I was brought up in an abusive household. My mother sat around and did nothing as my father beat me up. It started when I was five. By seven, I was just a scared little girl, wondering why God was so mean to me. Why did he make me deal with this? There was never an answer. One night, I snuck out, learning that the only time I could do that was when I was sure my father was passed out and my mother didn't even hear me as I snuck out my window. I walked to the park across the street, feeling fresh bruises forming on my arms. The air was cold and it raised goosebumps on my skin, but I didn't even care. I was out of that retched house, if only for a few moments.

I gingerly sat on one of the two swings stuck in the middle of the grassy patch and swung slightly back and forth. Looking around, I saw a figure coming my way. Instantly I got scared, thinking it was someone after me, but as I watched, I saw that it was just a boy. He had a determined look on his face, but I didn't think he'd hurt me. I tried to steady my swing so he wouldn't see me, but it creaked and his head jerked up. He saw me then and walked straight for me.

When he got close enough to me, I felt his eyes staring at all the bruises on my arms and legs and the one I had under my right eye. I had been bad that night when I got the blow to my face. "Who did that to you?" he asked, as if he deserved to know and could do something about it. But he was just a boy, a few years older than me. Maybe nine is what I thought back then.

I never met anyone's eyes and looked down at my feet. "My Daddy," I mumbled. He didn't say anything after that, but I watched his feet and saw them move closer to me and heard him sit on the swing next to mine. That one was the creaky one, so I never sat in it, thinking my father would hear it and come outside to find me.

"I'm Dean," he told me.

As much as I never liked talking to strangers because they always asked questions, I didn't think he would try to do anything to me or ask me too many questions. "Jane," I told him. "My last name's Miller. Do you have a last name?" Now, I know that's not a question you need to ask; everyone has a last name, but back then, I'd never talked to anyone my age before.

He smiled ever so slightly and nodded. "Winchester," he said. To me, it sounded like a strong name. Mine I knew how to spell only because it was on the bottles that littered the house.

"I like that name," I said quietly, keeping my head down but looking at him out of the corner of my eye. He wasn't doing anything but sitting on the swing like I was, only it didn't look like he needed it as much as I did. "Why are you out here?" I asked him.

I saw him fidget with the chains holding the seats up. "I snuck out," he said simply, and I was amazing that anyone else did that. Were other people's lives as bad as mine? "Why are you out here, Jane?" he asked me.

"I snuck out too," I said softly. Then, feeling a bit more confident, I added, "I sneak out sometimes, but I have to make sure my Daddy doens't hear me or he gets mad and hits me more." I snuck a peak at him; he was staring straight ahead. "Does your Daddy hit you too?"

"No, my Dad's like a hero," he replied, and that made me look at him. Really look at him with both my eyes and no shifty glances.

"Hero? Can he save me? I think I need to be saved...like Superman could just come take me away." The only way I knew of any superheros was because the tiny room I stayed in had some old comic books in a corner. I couldn't read them, but I got the gist of what it was. The only thing I could read off of it, was the title: Superman.

He didn't say anything right away, as if contemplating an answer. "I don't think he can save you," he told him. Not that I had thought anybody could. If this God that I heard about was really there, he would save me. "But I'll make you a promise." I didn't really know what a promise was, but I nodded anyway. "Some day, I'll find you and I'll save you."

"You will?" I asked, not knowing if I had heard right. And I wasn't used to people saying good things to me.

He nodded. "I will."

And that was the last that I saw of him. At that moment, I saw the light flick on in my house and rushed home without saying goodbye to him. I didn't get caught. But for the next seven years, I got beaten a few times a week until I hit high school and told one of my teachers. They had my parents taken away and I was taken under the guardianship of that teacher. She was really nice and showed me that people could be helpful and caring and that homes were a nice, safe place.

I went to college, got a job working with comic books. I helped work out stories for a little company, but I didn't care. I even made sure to read all of the Superman comics I could get my hands on. I was still wary of anyone who tried to get close to me, especially men, and by the time I was twenty-seven, I still had never had a relationship. Just think, twenty years later, my past would smash back into my life again.

I came home from work and dumped my papers and things on the table before plopping down on the couch to check the news and take off my shoes. I flicked on the TV before bending down to untie my sneakers, only to hear a news reporter say that a huge explosion a few cities over had killed a whole list of people. I didn't even hear her say "And the two convicts" before I heard the name I never forgot: Dean Winchester. Turns out that he was the one who had needed saving.