help, okay. I need you to stay here and protect Sammy. Hide in the corner and don't come out unless I tell you to. Understand?"
Dean nodded, sniffling.
John took hold of his chin. "Stop crying, Dean," he ordered sharply. "Now isn't the time. You have to take care of Sammy. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir," Dean's voice trembled but he sniffed his tears back.
"Good. Stay here." With that, John replaced the boards and jogged toward the road. He knew there was no help to be found, but if he could just find a functioning car it would be enough.
Yellow-eyes walked to the edge of the crater, some twenty miles outside of Lawrence, Kansas. The ground was molten and hissing and fissures spread out from it like the strands of a spider's web. In the center, a being of white light, brilliant and cold, stood and slowly unfurled the six, midnight blue wings that grew from his back. Suddenly, a pulse of intense cold spread from him and the glowing crater turned black, the bubbling earth hardening into various shapes.
Yellow-eyes dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "My lord, Lucifer," he said in greeting.
The fallen Archangel suddenly stood before him, the chill of his Grace icing the ground around at his feet. "Azazel, what news do you have for me?" the deep, rumbling chime of his true voice shivered beneath his words.
For all his strength, Azazel knew that he could never withstand the full use of the Morningstar's true voice and he was grateful for the mercy.
"I have planted the seeds," he said. "Now, we must wait."
"Hm," Lucifer hummed and Azazel glanced up to see a lethal smile on the Archangel's face. "I eagerly await the harvest."
John carefully maneuvered the Impala across the broken ground and tried to avoid being seen as much as possible. Even though he was now armed, the last thing he needed was for someone to attack him for the vehicle. The shockwave had petered out a couple of miles past Lawrence, leaving only scorch marks and blistered paint. He'd left his car at a different mechanic's shop because his place of work didn't have the parts he'd needed. Now, he had his vehicle, a pistol in the glove compartment and he just needed to get some supplies for his sons. He drove to a little drugstore, parked the car at the back and walked toward the group of people standing outside.
He'd stopped in the shadows when he saw the weapons in their hands. Then, the looters had shown up. Warnings and threats were tossed back and forth and someone threw a brick into the window. Someone else opened fire and chaos ensued. John had slipped through the broken window and grabbed an armful of blankets, baby formula, a bottle and a pacifier, some bottled water and two unopened boxes of snack crackers and jerky. Then, for good measure, he grabbed the bag of money that was waiting to be dropped at the bank for the night.
He'd always sworn he would never be forced to become a thief, but then, he realized he'd never truly understood what it meant to have no choice.
He drove right up to the fence and got out without turning off the engine.
"Dean!" he shouted and pulled the boards free, terrified that his boys would be gone.
"Dad?" Dean's little voice came from the dark corner and baby Sammy cooed happily.
"Come on, Dean, we have to go," he bundled both boys into the backseat and drove off, the tires spitting dirt. He kept his eyes on the road, refusing to look in the rearview mirror at the charred remains of his perfect life.
This isn't over.
