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Description
Dark Intent (SPN)
a SPN fanfic

{Okay. BIG FREAKIN' WARNING ON THIS ONE. I MEAN IT. This fic is very dark, and contains serial killers, child death, child abuse (of all kinds, so yeah, don't read if you can't handle it!) Language, violence of all kinds, and as previously mentioned, very disturbing material of a sick, sexual nature in future chapters. Think Criminal Minds. If you can't handle a dark episode of Criminal Minds, you definitely can't read this. GOT IT? Wee!chester fic, with Sam 13 and Dean 17. Not Wincest.}

Chapter Two

Nightmare

When John awoke from his deep, ten hour snooze- the sleep that he would regret for many, many days afterwards- the first thing he noticed was the empty bed. Rumpled sheets, wrinkled pillows, but no little Winchester in its warmth.

Sam. John sprang to a sitting position immediately, eyes narrowing on the empty bed with restrained worry in his heart. With his life, to brush off a missing kid with lack of concern- what with the enemies he had and the evil that lurked just outside- was more than stupid and inconsiderate.

It was damnable.

"Sam! Dean!" he barked, hand moving instinctively towards the drawer that contained his trusty pistol. There was no instant verbal reply. However, there was a stutter in deep breathing and his eldest sat straight up in bed, green eyes popped wide.

"Dad!" he gasped, his startled emeralds darting to his father. Drowsiness, along with his color, drained completely from his face as worry crossed his youthful features. "W-What is it?"

"Where is your brother?" John thundered, voice chilling.

Dean's eyes flew to Sam's empty bed, mouth gaping. "I-I- I didn't even- I thought he was still here!" He thrusted his legs, kicking off his covers and immediately scrambling to his feet.

"Check the vending machines. I'll check the other rooms and offices," John ordered, channeling all the dads and angry drill sergeants on the planet with voice cold and damned-if-not fearsome. Dean didn't even respond verbally, just gave a sharp bob of the head as he was yanked his pocket knife from his boots and jammed his feet into them. He still wore the clothes he'd fallen asleep in, so he didn't have to throw clothes on before he threw the door open and dashed outside, with his father on his heels. They wasted no time.

The door wasn't locked, Dean's sharp mind remarked. The thought gave him small comfort. That meant Sam left by himself, right?

John darted left, moving quickly and intensely, but restraining the panic that he knew was foolish to release: firstly, there was no way of knowing Sam was in danger or not, and secondly, which was partly due to the first reason, if he was in trouble, panic wouldn't do shit for him or anyone else.

Ooh, if he was alright, John was going to tear into that boy's rear end. He knows the rules- never leave the room without alerting him or Dean, never disappear like that. Even before Sam had turned eleven and found out about the real, dangerous world, he knew to never disappear without telling someone. Ever.

Meanwhile Dean sped right, his eyes scanning the entirety of the parking lot with a hurried acuity. It was empty save for the Impala and a couple guests' cars, and it was as quiet as a cemetery. It was only seven in the morning, after all, no one was out. Sam could have just woken up and wanted to get a soda. We drank the water from from yesterday...

Dean, with boots pounding hard into the asphalt ground, ran quickly to the roofed end of the row of rooms, where the ice machine and vending machines were. His heart dropped in his chest when he saw the area was also empty, without a sign of his younger brother.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean growled under his breath. "Where are you?" He was about to turn on his heel and check the surrounding rooms when something caught his gaze. A shiny flash of metal, red metal. Pausing, he walked over to the soda machine and stooped, bending down on the dirty and damp floor. There, just underneath the humming soda machine, was a soda can. A full soda can. The whirring from the machine's electronic light filled his ears as he extended a hand and wrapped his fingers around the can, gripping it tight and lifting it to his face.

A Cherry Coke. Still cold.

Sam's favorite.

Dean clenched his jaw, gripping the can so tight his knuckles turned white. Could be a coincidence, could be a coincidence, his brain repeated, panic leaching into his body like the chill from the soda can. It spread like creeping frost in his veins, tendrils of ice flushing through his body with horror lurking in the back of his mind- an observant, unreasonable spectator, ready to upend the stability of his calm and shatter it into a thousand pieces if his worry turned to pure fear, or worse, hysteria.

Getting back to his feet with expression like stone, he was about to leave when another piece of evidence caught his eye.

"Jesus," Dean croaked, his eyes widening in absolute terror. The horror seized its chance, scrambling to the surface to overwhelm him. For a brief moment, Dean Winchester locked down.

But then he willed his body to move, his hysteria becoming a fast, solid rock made of pure drive.

He snatched the small object and ran as fast as he could for his father, throat strangled with a muffled cry and his little brother's name repeating in his head in a mindless mantra.

Thirty Minutes Earlier

Sam gasped, sitting straight up in his bed like a rod as he struggled for breath. Looking wildly at his brother and his father, he almost choked in relief to see them safe and sleeping, not dead and burning. Not screaming or shouting or choking on their own blood. Wiping his clammy forehead with equally sweaty palms, he tried to steady his shallow breathing by sucking in deep, making his small body shudder.

Just a dream, his brain whispered consolingly.

"Just a dream," he whispered, his voice all too loud in the silent hotel room. He restrained the urge to dive into his brother's bed and have Dean hold him until the residual terror faded away. He knew that was for babies. Sam was thirteen years old now, too old to need his brother because the 'reawy scawy nightmarys' kept him from sleeping. Dean worried too much about him anyway- the big jerk pretended nothing bothered him, but Sam wasn't stupid and he knew Dean too well to not know how moronically overprotective his brother could be.

Didn't make it any less embarrassing.

He sighed heavily, but stifled the sound behind his hand. No way in hell he could sleep now, but he had at least gotten some sleep. That was more than he could've said yesterday, or the day before, so he rolled out of bed as quietly as he could, eager to wake up. Having kicked off his shoes sometime in the night, he spared a passing glance at his sleeping older brother as he padded with socked feet to the bathroom.

A minute later, he emerged from the bathroom with the strong desire for caffeine. He doubted the motel would have a coffee machine, so he would have to go with a soda. Not exactly the ideal breakfast drink, but Sam thought the carbonation would soothe his nerves. Yawning, he crept back to the bed and slid his shoes back on. He would be out for five minutes tops, so he didn't need to wake up Dean, or God forbid his dad. They both needed their own sleep, and the last thing he wanted to do was deprive them of theirs just because a bad dream woke him up a little bit early.

He remembered the rule not to leave without telling someone, but it seemed trivial when he'd be gone less than five minutes, only around twenty feet feet away. Sometimes he hated how strict his father was, and wished they wouldn't baby him so much. Honestly, sometimes he was treated like a four year old. He felt guilty about the thought however, because in the last couple of years he'd learned there was a reason for his father's extreme precaution and why he was such a hardass. Monsters were out there. Real ones. And they killed people.

But soda machines don't, a stupidly stubborn voice in his voice chimed.

No they don't, Sam agreed.

Casting a long, hesitant look at the room, he slowly unlocked the door and crept outside. The October morning was bright and cool, with the pale sun partially obscured by long, feathery cirrus clouds arching the skies like angel's wings. The sky was a light grey blue and far off in the distance darker clouds loomed, but Sam personally loved rain so for him it was a good sign. After closing the door gently behind him he yawned loudly, arching his back and stretching his arms until his spine popped. Sighing in relief, he padded off in the direction of the soda machines after extracting a wrinkled dollar bill from the inside of his jeans. Hope they have Cherry Coke, he thought cheerily, but then smirked at his own bright disposition. Looked like the sleep he got would do him some actual good- and Dean would shut up about Sam's crankiness.

When he reached the soda machines his eyes lit up in victory upon seeing the lighted button proclaiming that it did indeed have his favorite flavor of soda.

"Sweet," he said aloud, his soft voice slightly rusty with sleep. He inserted his crumpled bill into the machine after smoothing it out repeatedly on his knee, and with a beep it accepted the money. He quickly jammed the cherry coke button, and the resulting whirring and boom as the can dropped behind the retrieval flap made him smile. He bent down quickly and extracted the ice cold coke, holding it up to his face. Awesome.

He paused however, at the sound of slow footsteps to his left. Oh, crap. He remembered what his dad once taught him, or rather drilled into his brain after a hunt when he got snuck up on by an angry Kampa and in result got a good clawing on his back that didn't heal for a month.

Listen carefully, the John in his head ordered. Tells ya about your attackers before you even turn around. Are the footsteps slow? Steady? Are they heavy, or are they light? That tells ya if they're big or small, helps you size 'em up. Is their breath quick or normal? Are they creeping up on you, or are they just walking- you don't wanna pull a gun on an average Joe, Sammy.

The footsteps were heavy, suggested the man behind Sam was larger- a tall, big man, definitely, not a woman. No woman would breathe so huskily. The way the boot-clad feet approached Sam made him think he was purposefully trying to remain quiet.

Why can't I ever have a normal morning? was his first thought, and Dad is going to murder me was his second. The foolish exasperation in his mind was easily beaten by fear, and his heart hammered in his chest as blood rushed through his body. His father couldn't kill him if someone else got there first.

Sam's hand slid into his right pocket stealthily, and his fingers grasped his pocket knife. Deftly drawing it out, he flipped it open while pressing his hand to his leg, keeping the knife from view. He was still a distance away.

Just a little closer. His mind quickly formulated a plan, weighing all the possibilities he could and settling on a reasonable but confrontational course of action.

Winchesters don't run away. I'm not an ignorant little kid anymore.

I'm a Winchester.

Inhaling quickly, he dropped the can. It fell almost slowly to the ground, landing with a metal clank. It rolled smoothly across the concrete ground and under the machine. Cursing purposefully under his breath, he bent down to pick it up. The man behind him reacted, coming closer swiftly and quietly as Sam entered a supposedly vulnerable position.

He crept closer. Sam drew his motions out slowly, extending his knifeless hand forward to reach for the can...

The man got so close the Winchester could smell the scent of cheap cologne and cleaning supplies radiating off him. He felt hot breath on his neck, prickling the hairs at the top of his spine. The way the tall man loomed over him almost intimidated Sam into screaming at the top of his lungs...but he didn't. Once the man was close enough that he could hear the cloth of his shirt crinkle as he raised an arm to either strike or wield a weapon, Sam spun in a 360, whirling and pressing the knife directly to the stooped assailant's throat.

xXXx

When John approached the front office, he felt his stomach drop in his chest like he was riding a roller coaster, and the panic made a jarring resurgence in his mind. For a moment he stopped, staring with dark eyes wide. It wasn't so much the front office itself that was so disquieting, rather than the alarmingly recognizable type of car parked in front.

It was a black Suburban. Large, shiny, tinted windows. No identifiable markings, a DC license plate. New, clean, non-descript.

An agency car. A nosy bigwig in a suit poking his head into some small town business that'd become noisy enough to draw an agent from the capitol. At first, annoyance outweighed the fear in John's mind, but it was quickly overcome by the realization that if they were looking for John or his boys, if they had somehow connected some of his messier jobs to him and tracked him down, the agent would've noticed the Impala and approached the hotel room with armed men instead of going to the head office with only one car. This was a small investigation, and even if John was modest he knew if they had connected him to any murders they would have sent in the cavalry. He was connected to a lot of unsolved deaths, and his military background would have only encouraged backup.

Which meant the suit came down to investigate someone else. Either question about a previous guest, search for a current one, or look into the proprietors...

A sudden memory of the hotel manager from yesterday flashed through his mind, the awkward, large man who smiled too much.

Could he be a criminal? John thought suspiciously. Could he be a killer?

A possibly malevolent man in same vicinity as his boys...one of whom was missing.

John gnashed his teeth, striding quickly into the front office. The door was open, and he stepped inside quickly with the feeling of his pistol at his back blazing. His fingers twitched but he knew that pulling a gun a suit would be a bad idea.

Immediately, he took in the sight of man rummaging through cabinets behind the front desk almost urgently, expression grim. In the split second that the agent didn't notice the Winchester, John raked his eyes over him. The first thing he noticed was the man's garb. His clothing surprised the hunter- instead of a suit, the agent wore business casual: a collared grey shirt, dark dress pants, with no sign of a tie or dark sunglasses that was so typical of a federal investigator.

The man looked up sharply to see the man approaching, straightening and tensing as he absorbed the Winchester's angry body language and dark expression. His tawny eyes scanned John's body with the precision of a man used to sizing people up and deducing them, and the Winchester only repaid the favor. He was on the short side, a golden brown brunette with light brown eyes that were keen and intelligent, and his lips were pressed in a firm line. At first the man's hand had passed reflexively to his back, where his service weapon inevitably slept between his shirt and waistband. But halfway there, the man paused and met John's eyes.

"What are you doing here?" the two men asked in unison. The agent looked mildly surprised but John's expression remained strong and cold. Regaining his composure, the agent came out from behind the desk and stood, straightening his shoulders. His eyes narrowed.

"I'm Age-" he began tautly after a moment, but John vehemently cut him off. Now was not the time for bullshit.

"I don't care. I need to know who you're looking for- save me the bullcrap I know you're looking for someone, you're an agent, I can tell from your car- and I need to know why right now."

"Why?" The agent was just as blunt, and if he was stunned by John's vehemency he didn't show it.

John's nostrils flared and felt anxiety gnaw in his stomach. He didn't have time for this. "If the suspect you're searching for is dangerous, I deserve to know. I have kids here-" The Winchester cut himself off while a voice screamed in his head. This is a fucking waste of time, move your ass, find Sammy!

The agent's eyes became slits, sensing the apprehension that came off the hunter in waves. "Why would you think your children are in danger?" he asked suspiciously. Suddenly, his eyes widened in a realization. John felt his stomach tighten as he watched the man's fists clench briefly. "Has something happened here?" His eyes passed over John with a worrisome drop of concern, and he seemed to confirm his own suspicions. "Tell me. Now."

The sound of rapid footsteps behind them drew their heated attention to the door, and John saw Dean burst into the office with an gut-wrenching expression on his face that nearly shoved him over the edge.

"DAD!" Dean cried frantically, eyes wider than quarters and a horrified urgency twisting his features. Oddly, he held a soda can in his hand, but it was his other fist, the one clenched so tightly the knuckles of his hand turned white that caught John's attention. "Dad, Dad, I-" His son gasped for breath, terror shining so plainly in his eyes that John felt weak.

"Dean?" he questioned, heart pounding fast and hard inside his chest as he struggled to keep his voice firm. He came quickly over to his panting son and gripped Dean's shoulder to steady the pale youth. "What-" His voice cut off again as he came closer to his oldest, his throat clamping up in horror as Dean slowly opened his fist.

What his son held in his hand was Sam's pocket knife.

"Sammy," he breathed. Oh, God, no.

"Oh, God." John's attention lurched from the object in Dean's hand to the agent, who stood frozen in place with a horrified expression. His face drained of color to leave his pallor as white as a sheet. "I'm too late."

Description
Dark Intent (SPN)
a SPN fanfic

{Okay. BIG FREAKIN' WARNING ON THIS ONE. I MEAN IT. This fic is very dark, and contains serial killers, child death, child abuse (of all kinds, so yeah, don't read if you can't handle it!) Language, violence of all kinds, and as previously mentioned, very disturbing material of a sick, sexual nature in future chapters. Think Criminal Minds. If you can't handle a dark episode of Criminal Minds, you definitely can't read this. GOT IT? Wee!chester fic, with Sam 13 and Dean 17. Not Wincest.}

Chapter Two

Nightmare

When John awoke from his deep, ten hour snooze- the sleep that he would regret for many, many days afterwards- the first thing he noticed was the empty bed. Rumpled sheets, wrinkled pillows, but no little Winchester in its warmth.

Sam. John sprang to a sitting position immediately, eyes narrowing on the empty bed with restrained worry in his heart. With his life, to brush off a missing kid with lack of concern- what with the enemies he had and the evil that lurked just outside- was more than stupid and inconsiderate.

It was damnable.

"Sam! Dean!" he barked, hand moving instinctively towards the drawer that contained his trusty pistol. There was no instant verbal reply. However, there was a stutter in deep breathing and his eldest sat straight up in bed, green eyes popped wide.

"Dad!" he gasped, his startled emeralds darting to his father. Drowsiness, along with his color, drained completely from his face as worry crossed his youthful features. "W-What is it?"

"Where is your brother?" John thundered, voice chilling.

Dean's eyes flew to Sam's empty bed, mouth gaping. "I-I- I didn't even- I thought he was still here!" He thrusted his legs, kicking off his covers and immediately scrambling to his feet.

"Check the vending machines. I'll check the other rooms and offices," John ordered, channeling all the dads and angry drill sergeants on the planet with voice cold and damned-if-not fearsome. Dean didn't even respond verbally, just gave a sharp bob of the head as he was yanked his pocket knife from his boots and jammed his feet into them. He still wore the clothes he'd fallen asleep in, so he didn't have to throw clothes on before he threw the door open and dashed outside, with his father on his heels. They wasted no time.

The door wasn't locked, Dean's sharp mind remarked. The thought gave him small comfort. That meant Sam left by himself, right?

John darted left, moving quickly and intensely, but restraining the panic that he knew was foolish to release: firstly, there was no way of knowing Sam was in danger or not, and secondly, which was partly due to the first reason, if he was in trouble, panic wouldn't do shit for him or anyone else.

Ooh, if he was alright, John was going to tear into that boy's rear end. He knows the rules- never leave the room without alerting him or Dean, never disappear like that. Even before Sam had turned eleven and found out about the real, dangerous world, he knew to never disappear without telling someone. Ever.

Meanwhile Dean sped right, his eyes scanning the entirety of the parking lot with a hurried acuity. It was empty save for the Impala and a couple guests' cars, and it was as quiet as a cemetery. It was only seven in the morning, after all, no one was out. Sam could have just woken up and wanted to get a soda. We drank the water from from yesterday...

Dean, with boots pounding hard into the asphalt ground, ran quickly to the roofed end of the row of rooms, where the ice machine and vending machines were. His heart dropped in his chest when he saw the area was also empty, without a sign of his younger brother.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean growled under his breath. "Where are you?" He was about to turn on his heel and check the surrounding rooms when something caught his gaze. A shiny flash of metal, red metal. Pausing, he walked over to the soda machine and stooped, bending down on the dirty and damp floor. There, just underneath the humming soda machine, was a soda can. A full soda can. The whirring from the machine's electronic light filled his ears as he extended a hand and wrapped his fingers around the can, gripping it tight and lifting it to his face.

A Cherry Coke. Still cold.

Sam's favorite.

Dean clenched his jaw, gripping the can so tight his knuckles turned white. Could be a coincidence, could be a coincidence, his brain repeated, panic leaching into his body like the chill from the soda can. It spread like creeping frost in his veins, tendrils of ice flushing through his body with horror lurking in the back of his mind- an observant, unreasonable spectator, ready to upend the stability of his calm and shatter it into a thousand pieces if his worry turned to pure fear, or worse, hysteria.

Getting back to his feet with expression like stone, he was about to leave when another piece of evidence caught his eye.

"Jesus," Dean croaked, his eyes widening in absolute terror. The horror seized its chance, scrambling to the surface to overwhelm him. For a brief moment, Dean Winchester locked down.

But then he willed his body to move, his hysteria becoming a fast, solid rock made of pure drive.

He snatched the small object and ran as fast as he could for his father, throat strangled with a muffled cry and his little brother's name repeating in his head in a mindless mantra.

Thirty Minutes Earlier

Sam gasped, sitting straight up in his bed like a rod as he struggled for breath. Looking wildly at his brother and his father, he almost choked in relief to see them safe and sleeping, not dead and burning. Not screaming or shouting or choking on their own blood. Wiping his clammy forehead with equally sweaty palms, he tried to steady his shallow breathing by sucking in deep, making his small body shudder.

Just a dream, his brain whispered consolingly.

"Just a dream," he whispered, his voice all too loud in the silent hotel room. He restrained the urge to dive into his brother's bed and have Dean hold him until the residual terror faded away. He knew that was for babies. Sam was thirteen years old now, too old to need his brother because the 'reawy scawy nightmarys' kept him from sleeping. Dean worried too much about him anyway- the big jerk pretended nothing bothered him, but Sam wasn't stupid and he knew Dean too well to not know how moronically overprotective his brother could be.

Didn't make it any less embarrassing.

He sighed heavily, but stifled the sound behind his hand. No way in hell he could sleep now, but he had at least gotten some sleep. That was more than he could've said yesterday, or the day before, so he rolled out of bed as quietly as he could, eager to wake up. Having kicked off his shoes sometime in the night, he spared a passing glance at his sleeping older brother as he padded with socked feet to the bathroom.

A minute later, he emerged from the bathroom with the strong desire for caffeine. He doubted the motel would have a coffee machine, so he would have to go with a soda. Not exactly the ideal breakfast drink, but Sam thought the carbonation would soothe his nerves. Yawning, he crept back to the bed and slid his shoes back on. He would be out for five minutes tops, so he didn't need to wake up Dean, or God forbid his dad. They both needed their own sleep, and the last thing he wanted to do was deprive them of theirs just because a bad dream woke him up a little bit early.

He remembered the rule not to leave without telling someone, but it seemed trivial when he'd be gone less than five minutes, only around twenty feet feet away. Sometimes he hated how strict his father was, and wished they wouldn't baby him so much. Honestly, sometimes he was treated like a four year old. He felt guilty about the thought however, because in the last couple of years he'd learned there was a reason for his father's extreme precaution and why he was such a hardass. Monsters were out there. Real ones. And they killed people.

But soda machines don't, a stupidly stubborn voice in his voice chimed.

No they don't, Sam agreed.

Casting a long, hesitant look at the room, he slowly unlocked the door and crept outside. The October morning was bright and cool, with the pale sun partially obscured by long, feathery cirrus clouds arching the skies like angel's wings. The sky was a light grey blue and far off in the distance darker clouds loomed, but Sam personally loved rain so for him it was a good sign. After closing the door gently behind him he yawned loudly, arching his back and stretching his arms until his spine popped. Sighing in relief, he padded off in the direction of the soda machines after extracting a wrinkled dollar bill from the inside of his jeans. Hope they have Cherry Coke, he thought cheerily, but then smirked at his own bright disposition. Looked like the sleep he got would do him some actual good- and Dean would shut up about Sam's crankiness.

When he reached the soda machines his eyes lit up in victory upon seeing the lighted button proclaiming that it did indeed have his favorite flavor of soda.

"Sweet," he said aloud, his soft voice slightly rusty with sleep. He inserted his crumpled bill into the machine after smoothing it out repeatedly on his knee, and with a beep it accepted the money. He quickly jammed the cherry coke button, and the resulting whirring and boom as the can dropped behind the retrieval flap made him smile. He bent down quickly and extracted the ice cold coke, holding it up to his face. Awesome.

He paused however, at the sound of slow footsteps to his left. Oh, crap. He remembered what his dad once taught him, or rather drilled into his brain after a hunt when he got snuck up on by an angry Kampa and in result got a good clawing on his back that didn't heal for a month.

Listen carefully, the John in his head ordered. Tells ya about your attackers before you even turn around. Are the footsteps slow? Steady? Are they heavy, or are they light? That tells ya if they're big or small, helps you size 'em up. Is their breath quick or normal? Are they creeping up on you, or are they just walking- you don't wanna pull a gun on an average Joe, Sammy.

The footsteps were heavy, suggested the man behind Sam was larger- a tall, big man, definitely, not a woman. No woman would breathe so huskily. The way the boot-clad feet approached Sam made him think he was purposefully trying to remain quiet.

Why can't I ever have a normal morning? was his first thought, and Dad is going to murder me was his second. The foolish exasperation in his mind was easily beaten by fear, and his heart hammered in his chest as blood rushed through his body. His father couldn't kill him if someone else got there first.

Sam's hand slid into his right pocket stealthily, and his fingers grasped his pocket knife. Deftly drawing it out, he flipped it open while pressing his hand to his leg, keeping the knife from view. He was still a distance away.

Just a little closer. His mind quickly formulated a plan, weighing all the possibilities he could and settling on a reasonable but confrontational course of action.

Winchesters don't run away. I'm not an ignorant little kid anymore.

I'm a Winchester.

Inhaling quickly, he dropped the can. It fell almost slowly to the ground, landing with a metal clank. It rolled smoothly across the concrete ground and under the machine. Cursing purposefully under his breath, he bent down to pick it up. The man behind him reacted, coming closer swiftly and quietly as Sam entered a supposedly vulnerable position.

He crept closer. Sam drew his motions out slowly, extending his knifeless hand forward to reach for the can...

The man got so close the Winchester could smell the scent of cheap cologne and cleaning supplies radiating off him. He felt hot breath on his neck, prickling the hairs at the top of his spine. The way the tall man loomed over him almost intimidated Sam into screaming at the top of his lungs...but he didn't. Once the man was close enough that he could hear the cloth of his shirt crinkle as he raised an arm to either strike or wield a weapon, Sam spun in a 360, whirling and pressing the knife directly to the stooped assailant's throat.

xXXx

When John approached the front office, he felt his stomach drop in his chest like he was riding a roller coaster, and the panic made a jarring resurgence in his mind. For a moment he stopped, staring with dark eyes wide. It wasn't so much the front office itself that was so disquieting, rather than the alarmingly recognizable type of car parked in front.

It was a black Suburban. Large, shiny, tinted windows. No identifiable markings, a DC license plate. New, clean, non-descript.

An agency car. A nosy bigwig in a suit poking his head into some small town business that'd become noisy enough to draw an agent from the capitol. At first, annoyance outweighed the fear in John's mind, but it was quickly overcome by the realization that if they were looking for John or his boys, if they had somehow connected some of his messier jobs to him and tracked him down, the agent would've noticed the Impala and approached the hotel room with armed men instead of going to the head office with only one car. This was a small investigation, and even if John was modest he knew if they had connected him to any murders they would have sent in the cavalry. He was connected to a lot of unsolved deaths, and his military background would have only encouraged backup.

Which meant the suit came down to investigate someone else. Either question about a previous guest, search for a current one, or look into the proprietors...

A sudden memory of the hotel manager from yesterday flashed through his mind, the awkward, large man who smiled too much.

Could he be a criminal? John thought suspiciously. Could he be a killer?

A possibly malevolent man in same vicinity as his boys...one of whom was missing.

John gnashed his teeth, striding quickly into the front office. The door was open, and he stepped inside quickly with the feeling of his pistol at his back blazing. His fingers twitched but he knew that pulling a gun a suit would be a bad idea.

Immediately, he took in the sight of man rummaging through cabinets behind the front desk almost urgently, expression grim. In the split second that the agent didn't notice the Winchester, John raked his eyes over him. The first thing he noticed was the man's garb. His clothing surprised the hunter- instead of a suit, the agent wore business casual: a collared grey shirt, dark dress pants, with no sign of a tie or dark sunglasses that was so typical of a federal investigator.

The man looked up sharply to see the man approaching, straightening and tensing as he absorbed the Winchester's angry body language and dark expression. His tawny eyes scanned John's body with the precision of a man used to sizing people up and deducing them, and the Winchester only repaid the favor. He was on the short side, a golden brown brunette with light brown eyes that were keen and intelligent, and his lips were pressed in a firm line. At first the man's hand had passed reflexively to his back, where his service weapon inevitably slept between his shirt and waistband. But halfway there, the man paused and met John's eyes.

"What are you doing here?" the two men asked in unison. The agent looked mildly surprised but John's expression remained strong and cold. Regaining his composure, the agent came out from behind the desk and stood, straightening his shoulders. His eyes narrowed.

"I'm Age-" he began tautly after a moment, but John vehemently cut him off. Now was not the time for bullshit.

"I don't care. I need to know who you're looking for- save me the bullcrap I know you're looking for someone, you're an agent, I can tell from your car- and I need to know why right now."

"Why?" The agent was just as blunt, and if he was stunned by John's vehemency he didn't show it.

John's nostrils flared and felt anxiety gnaw in his stomach. He didn't have time for this. "If the suspect you're searching for is dangerous, I deserve to know. I have kids here-" The Winchester cut himself off while a voice screamed in his head. This is a fucking waste of time, move your ass, find Sammy!

The agent's eyes became slits, sensing the apprehension that came off the hunter in waves. "Why would you think your children are in danger?" he asked suspiciously. Suddenly, his eyes widened in a realization. John felt his stomach tighten as he watched the man's fists clench briefly. "Has something happened here?" His eyes passed over John with a worrisome drop of concern, and he seemed to confirm his own suspicions. "Tell me. Now."

The sound of rapid footsteps behind them drew their heated attention to the door, and John saw Dean burst into the office with an gut-wrenching expression on his face that nearly shoved him over the edge.

"DAD!" Dean cried frantically, eyes wider than quarters and a horrified urgency twisting his features. Oddly, he held a soda can in his hand, but it was his other fist, the one clenched so tightly the knuckles of his hand turned white that caught John's attention. "Dad, Dad, I-" His son gasped for breath, terror shining so plainly in his eyes that John felt weak.

"Dean?" he questioned, heart pounding fast and hard inside his chest as he struggled to keep his voice firm. He came quickly over to his panting son and gripped Dean's shoulder to steady the pale youth. "What-" His voice cut off again as he came closer to his oldest, his throat clamping up in horror as Dean slowly opened his fist.

What his son held in his hand was Sam's pocket knife.

"Sammy," he breathed. Oh, God, no.

"Oh, God." John's attention lurched from the object in Dean's hand to the agent, who stood frozen in place with a horrified expression. His face drained of color to leave his pallor as white as a sheet. "I'm too late."