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It was a dark and stormy night.
It always was. Somehow, monsters never started crap on balmy spring days, when the soft breeze caressed your cheeks and the air carried the scent of newly budded leaves. Tonight though? Tonight was a monster’s wet dream.
Literally.
Irritably, Bobby Singer flicked his wipers to their highest setting, only to find they were already there. With visibility almost down to zero, he knew he’d better get the hell off the road, unless he wanted to wind up in a ditch, or worse. He’d signed up for the life of a hunter, but sometimes, it just felt like the same misery, over and over again. Hunt, fight, kill, drive, eat, sleep, repeat, world without end, amen. There had to be more to life, didn’t there? Grumbling under his breath, he took the next exit off the highway, and started looking for a place to spend the night.
A motel slowly came into view through the driving rain. It looked a lot nicer than the ones he was used to, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Taking a surreptitious sniff to make sure he didn’t stink too much of lighter fluid and freshly opened graves, he pulled into the parking lot, and cut the engine. Throwing his jacket over his head, he sprinted towards the entrance, and plunged through the double glass doors.
The lobby was empty, save for a uniformed man behind the counter. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Yeah, need a room for the night.”
“You’re in luck, our last room is still available. Is a queen bed acceptable?”
“As long as it’s out of the rain, I’d sleep on the floor"
The man smiled. “That will be eighty nine dollars and forty seven cents.”
Unlike many hunters, Bobby drew the line at fake credit cards. He might not have much, but he still had his pride, and wasn’t about to tarnish his soul any worse by adding theft to his list of character flaws. He handed over ninety dollars in cash, and took the key that was pushed across the desk. It was a real key, too, not one of those plastic cards that stopped working the minute you left the lobby. Shoving it into a pocket, he grabbed his duffle bag and headed for the elevator.
He stepped out onto the third floor, and headed down the hallway. One door was open, and for a split second, Bobby swore he saw a wolf looking out at him. Glancing a second time, he saw it was only a German Shepherd. He must be more tired than he thought, or else he was losing it completely. Hoping it was the first one, he found his room, and let himself in.
As advertised, it had a queen bed, but, more importantly, it had a shower. A nice shower, with a hand held attachment. Monster guts got into the damndest places, and every hunter out there knew it. Sighing, Bobby stripped off his sodden clothes and stepped into the shower.
Twenty minutes later, clean, and dressed in dry clothing, he headed back down stairs in search of sustenance. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and hunger was starting to send increasingly urgent signals to his stomach. He was walking towards the hotel restaurant when a side door opened, and he was pulled into a large banquet room.
He reached for his gun, but found himself flung across the room, and into a surprisingly comfortable chair. Chains snaked out and bound him hand and foot. “What the hell?” he growled, struggling to escape .
“Take it easy” a voice said “we just want to talk.”
Before his eyes was what could only be some kind of monster convention. The room held roughly two dozen creatures of all shapes and sizes, but he was pretty damned certain he was the only human there. Looking around, he saw djinn, vampires, werewolves, shtriga, shapeshifters, and even a wendigo.
He took a deep breath. “Ok, talk then.”
“We want to talk about …John Winchester,” said the Vampire.
“Really, Ted? You’ve got to say it like THAT?”
“Like what?”
The Werewolf rolled his eyes. “Like “Ve vant to talk about…dah, dah, dum…John VINchesster.” Why can’t you just say it like a normal person?”
The Vampire slumped and looked self-conscious. “That’s just the way I talk…”
“Anyway” the Werewolf spoke again, “We want to talk about …John Winchester.” Ignoring the Vampire’s muttered “I just SAID that… (and I DON’T use sound effects”) the Werewolf continued. “The way he's raising those boys is a disgrace to fatherhood. Someone needs to teach him some parenting skills.”
“He’s horrible,” said the Djinn.
“Worst dad ever” agreed the Wendigo.
Bobby felt like he’d been zapped into an alternate reality. “Seriously? Y’ all decided to hold a convention and kidnap me to tell me John Winchester needs a class on child-rearing? And from ME, of all people? I don’t even have kids! If you’ve got your panties in such a twist, why don’t YOU do something?”
“We tried” screeched a Banshee from the chandelier.
“Really?” asked Bobby, unable to believe his ears.
Really” sighed the White Woman. “We even held an intervention.”
“And what happened?”
Slowly, the denizens of the room shifted fur, skin, and clothing to reveal an impressive array of wounds.
“Salt.”
“Silver.”
“Machete”
“Consecrated iron bullets.”
“Lamb’s blood.”
“Fire”
“Bastard tried to cut off my nose.”
There was a moment of fascinated silence. “That works?” asked the Skinwalker. “Only on me” the Sphinx answered glumly.
The Werewolf growled. “Can we get back on track here? The issue is John Winchester’s A+ parenting.”
“I eat kids and I’d still never pull the crap he does” sneered the Rawhead.
“Yeah, I’ve got pups that age, and you know where they are?” demanded the Werewolf. “Out in the woods, hunting rabbits, like normal children, not sitting in some motel room in the middle of nowhere, learning how to tear humans' throats out!”
Plenty of time to be stone-cold killers when they’re older,” agreed the Shtriga. “Let children be children, that’s what I say.”
“Those boys should be learning their ABCs, not Latin incantations.”
“At that age, my daughter couldn’t even tie her own shoes. Dean Winchester can assemble a gun. You can’t tell me that’s right” added the Kappa, with a roll of its eyes.
“And don’t get me started on nutrition- have you SEEN what those kids eat? I mean, has that man ever HEARD of vitamins? I don’t know how he expects them to grow if all they eat is sugar and processed carbs. That crap’s unnatural.”
“Ok” said Bobby, desperate to gain some control over the situation. “What is it you expect me to do, exactly?”
“Feed those boys something that didn’t come out of a vending machine, for starts.” This was the Rawhead again.
“Take them out in the fresh air and throw a ball around.” Predictably, that was the Werewolf.
“And somebody needs to tell Dean he doesn’t have to set himself on fire to keep Sam warm. That shit leads to self-esteem issues and maladaptive behavior” chimed in the Siren.
Bobby snorted. “Is that the whole list, or do I need to start takin’ notes? And why me? I barely KNOW the guy!”
“Then GET to know him.” The voice was low, and absolute.
There was a flash of lightning, a clap of thunder and suddenly Bobby found himself alone in the room. The chains were gone and so were the creatures. Heaving himself out of the chair, he staggered back into the hallway. It was deserted, and looked as though it always had been. The elevator doors stood open, yawing into an empty shaft. Cursing, Bobby headed for the stairs. Staying the night was out of the question, but he sure as hell wasn’t leaving his dirty underwear in a haunted hotel, no matter how empty it appeared.
A commendably short time later, he was back on the highway, headed north. Sighing, he thumbed his cell phone.
“Hey Jim, it’s Bobby…yeah, everything’s ok, I just need to get in touch with John Winchester ... .Nah, nothing big, heard he had a coupla kids, wanted him to know if he ever needed a hand or somethin’… “Yeah, yeah,yeah, I got it…what?” Bobby stopped speaking and rubbed his temples while trying to listen to the impassioned output coming from his phone. “Fine. When I talk to him, I’ll remind him that those kids need winter jackets. Yes, I’ll tell him that, too... no, I’m sure he has no idea how quickly little kids can get hypothermia.”
Despite himself, Bobby smiled. Life was getting interesting again.