Human Monsters

This is my first Supernatural fic, although I've written several for the OC. Not sure exactly on the voices, but I hope it's close.

Mostly from John Winchester's point of view.

xxxx

"Uh, John?"

John Winchester looked up from the engine he was trying to diagnose, and turned to his boss.

"Yeah?" Travis was standing next to two impossibly young-looking uniformed policemen.

"These gentlemen would like to speak with you." When John's eyes returned to Travis's he noticed something there that sent a chill down his spine.

"What? What is it?"

"Mr. Winchester…"

"John…" Travis reached out a hand, putting it gently on the other man's shoulder, starting to lead him away from the noise of the garage. "Let's go into my office."

xxxx

Through the glass into the interrogation room, John Winchester could see his younger son, sitting in an over-large wooden chair, feet swinging rhythmically, bumping the rung between the legs of the chair. Sam's face was pale; his dark eyes standing out starkly against the whiteness of his skin.

Of all the reactions Sam might have had to what had happened that afternoon, this had not been what John would have anticipated. He'd expected the boy to be almost catatonic with grief and shock. Not this calmness, this stillness.

Sam's eyes were on the door, every fiber of his 7-year-old being focused on that one object. His legs continued their back and forth, back and forth, as the woman sitting next to him whispered what John assumed were soothing words into his ear, her hand moving in slow circles across his back. She might as well have not been there. Sam watched the door.

He's waiting, John realized suddenly. Doing what he'd been trained to do. Don't move, Sammy. Wait for Dad. Wait for Dean. Wait.

John put his hand on the knob, twisted, pushed, stepped into the room. Sam was out of the chair and into his father's arms before the other person in the room had even been aware that the door had opened.

"Daddy." Sam's voice was low, pitched only for John, speaking urgently into his ear. "It took him. It took Dean. It wanted me, but it took Dean." The thin arms around his neck were a stranglehold, but John didn't notice. It?

John tightened his arms around Sam. It had come for the baby, but Dean had gotten in the way. That fit with what the uniforms had said.

A group of children from the motel where they were staying. Playing in the parking lot. A man in a van grabbing Sam, a struggle, Dean running, separating his little brother from the man. And then. Dean taken.

He'd only gotten the bare bones from the officers sent to fetch him. They'd said nothing about a monster. But then, they wouldn't. Maybe they didn't know.

John set Sam down, running his hands over the boy's face, his arms and torso.

"But, you're OK? You're not hurt anywhere?"

Sam submitted to the inspection, again like he'd been taught. "No, Dad." He watched his father, waiting.

"I've got to go talk to the police. You stay right here, do you understand?" Sam nodded. "I'll be right back." John pulled his son into a tight hug, kissed him, closed his eyes at the pain that seemed to be consuming his entire body. Deandeandeandean.

"I'll be back."

xxxx

By the time John Winchester reached the desk of the detective in charge of the investigation, he was in full hunter mode. He needed as much information as he could get about this thing. And then he would go get his son back.

"What do you know?" The question was clipped and cold and took the detective by surprise.

"More now than we did. Sit down, Mr. Winchester."

John dropped into the chair next to the desk, leaning forward, arms on his knees.

"From the description several of the children gave, and the manager, who was out front watching the kids, we think we know who the man is."

John's brow wrinkled in confusion. Man? Sammy said…

The detective cleared his throat, and John could clearly see the misery and regret on the man's face. "It looks like it was Theodore Bagwell, who recently escaped from prison." The detective looked down, ran a hand over his face, struggling to continue. "He was in prison for sexually assaulting and killing several children."

John Winchester felt like his body had turned to ice, and the bile rise in his throat as he struggled with this new horror. Not a monster. A man. Dear God, please…

"Mr. Winchester…" A hand on his shoulder. "Listen." There was an urgency in the detective's voice, as he tried to reassure. "We have the make and model of the van, and a partial license number. We'll find Dean. This pervert doesn't usually kill his victims right away. If he follows his pattern, he'll keep the boy alive for awhile, before…"

The younger man trailed off as John Winchester brought devastated eyes up to meet the detective's. This was a comfort? That his child would be tortured and terrorized before he was killed?

"I just mean," Ray Thigpen's face flamed as he realized the implications of what he'd just said, "that we may have some time." He cursed his stupid mouth and his inexperience in dealing with the family of victims. "Mr. Winchester, I'm sorry. That was poorly expressed." He tried to steady himself, even as he sought to reassure the distraught father in front of him.

"We'll find this bastard, and we'll find your son."

Dead eyes looked at him from the distance of three feet. Liar, they said.

xxxx

Forty-five minutes later, John had collected Sam and headed back to the motel. Numb with terror and trying to figure out what to do next, he'd been unable to respond to the questions Sammy had asked him on the drive back. Finally, Sam had given up and subsided into the corner of the backseat.

When they reached the motel, Sam was out of the car and to the door of their room before John had gotten the key out of the ignition. When John opened the door, Sam pushed past him, heading straight for the stash of weapons in the trunk across the room.

"What kind of monster is it, Dad?" Sam's voice was all business as he tossed back the lid.

John turned startled eyes to his son.

"What kind of monster took Dean?" he asked.

It was not a rhetorical question. Not the question adults ask in such situations. Not "What kind of monster would do such a thing?" But literal. "What kind of monster?"

Sam, with the practicality of a child, needed to know.

Because how else could his father kill it?

John looked at Sam, took in the fierceness and determination on his chubby little-boy face, and was stunned. When had the baby become this small warrior? John walked slowly across the room and stopped next to Sam. He, too, looked into the trunk, considering his options.

"It's a human monster, Sammy," he said softly. "A human one." He watched Sam process this, accept it. The boy reached into the trunk and pulled out a gun, handing it to his father. "Then this ought to do."

xxxx

Two days later, John Winchester sped down the road to the location he was sure Bagwell held his son. He and Sam had checked out of the motel, loaded all their gear. When they had Dean back, and John was finished with Bagwell, they'd be gone. No one would ever catch up with them.

"You remember what I told you, Sammy?" John's voice was deadly calm, and Sam knew that no deviations from his father's plan would be tolerated. At all.

"Yes, sir."

"If you leave this car, I'll leave you. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir." In a small corner of his mind, Sam knew this wasn't true. But, he also knew the threat wasn't completely empty. If he left the car, there'd be more hell to pay than he could comprehend. Anyway. He wouldn't leave the car. He'd never risk not seeing Dean when his father brought him back.

"No matter what."

"Yes, sir."

xxxx

John Winchester killed Theodore Bagwell before he knew for certain that his son was alive. Sure Bagwell had assured him that Dean was safe, that the pedophile hadn't "touched" the boy at all, but John had too much experience with evil to trust a word that came out of the man's mouth. He'd considered leaving him alive until he knew for sure his son's condition. Knew what kind of justice should be exacted from the sniveling coward who'd begged for his life.

But in the end, with a clarity that surprised him, John knew that whatever torture he might devise for this defiler of children, nothing would be worse than what God surely had in store for him. And so, he'd sent him to his Maker.

John found Dean exactly where Bagwell had told him he would, in the cellar of the small dilapidated house, far off the paved roads in southern Illinois.

The filthy, bloodied child cringing away from John's tall shadowed figure had scarcely been recognizable as his son. John crouched down, speaking soft soothing words, careful not to touch. When the voice and the face finally penetrated Dean's fog of terror, he had launched himself, sobbing, into his father's arms.

"Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy."

"Shhh, baby, shhhh. I've got you. I've got you." And John was crying, too, clutching his lost child to him.

Suddenly, Dean froze, eyes darting toward the cellar stairs. "Daddy," his voice was a terrorized whisper. "He…"

"You're safe now," John said steadily. "He won't hurt you again."

Dean's eyes were solemn as he turned to his father. "Is he…?"

"He'll never hurt anyone again."

Dean nodded his understanding and buried his face in his father's chest, body wracked with tremors. Gently, John picked him up, and together they left the house.

xxxx

John drove 24 hours straight, stopping only for brief bathroom and coffee breaks. He knew a place in Montana where they could stay and have some time to recover. He checked his rearview mirror again and was greeted by the same sight he'd seen for almost an entire day. Sam, wide-awake, stared out the window at the countryside racing by; Dean was curled in a ball next to Sam, head resting in his brother's lap, while Sammy either smoothed Dean's hair, or left his hand, motionless on his brother's shoulder.

John had tried to get Sam to sleep as well, assuring the boy that he could keep an eye on Dean, even as he drove. Sam had nodded, knowing that their father could do that. But he'd still refused.

"I think Dean needs both of us to watch him right now," he'd said softly.

And how could John disagree.

xxxx

They'd settled into the cabin with ease. The isolation had suited all of them, even Sam, who often craved the company of others.

The second day they were there, John had sent Sam out to get wood for the fire.

"I want the kindling box outside filled up, Sammy."

Sam had groaned.

"Daaad, it's huuuuuuuuuuge," he'd whined.

John gave him a steady look. "Why don't you pick up all the wood I chopped this morning, too, then, and put it in the pile?"

Outraged at the additional chore, Sam had opened his mouth to continue his complaint, when he realized what had happened.

John cocked an eyebrow at him. "Did you have something else to say?"

"No," Sam mumbled.

"I beg your pardon?" his father said coolly.

"No, sir," he amended.

"Good." He watched as Sam slouched unhappily toward the door. "I got s'mores makings this morning when I was in town," he said casually. "Maybe we can use some of that kindling after dinner tonight."

"S'mores!" Sam cried, dashing away.

John smiled and turned back to Dean, who was stretched out on the couch, engrossed in a comic book.

"Hey, buddy." John sat down close to Dean's feet.

Dean's eyes came up for a moment and then dropped back to the comic. "Hey," he replied.

John cleared his throat. He did not want to have this conversation, but he knew it had to be done. Knew that he needed to know how deeply his son had been wounded even if every cell in his body wanted to cry out in denial of the possibility. For Dean's sake, he needed to know.

When they'd gotten to the cabin and he'd cleaned the boy up, he'd looked for any telltale signs or bruises that would tell him the extent of the abuse his son had suffered. There had been an abundance of bruises and cuts and scrapes that had had John grinding his teeth until Dean had asked, dazed and still in shock, what that noise was. But there hadn't been anything that would have confirmed John's worst fears.

"Dean, we need to talk about what happened while that man had you." John said it softly, reaching out to take the comic book from Dean's shaking fingers.

In response, Dean drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping both arms his legs.

"Whatever happened, it wasn't your fault, OK? You need to understand that, son." John reached out a hand and touched Dean's cheek. "I know you don't want to talk about it, but, I need you to tell me, so I can do whatever you need to help you get through this."

John paused. "Did he touch you any place he shouldn't have?" He'd had this talk with both the boys when they were very young. The Winchesters didn't always stay in the best places, and he'd wanted Dean and Sam to be aware of some of the dangers. He hadn't gone into any details, but they'd talked about touching.

Dean nodded unsteadily, burying his head in his knees. John felt the rage and despair start to build in his chest, but he forced himself to be calm. The bastard was dead.

"OK." John tried to prepare himself for Dean's answer to the next question. "Did he…"

"No!" The word jumped out of Dean, startling both of them.

John watched the boy carefully. "Honey, if he did…"

"He didn't." Dean's face was bright red, and there were tears standing in his eyes. "Daddy, he didn't. He… He… told me what he was going to do…" Dean's breath started to hitch, "but he hadn't… He said he wanted me to be… He said I was too defiant, that I needed to be… That he was going to break me… And then…" Tears streamed down Dean's face. He'd been confused and frightened by Bagwell's description of what was coming. He hadn't really understood what the man was saying to him, but he'd known to be scared. Looking at his father's pale face now, Dean felt the residual terror from those few days, rising up, threatening to overwhelm him. He forced himself to swallow it back.

"He didn't do what he said he was going to do." Dean's voice was steadier that John would have imagined it could be. "You came."

John reached forward and pulled Dean to him. "I'll always come."

xxxx

Over the next weeks, John watched with fascination as his sons healed from their separate and shared experiences with Theodore Bagwell.

For the moment, their traditional roles seemed to have reversed. Dean, always the protector, had become the protected. And Sammy, the protected, watched over his brother with a ferociousness that startled his father.

Not that there was much to protect Dean from out here in the wilds of Montana. But that didn't stop Sam from guarding Dean's every step as he recovered. The younger boy watched with eagle eyes as his brother regained his strength, actually letting Dean win game after game of checkers until Dean had finally realized what was happening. Dean had wrestled the smaller boy into submission, his 11-year-old pride stung by his little brother's "help." A slanting look his way had clued John into the fact that Sam had let his older brother win that match as well. John was awed.

In his head, he knew, Sam was still "the baby." Frozen in time at the moment his mother had been killed. The moment that had stopped time for John Winchester.

And Dean had been frozen, too, but in a different way. At five, Dean had been made a man. Thrusting Sammy into Dean's arms that horrible night, John had catapulted the pre-schooler into an adulthood he hadn't been ready for, but which he had done his best to survive. John had made Dean Sam's protector, and he'd never let the boy swerve from that course.

John knew he'd been wrong with both boys. He shuddered internally at the thought, particularly when it came to Dean. What kind of burden was that for a five year old? He couldn't change what he'd done, but maybe he could repair some of the damage.

Watching them now, John could see the relationship between the boys shift subtly.

Sammy had gained a new confidence watching over his brother, gaining his father's approval for taking on more responsibility. The younger boy asserted himself more, stood his ground when his brother tried to boss him around. Dean had been flabbergasted initially, but the inevitable sparring over control had challenged him and started the beginnings of respect for his little brother's ability to argue.

Dean, on the other hand, had let go of some of the responsibility he'd felt for Sammy, and John had encouraged that. He'd made a point, especially early in Dean's recovery, to say "Take care of your brother" to Sam before he went anywhere. Dean had scowled the first time and rolled his eyes the next, but John had noticed Dean leaning more on Sam, learning to accept help from his brother. It didn't get past John either that it was Sammy who soothed many of the nightmares that haunted Dean for the next weeks.

It made John proud to see the team his boys had become.

xxxx

It had almost been a month since they'd come to Montana. Whenever he went to town, John kept an eye on the papers for news of Bagwell's killing and any possible link to himself. There'd been nothing. Not that that meant anything out here. Still. It was good to know there wasn't a nationwide manhunt for him.

It was almost time to move on. Physically, Dean was fully recovered. If he still suffered from an occasional nightmare, John was confident that they could deal with that on the road. He had a lead on a haunting, and John was eager to get back in the game.

That night, John announced to the boys that they would be leaving the next day. Silence greeted the announcement, until Dean had said softly, eyes straying to Sammy, "OK."

John had been sound asleep when he felt the bed dip slightly. Rolling over, John opened his eyes to Dean, crouched at the head of the bed, trying to slip under the covers without waking his father.

It must have been a bad one. John only got the big nightmares, the ones even Sammy's presence couldn't comfort. On those nights Dean crawled, trembling, into bed with his father.

John pulled the blankets back, and Dean slipped in, inching his way toward his father. John's hand snaked out and he pulled Dean into the safety of his arms. Dean shifted around, sleepily pushing and pulling at his father until he'd make a comfortable place for himself. John let himself be molded into a suitable sleeping position for his son.

"Dad?" Dean asked softly, settling in.

"Yeah, bud?"

"Can Sammy start training with me?"

John was silent for a long moment.

"Do you think he's ready for that, kiddo?" John was genuinely curious. Dean had been adamant with Sammy for years whenever the younger boy had proposed joining the Winchester family business. Sam was too much of a baby, and therefore couldn't fight. John had tended to agree. Not that Dean was doing much in the way of fighting at 11.

"Yeah," Dean sighed. "He's really smart and pretty strong."

There was a significant pause.

"He let me win that time with the checkers." Dean blurted it out, confessing to his father. John smiled in the darkness. "I mean, I was hurt and everything, but still. He's pretty strong. And he's quick, too, you know?" Dean was starting to warm to his subject. "I bet him and me would be really good together. I'd have to watch out for him, cuz he's little, but…"

John reached up and put a hand on Dean's head, stilling him.

"I'll think about it, OK?"

Dean nodded under his father's hand. "'kay."

"Go to sleep, Dean. We're leaving early in the morning."

Dean nodded again, snuggling down into the bed.

And John lay awake, planning a training regimen for both his sons, using their strengths to complement one another's weaknesses, humming softly until his son drifted to sleep.

The End.