My thanks to Sam's Folly for her wonderful work beta'ing this story. She's an awesome beta and a great friend.

Hunting for Christmas
Chapter One – Who is This Child?

December 1989

Bobby Singer hadn't been Christmas shopping in years. Not since he lost his wife Karen a dozen or so years ago. He never bothered to celebrate holidays much anymore—didn't seem to be much point. But maybe this year would be different, and maybe there was just a little spark of Christmas spirit in his heart. This year, he wasn't going to be alone on Christmas. This year, there would be children in the house, and if that couldn't make even a grumpy old coot like him get in the spirit, what in the hell could?

The toy store proved to be quite the challenge for Bobby. He and Karen never had kids, Bobby didn't have brothers or sisters growing up, and his home life was hardly normal. He was lucky enough to have a bike, but only because his father said it was useful. When Bobby could make money doing odd jobs, he bought a few plastic army soldiers and comic books for himself that he mostly kept hidden from the old man. But that was then, during his own screwed up childhood, and he knew it wasn't normal. So, if he was going to have Christmas at his house with two young boys, there were going to be toys—good toys, damn it.

Bobby asked for help, and he hauled a pimple-faced young store clerk down the aisle with him to be sure he got the right toys. Batman toys were the hot items this year. There was the Batman doll. Doll? Bobby eyed the thing staring at him from behind its plastic wrapping. At least it wasn't smiling.

"Action figure," the store clerk corrected him.

"Okay." Bobby tossed the thing in his cart.

Then there was a Batmobile—of course—and a Bat-Signal. Bobby turned the glorified flashlight over in his hand, then tossed it into the cart with a roll of his eyes.

"That's three toys for two boys." He scanned the wall of Batman toys and gave the clerk a look.

"Oh," the young man blushed. "How about a Joker action figure. That would even things out." He gave Bobby a weak smile.

"Yeah, that'll do."

After adding the Joker to his stash, Bobby moved to the sports section of the store. All boys should have a baseball, a bat and a glove. This stuff Bobby knew, and he smiled to himself as he picked out a glove for each boy, guesstimating the sizes for a six- and a ten-year-old. He knew for a fact that John didn't have baseball equipment in the trunk of his Impala amongst the arsenal he'd amassed over the past couple years.

Next stop was the grocery store. Bobby didn't know how to make a Christmas dinner like Karen used to do, but he could bake a turkey with the best of them, and a frozen apple pie with some ice cream would be just fine. He didn't know anything about that green bean casserole stuff, but he reckoned he could heat up a pot of beans and throw some bacon in, and he knew how to bake sweet potatoes. What more could you ask for? Oh, yeah. He would stop by his favorite shop downtown and buy a bottle of High West Whiskey for him and John. Bobby was definitely getting into the spirit.

There was more to get at the grocery store. Bobby wanted a well-stocked kitchen for two growing boys—stuff he thought was good for them. It would be a few days before they got there, so fruit and vegetables would have to be the frozen kind. It was better than canned. He gazed in his cart and decided he needed to get some stuff he thought they'd like—that being different from the stuff that was good for them. He was thinking that some sugary stuff would be all right, but not too much. He didn't want the kids bouncing off the walls, but you couldn't have Christmas without peppermint candy canes at least. He chuckled to himself. Puttin' more thought into this than I do hunting.

The cookie aisle had been widened for the holiday and the volume of brightly packaged candies and cookies lining the aisle took Bobby by surprise, but what held his attention was the giant tree in the middle of everything. It was expertly decorated with bright, shiny balls and ribbons, glittery stars, ornaments of every kind, and tinsel—lots and lots of tinsel. Bobby stared at that perfect tree and remembered his own somewhat-less-than-perfect Christmases.

The holiday had always started out right. They had a tree—they always had a tree. Bobby and his mother put it up on Christmas Eve, late in the night after his dad was passed out in bed. He remembered the few bright red balls and thin strands of tinsel sparkling in the dim lamplight. He and his mother made garlands of popcorn and cranberries, and the smell of evergreen filled the room.

Christmas morning, the house was filled with the wonderful smells of cinnamon rolls and fresh oranges, and Bobby hurried to get up early to help his mother in the kitchen. She made the best cookies and apple pie. The smell would make his mouth water, and after that, she put the turkey in the oven.

Christmases always started out wonderful, but as the day wore on and his dad drank more, the day turned out like most days. Bobby generally found a place to disappear. After his father died, his mother was never the same. His father had treated her like hell, but apparently she'd loved him. She could never work up the same enthusiasm for Christmas after his death.

It wasn't until Bobby married Karen that he learned to enjoy the holiday again: the food, the decorations, and especially the tree. Karen loved Christmas, and Bobby indulged her every whim. She gave the season a joy that Bobby had never known; but Karen was gone, and Bobby was like his mother. He stopped celebrating the season.

"Excuse me." A woman's voice broke through Bobby's memories and brought him back to the present, to the huge, artificial, perfect Christmas tree that dominated the middle of the grocery store enticing people to the candy isle. Bobby moved his cart so the woman could pass. He gave her a nod and a quick little smile. Candy canes, he reminded himself. He needed candy canes.

…...

...

The music in Hill Street Tavern was loud—classic rock as usual. She scanned the patrons and, not for the first time, thought she was past due to make some changes. It was fun when she'd first started hanging out here, but the novelty was gone now. She was ready for something new—somewhere new.

Winter had set in months ago, and the lake-effect snow was depressing. It was always gray and cold, and the snow was dirty and wet. It didn't take long to figure out why they called this place Dreary Erie. Honestly, she couldn't figure out why she was still here.

One more, she thought, if someone proved interesting. Her eyes fell on one at the bar, way down at the end, off to himself. He was dark, brooding and kind of sexy. That one was full of issues. She could tell by the slight slump of his shoulders—broad, strong shoulders that carried a heavy weight. His hands curled idly around his beer bottle, and he stared at it as if he could find answers there. He just might be worth the ride. She grabbed her beer from the bar and went to join him.

"Don't look so down." She sidled up close, so close that her body grazed along the side of his arm. She liked her body. It was young and had a pretty face. Apparently it curved in all the right places and men liked it. Men called her things like pretty, sexy and hot in deep, husky voices. She liked the way her body felt when men touched her. She liked it even better when they went a little crazy and called her things like "tramp" and "whore," when they changed from sweet and gentle to desperate—grabbing, clawing and cursing—caught deep in the throws of lust.

He looked down at her, his soft eyes framed with heavy black lashes. He had dark curly hair, a little long and wild. His face was unshaven with a thick, scruffy beard and mustache—more like a week's worth of neglect than a deliberate, well-trimmed beard.

She felt the strength in his arms as she brushed against him. One glance at his hands left no doubt he could manhandle this body she was in now with ease if she let him. She knew how to play, knew how to hold her power in check and put up a weak struggle, just enough to convince him she was fighting. Oh, hell. It wouldn't take much to get him wild. He was already in a dark mood. She could skip the sweet and go right to the rough. This one was proving very interesting.

"I know what you're angling at, and I'm not interested." He cocked his head at her and smirked.

She didn't get that reaction often and it hit a nerve. Arrogant bastard. "I'm not a prostitute. Not hitting on you for money, just a little company on a dark night." She turned and leaned against the bar facing out toward the crowd, both arms pulled behind her, forearms resting on the bar. She propped one foot behind her on the foot rail, thrusting her breasts out so that her shirt strained to stay buttoned and the low cut showed off seductive curves.

He turned toward her, leaning in just slightly. "You're a tempting package, but I've got other plans."

As he leaned toward her, she caught a flash of silver at his neck. A charm—a pentagram—a delicate piece of jewelry to be hidden behind all that denim and leather. The man was a hunter. A damned hunter had just turned her down with ease. Well, that changed the landscape a bit. It had been awhile since she'd toyed with a hunter. In fact, it had been decades.

"Fine." She pushed off from the bar and walked slowly toward the door. She had a feeling she would be leaving Dreary Erie soon. She'd found something new to do, and after she did him, she'd wear him right out of this place.

…...

...

John Winchester wasn't celibate, and an alluring woman like her was something he would definitely hit on—another time. She was a tempting package, so tempting he felt his mouth water, not to mention the heat that coiled in his belly. But damn if he wasn't weary to the bone, and he wanted to make an early start in the morning.

There was only one reason he was in Erie: a poltergeist he'd quickly dispatched. He'd just as quickly collected grateful thank-yous and a little money from the family who'd been harassed by the angry spirit. He got paid sometimes for the work he did, but never enough to make a living. Mostly, he depended on credit card fraud and poker winnings to keep his small family together.

It was nearly Christmas, and he'd promised Bobby Singer that he and the boys would spend the holiday with him in South Dakota. John had no idea why Bobby had asked or why he'd agreed for that matter. They weren't friends exactly. They were both hunters, and though they'd never hunted together, John had been by Singer Salvage to use Bobby's rather extensive library a couple of times. Bobby had books you couldn't find anywhere else.

Once, while John was at Singer Salvage, Bobby helped him work on the Impala. Truthfully, he didn't need Bobby's help. John was a mechanic by trade and perfectly capable of keeping any car in top condition, but he needed Bobby's tools and a place to work.

It wasn't that he didn't like Bobby, just that it had been so long since John cared about anything other than hunting and keeping his boys together—so long since he'd stayed in one place long enough to make a friend—he wasn't sure anymore what a friend was. He felt relaxed around the older man. He was easy to talk to. Bobby didn't think John was crazy, and it was nice to have someone to talk with about what's really out there. Hell, Bobby'd seen more supernatural things than John. He'd been hunting longer, and John could learn—had learned—a lot from Bobby. The simple fact was, John needed Bobby. Maybe that kinda made them friends by default.

John nodded to the bartender and tapped the bar. Another shot and a beer and he would head back to the motel. Dean would have both himself and Sammy fed, showered and in bed by the time he got back to the room. John would shower and then pack quietly while the boys slept. He'd have his little family on the road before the boys woke up good enough to whine about it too much or hopefully at all.

John threw the whiskey down his throat, feeling the burning warmth flow to his gut. He followed the shot hastily with the cold beer and tossed a bill on the bar before he made his way toward the door. He paused briefly to pull up his hood, button and zip the couple of layers of jackets he wore and push his big hands into his leather gloves. It was bone-chilling cold outside. He'd only been three days in Erie, but he was already looking forward to getting away from the lakes and the incessant, cold, snow-laden wind.

…...

...

"Aaaww," Sam whined. I don't wanna take a shower, Dean."

"Don't whine, Sammy," Dean scolded.

"Can't I take a bath? We got a bathtub. You said when we stayed where we had a bathtub, I could take a bath." Sam was only six, but he had a memory like a steel trap, and Dean was often regretting the things he sometimes promised his brother in order to get him to mind.

"Yeah, well, you take forever in a bath." Dean pushed Sam toward the bathroom.

"I won't. I promise. Pleeaasssee, Dean."

Dean rolled his eyes "You will. You always do. You stay in the water until you're all blue and wrinkly. Then you catch a chill and get a snotty nose."

"Aw, Dean," Sam pouted. "I won't. I promise. Please?"

"You're whining again, Sammy. Stop it," Dean admonished. "Besides, you don't have time because you dawdled over your dinner for, like, ever." By now they had reached the shower, and Dean turned on the water, adjusting the flow and getting the temperature right while Sam undressed. "Go ahead and brush your teeth while the water's warming up."

Later, when Dean finished his shower, hair towel-dried and combed, teeth brushed, and pj's on, he slipped into the bed he shared with his little brother. He thought Sam might be asleep. He was curled in on himself, the covers pulled tightly around him, his back to Dean.

"Where's Dad?" Sam's tiny voice was both sleepy and sad. It was a question Dean had to answer too often.

"He's working. He'll be home soon, Sammy."

"Will he be home tonight?"

Dean sighed at the question and reached to rub his hand across the top of Sam's still-damp hair. "Maybe..."

"Will Dad be home in time for Christmas?"

"Maybe. I hope so."

"Me too."

Dean's eyes closed and his mind drifted back to faded memories of Mom and a bright warm kitchen, cookies and winking lights on a tree.

"Can we have a Christmas tree?" Sam's voice brought Dean back to the dark, dingy motel room they'd called home for the past three days. "Lisbeth Plummer said she has a tree in her house, like the ones on TV. Harli Hanson does too. All the kids at school have trees."

Dean didn't answer. He didn't know what to say.

"I told a lie," Sam confessed. "I said I had a tree too...in my living room."

"It's okay, Sammy."

Sam's voice dropped off to a whisper. "I don't have a tree or a living room."

"Don't worry about that, Sammy. I don't think we're going back to that school anyway. They'll never know the difference. After Christmas, we're gonna go to a whole new school with new kids."

Sam sighed. "I know."

Dean let out what started as a fake yawn, meant to encourage Sam to get sleepy, but the yawn suddenly turned very real, right in the middle of it. "Close your eyes, Sammy. Go to sleep. I bet Dad'll be here in the morning when you wake up."

Sam shifted a little, settling himself. "G'night, Dean."

…...

...

She followed him back to his motel, watched as he entered his room and listened outside. She heard the whispered conversation. The hunter's deep voice rumbled quietly. He was answered by a child's voice, a young child. What's this? A hunter with a child in tow? She slipped silently to the door and took in a deep breath.

It hit her like a blow. There was another one—another child that was younger. The scent of him was peculiar, different, familiar. She held her face close to the door. Opening her mouth, she took in another breath and let the taste of him roll over her tongue. It was so strong, so familiar, that her demon eyes turned black like a reflex.

The child was human; she could feel his humanity, but deep inside, he smelled like home, like Hell. She closed her eyes and reached out, through the door and across the room, until she felt the child. His sleeping body stirred at her touch—her cold presence around his warm heart. She felt him shudder.

Someone had claimed this child, marked him. The child had power. It was undiscovered, undeveloped, but it was there. She could feel it in him. Whoever marked this child was a very powerful demon, but she could sense no other demons near him.

Her mind raced with questions. What demon claimed this child and then left him alone? What's this hunter's game? How did he get this child, and what's he going to do with him?

She backed away from the door. Whatever was going on here, she was going to get to the bottom of it, and there was no doubt in her mind that she could turn this into something profitable—more than a fun night and a hunter to ride for a while. This was a gift.

When the next car pulled into the lot, the young man who got out saw only a brief shadow before his blue eyes focused on her face. It was the last thing he would ever see as acrid, sulfurous, black smoke poured from one body to the next.

The young man looked down at the lifeless body at his feet—the body that, until recently, had been her home. Now this body was her home. She stretched the nicely-muscled body and hummed to herself. She—he—grabbed the abandoned meat-suit and dragged it into the bushes. Then he climbed back into his car and waited for the hunter to leave. New body, new ride; the hunter would never know he was being followed, not until it was too late.

…...

...

John headed south from Erie and made his way west on old routes and back roads. It wasn't a direct route to Sioux Falls and would take longer, but he still had time before Christmas and he decided it would be better to break up the trip into several days rather than keep the boys cooped up in the car for sixteen, eighteen hours at a time. He would find some place in the afternoons—a park, perhaps a play ground—to get them out and burn off some energy before they bedded down for the night. It was a reasonable plan.

It was an eight-hour drive to Lafayette, Indiana. Adding in an extra two hours for bathroom, stretch-your-leg and lunch breaks, and John finally checked into a small roadside motel at six p.m., just in time for dinner.

John took the boys to a diner next to the motel. It was clean and the food smelled good. Dino's had the look of a neighborhood place that had been around for years. There was a fairly good crowd, mostly appeared to be locals, and that spoke well of the food. John scanned the crowd, assessing the patrons, and steered his boys toward a table in the back corner near the rear exit—an action that was not random, but was the habit of most hunters. Never have your back to the room, and always have a close exit, just in case.

Just as he thought, the food was good. John savored the taste of the roast beef and mashed potatoes that he pushed together on his fork. Of course, it might be he was just that hungry, or maybe he'd forgotten what real home-cooked food tasted like. No matter. He speared some green beans to follow and had a buttered roll ready to chase them.

Dean had opted for a cheeseburger and fries, but John insisted that he had to eat something green too, so Dean quickly finished off his green beans before he started in on his fries.

Sam, on the other hand, was picky in the best of times, but tonight he seemed even more difficult to please. John finally got him to settle on a salad with ranch dressing on the side. Sam ate the cucumbers, tomatoes and carrots, dipping them in the dressing and leaving the lettuce. He picked at his chicken tenders and turned his nose up at the french fries. He fidgeted and whined and wouldn't sit still while John and Dean tried to eat.

"I don't like this food. It's gross." Sam coughed into his shirt sleeve, a loose rattling sound. He ran his hand through his hair and dropped his head to the table, cradled in his arm.

"You want some of my cheeseburger?" Dean pushed his plate toward Sam, but Sam turned his head away and huffed.

"We're all tired, Sammy," John admonished his son, his voice deep and stern. He didn't tolerate bad behavior, and the boys rarely acted out. He quirked an eye at his son. Something was not quite right.

Sam sat up and looked at his father. His face melted into two huge, red-rimmed eyes, and big tears began to roll down his cheeks. Dean quickly ran a hand across Sam's forehead.

"He's hot," said Dean.

Sam sniffed as snot now mingled with his tears.

"I think he's got a fever."

John looked across the table at his sons. His little Sammy looked absolutely terrified, and yes, he looked sick. Ten-year-old Dean could see it when John hadn't been able to look at his own son and tell the boy was sick. John's boys were healthy kids, and he wasn't used to either of them being sick. His stomach clenched into a tight knot. God help him, he missed his wife, Mary. He didn't have a lot of patience with sick or whiny kids, especially Sam—his little Sammy.

Dean was tough, resilient and scrappy, built like a little tank with the self-confidence to match, but Sam was small and thin. He looked delicate, although John knew he was tougher than he looked; but Sam wore his heart on his sleeve, and his expressive eyes never failed to show exactly what he was feeling. John had no doubt he would toughen Sam up when he grew old enough for training, but for now, he worried about his youngest, and it wasn't the first time that Sam's big, sad eyes melted John's heart.

"Dean." John motioned toward the bathroom with a nod.

"Come on, Sammy. Let's get you cleaned up." Dean pulled Sam along with him, and John watched as the boys disappeared behind the bathroom door. He motioned for the waitress while he fished his wallet from his back pocket. He asked for take-out boxes for the rest of their meal, explaining that his son was sick. He glanced up just in time for his eyes to see the shadow of a tall, dark figure as the door closed behind it—the door that had closed behind his sons just moments ago.

It was nothing, just someone going to the bathroom. It was a public bathroom, John's head said, but something clenched tight around John's heart—hunter's instinct—and it was only seconds later that the door closed behind John as well.

John Winchester was not a small man. He was an imposing figure, road-weary and hard-edged. He knew how to intimidate, and the sight he saw was one that put his nerves on edge. Dean was at the sink with Sam, washing his brother's face. Sam's eyes were closed. He swayed like he was moments from falling asleep as he quietly allowed his brother to take care of him. The man who'd followed the boys was watching the scene intently.

Maybe he was just waiting to use the sink, but John didn't like the way this looked. The man's body language screamed something else, something other than idly waiting. In the instant before the man turned to look toward the door and toward John, John could almost feel the man mentally reach out to grab the boys—his sons.

The man was calm—too calm—when he returned John's glare. He raised his hands, giving a slight smile, and gestured toward the sink, indicating that he came in to wash his hands and was waiting. John didn't buy it.

"Boys." John's voice was deep, gruffer than usual. His eyes never left the man he'd followed into the room.

Dean immediately dropped the paper towels he was using to clean Sam's face into the trash and maneuvered Sam toward his father. John's voice was soft but menacing as he continued to stare at the man while speaking to his sons. "Let's get moving."

John nudged his boys out of the door in front of him. He would remember that face. If he saw it again, it would be no coincidence, and it would not be pretty.

John carried Sammy to their room with Dean on his heels. He dosed his son with Tylenol and decongestant for the night, and Sam curled up in the bed with his dad to sleep. John lay next to the hot little body and wondered if he'd had a close call or not. Somehow he couldn't shake the feeling that if he hadn't followed his boys, if he hadn't been watching, things might have turned out very differently.

…...

...

The demon had connected with the boy much better without walls and distance to hamper his reach, and some questions had been answered, but others had come to his mind. The child had been tainted, claimed in an ancient ritual of blood. He wondered who would have revived such an ancient, unholy ritual, and why now?

When he'd touched the boy's mind, he'd heard echos of the boy's maker. The boy was a vessel, but for who? He'd touched the boy's heart again, just before the hunter entered the room, like he'd done the night before in the motel room. This time the dark blood had begun to sing in the demon's mind as it pulsed through the small body. The child had closed his eyes, had paled and swayed from the power of the blood.

Something was stirring in Hell, some grand plan on a very high level, and the demon wanted to be part of that plan. The boy was his ticket to a higher level, maybe Lucifer himself. He had nearly overwhelmed the boy, if only the hunter hadn't followed them into the bathroom. The demon licked his lips at the possibilities.

There was no doubt he could have pinned the hunter to the wall, gutted the kids while the hunter watched, and then walked out before anyone was the wiser, but that's not what he wanted, not for this child. He wanted this child, and he didn't want to leave any clues behind when he took him.

…...

...

John paced the little room while Dean showered. He gazed at the small body bundled up in the covers, still sleeping soundly. He could hear the raspy breath and he knew Sam was still feverish. Sam had awaken twice during the night in a fit of coughing that seemed to rattle the boy's bones. It was a deep, cavernous cough that gagged him as he brought up thick, dark mucous. John had never seen Sam so sick, and he was worried.

It wasn't just that Sam was sick. They needed food, and the encounter last night had spooked John. He didn't want to leave the boys alone. He wanted to pack them up and get on down the road, away from this place, away from danger, but Sam was too sick to travel.

John rummaged through his supplies and pulled out a bottle of water and liquid Children's Tylenol. He sat on the bed next to Sam and gently pulled him into a sitting position, leaning the boy up against his chest.

"Sammy?" John ran his hand across Sam's forehead, brushing his bangs out of his face. His cheeks were flushed and his lips dry and red. "Sammy? I need you to wake up and drink some water, son."

Sam's eyes fluttered. Long dark lashes framed his unfocused hazel eyes. He blinked a few times and then his mouth opened on a hoarse whisper. "Dad?"

"I got you Sammy. I need you to drink some water for me and take some more medicine." He laid the water bottle on Sam's lips.

"Uh-uh." Sam shook his head and pushed the bottle away. He scrubbed his face on John's chest and whined. John let out a worried sigh and hugged his son.

Dean came out of the bathroom, his freshly washed hair neatly combed, with clean clothes and freshly-brushed teeth. He was the perfect little soldier. Dean was regimented to his routine, and even as young as he was, he needed little instruction. True to his nature, John could see Dean quickly assess the situation and come to his brother's side.

Dean took the water bottle from his father and ran his other hand through Sam's hair. "Come on, Sammy," he cooed softly in his brother's ear. "Drink some water. It'll make you feel better."

Sam turned and blinked his eyes at Dean before rubbing them with his knuckles. "Dean, I don't feel good."

"I know, Sammy." Dean placed one hand on the nape of Sam's neck and held the water up to his mouth. "Quit being a baby and drink some water."

Dean managed to get half a bottle of water into Sam and the last dose of Tylenol they had. Then John put him back to bed and tucked him in.

"Come here." John motioned for Dean to follow him to the little table by the window. He didn't need to tell Dean what was in the small duffel he placed on the table. Dean knew the contents well: salt, an iron rod, a silver knife and a small handgun. John had taught him how and when to use each item.

"Sammy's too sick to move, so we're gonna stay here another day."

Dean nodded his understanding.

"I'm going out to book the room another night. Then I need to get some more meds and some food for us. I'll be as quick as I can. You watch out for Sammy."

"I will, Dad."

"I'll get extra towels..." John gazed at his son. He didn't like leaving the boys, not now, not here, but they needed supplies if they were going to hunker down and ride out Sam's sickness. "Don't let anybody in, Dean. Nobody." He laid his hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Okay, Dad." Dean's voice was small. He gazed up at John with questioning eyes.

"I won't be long."

...

...

TBC