AN note - This grew out of a helluva lot of pestering to write the hunt I had mentioned in The Watcher with Dean and Joshua. I guess its kind of a... prequel... tag...? I dunno really what you would call it. Anyway, its set pre-season, following my AU, but before any of the events of The Watcher are known. Therefore, it's not necessary to know any of the details of that story other than to know that Joshua is a character in that. Dean is just seventeen, Sam's twelve and Joshua is twenty-six.

Huge thanks to Laughing and GG101 for beta'ing and giving me awesome advice - and also for stopping my head from spinning 360 degrees worrying about writing younger Winchesters. You have no idea how out of my comfort zone this story is. I havent been a teenager for that long that I think I've forgotten what the hell it was like. Oh and for those of you who are waiting for the sequel to The Watcher... its well under way.

I dedicate this story to my wonderful friend, Jenilee, whfo pushed me to write this, and held my hand through the ridiculous amount of freak outs I had putting these characters onto paper. I hope this is what you were looking for, and I apologise for taking such a long time to get it written.

Chapter One

The Black Hills, South Dakota

Tuesday 12 March, 1996

“Sam? Open your eyes.”

The voice cracked through the solid wall of darkness engulfing him, reaching across the abyss, and attempted to drag him back to the waking world. Try as he might, Sam couldn’t make his exhausted body comply with the request.

“Sammy?” the voice tried again, a hint of desperation layering the command. “C’mon, wake up, little brother.”

Sam wanted to do as he was being asked, but he couldn’t find the strength to prise his gritty eyes apart. He was exhausted, and he hurt in places he didn’t know he could hurt. His body throbbed and felt too hot, and his skin prickled fiercely as a cold chill clawed up his arms and legs. Even swallowing was torture. His throat was raw, like he had swallowed shards of jagged glass and the dark solitude that existed behind closed lids dulled that pain. Sam welcomed it, letting his mind empty as he sought darkness once more, hoping to escape from his external pain. His brother, unfortunately, had other plans – plans that definitely did not involve sleeping.

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean’s voice urged, fingers gently ghosting over his hair in an attempt to rouse him. “I know you feel shitty, but you gotta open your eyes, man.”

The renewed insistence – and the onset of panic in Dean’s voice – was enough to drag Sam out of the reverie of sleep. He forced his eyes open, managing nothing more than slitted lids as he struggled to latch onto something solid amongst the swirling vortex that was consuming his vision.

“Sam?” Dean pressed. “You back with me?”

Sam rolled his gaze, following the sound of his brother’s voice, and squinted at the silhouetted figure looming over him, his brow furrowing. Something wet was running down the side of his face and it took him a moment to realise it was sweat. He wasn’t sure how he could be sweating when he was so cold, but his hair was uncomfortably plastered to the side of his face.

“Dean…?” His own voice sounded raspy, as if he hadn’t made a sound in months, and his tongue was glued to the roof of his impossibly dry mouth.

“In the flesh.” His older brother’s face wavered and splintered momentarily before coming back into focus. Sam blinked sluggishly, trying to hold his vision still and keep the cough that was tickling the back of his throat at bay. Miraculously, he managed both. “Hey! Keep your eyes open, narcolepsy boy. You can sleep once we’re inside the cabin.”

Sam hadn’t even realised his eyes had slid shut again, and shifted his heavy lids towards his brother once more, confused.

“Cabin?” Sam shuttered his eyes slowly, testing the word on his wooden tongue, blinking salty sweat from his stinging eyes.

“Yeah, we’re in the Black Hills.” Dean replied. “Can you sit? We need to get out you of the car. You’re ruining the upholstery doing your human faucet impression.”

Sam frowned deeply. It took him a moment to realise that he was curled across the backseat of the Impala. Dean was bent down, his head and shoulders inside the car. Outside the vehicle, nightfall hung heavily to the silhouetted outlines of the trees. It gave his surroundings an almost eerie look.

Shifting his legs a little, Sam groaned at the knots that had settled in his muscles. He was going to have a hell of a problem moving. His limbs were sluggish, and not responding at all to his commands. He gave up trying to move after a moment and merely stared glassy eyed at his sandy haired brother, hoping his body would become more responsive in a moment.

“The Black Hills?” Sam repeated, blinking owlishly at his brother.

“South Dakota.” Dean replied softly. “Not far from Deadwood.” The older man grunted. “Speaking of which, you sleep like frigging deadwood.” There was a pause as Dean took a moment to rove a scrutinising eye over his younger brother. Judging from the twist of Dean’s lips, the older boy obviously thought Sam looked as crap as he felt.

Sam groaned, dragging a hand over his clammy brow, his gaze settling on the ceiling of the Impala. It was tempting to give into the need to close his eyes once more, but Dean’s anxiety was enough to stop Sam from doing so. The last thing he wanted was his brother going into overdrive.

“I thought you were feeling better, Sammy.”

Swallowing thickly, the younger boy managed a nod. “I was.”

Sam had a chest infection that stubbornly refused to shift. A full week of hot sweats followed by chills that had racked him for hours had seemed to be clearing up with the aid of super strength antibiotics. Sam had started to feel better a few days ago, but right now he felt worse than he had at the height of his infection. Every breath was like inhaling barbed wire and his torso ached as if he had gone ten rounds with a pneumatic hammer.

“You’re really burning up.” Dean said, placing his hand on Sam’s forehead, a trace of worry in his voice. The touch of skin on skin burnt like acid and Sam hissed, pulling back from Dean’s fingers. The older man frowned, his brow pulled down into a v. “You take your meds before we left Toledo?”

“Who are you – Dr Quinn?” The twelve year old boy grimaced, stifling a groan as he struggled to sit up.

Dean reached out and helped his younger brother straighten, curling his hands into Sam’s damp t-shirt. Even with his brother’s assistance, Sam’s limbs still trembled under his own weight. He felt as weak as a newborn kitten.

“Dr Quinn ain’t got shit on me, kiddo.” Dean said with a grin, before frowning once more. “So, did you take them?”

He didn’t relinquish his hold on his younger sibling, but one hand moved to the small of Sam’s back, supporting his weight as he struggled to find equilibrium with his surroundings. Sam let out an exhausted breath.

“Yeah, Dean, I took the antibiotics.”

His head was pounding, pain gnawing against the bones, trying to burrow its way out of his skull. Squeezing his eyes shut, Sam waited for the sharp throbbing to recede before he dared to open them again.

“You ok?” The worry was back in Dean’s tone.

“I feel like crap.” Sam admitted, brushing shaky fingers through his sweat-drenched hair.

“I gathered that.” Dean replied, glancing over his shoulder out of the open car door. “You ok to walk? It’s not far.”

“I’ll be fine, Dean.” Sam said, not wanting his brother to fuss. Now that he was fully awake, he felt more than a little embarrassed at how needy he was acting. He’d seen his dad and brother deal with wounds ten times worse and barely complain. Suck it up. That was the Winchester way. And Sam was trying to suck it up, but it was hard; he felt wretched. His brother obviously shared the same sentiment.

“Yeah, well, you look like shit, Sammy.”

Sam gave him a dark glare. “Thanks.”

Dean grinned.

“Don’t mention it.” His expression sobered. “You sure you can walk?”

“I’ve got a chest infection, Dean.” Sam snapped irritably, feeling like a little kid being mollycoddled – despite the fact he probably needed mollycoddling. “I’m not dying.”

Dean snorted. “In that case, you can help me unload the car. You have more bags than me and Dad combined, princess.”

Sam ignored his brother’s jibe as he attempted to stifle a yawn to little avail. Shivering against the post-sleep chill that seemed to invade his vulnerable body, the younger boy allowed Dean to help him to the edge of the bench seat. In all honesty, Sam wasn’t sure he could have moved his body on his own just yet. He was stiff and sore.

Draping his legs out of the car door, he remained seated, leaning his right shoulder against the back of the chair. The cold air prickled his skin, seeping through the thin material of his clothes, chilling him to the very bone despite the raging inferno that seemed to be engulfing his entire body.

“What are we doing in the Black Hills?” Sam asked, his teeth chattering together, arm wrapped around his middle as he tried to warm himself. “I thought we were heading to Bobby’s.”

“We were,” Dean answered, his worried gaze still locked on his younger brother. “Change of plan. Joshua Turner called en-route – said he needed Dad’s help so we took a detour.” Dean frowned at him, reaching over the seat and grabbing Sam’s coat. Gently, he draped it around the younger boy’s shoulders, rubbing his hands up and down Sam’s arms. Sam welcomed the warmth. “You must have really been out of it, dude. I told you this.” He appraised him suspiciously. “You feeling drowsy?”

Sam mirrored his brother’s frown, shifting his shoulders.

“I… guess.”

Dean’s brow wrinkled further.

“The doc said those pills were strong. Didn’t realise she meant they were the equivalent of horse tranquilisers. You’re spaced, dude.”

Sam gave his older brother what he hoped was a glare and not a squint.

“I’m not high on antibiotics, Dean.”

The sandy haired man grunted.

“Yeah, well, you look pretty out of it to me.”

The younger boy planted his sock covered feet on the hard ground, wondering when the hell he had removed his sneakers. He didn’t remember doing so. With a sigh, he twisted on the seat and tried to locate his shoes. Every move seemed to irritate his sensitive body even more.

Dean finally took pity on his younger sibling, reached into the foot well and rummaged under the seat until he found one of Sam’s sneakers.

“Thanks,” Sam murmured, carefully bending to pull his left shoe on. His entire torso felt like it was engulfed in flames and the motion had him grimacing.

“Need some help?” Dean asked, but Sam brushed off his brother’s ministration.

“I can put my own shoes on.”

“‘Cause you’re a big boy now, right?” Dean said with a hint of humour, watching as Sam slowly stuffed his right foot into the other sneaker.

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam said but without any bite. He was too tired to bite. “Where’s Dad?” Sam asked, finally getting his shoes secured.

“Inside the cabin.”

Sam nodded sluggishly.

It was their usual routine. John would secure the building first with salt lines and various other charms before either of his sons were even allowed near the place. It was something that annoyed Dean to no end and often led to arguments about the fact he was now seventeen and should have been able to lay out the protections needed – especially considering how often John had left Dean to look after Sam when he had been off on a hunt somewhere. Not that he ever said so to their father.

Sam pushed his hands underneath him and levered himself to his feet, his hand fastening onto the rim of the car door as he tried to find traction. Every inch of him hurt and his body felt borrowed, like it was not his. He swayed a little, but Dean’s strong grip fisting into his damp t-shirt gave him the time he needed to regain his balance. He wasn’t dizzy or seeing double, but his head was muzzy and the simple shift of altitude made him waiver like a leaf in the breeze.

“Easy, Legs,” Dean said gently.

Sam brushed him off after a moment, once the world had righted itself again. He didn’t want his father to see him like this – weak. Although it was a foolish want. If Sam had been out of it since Toledo then there was a pretty good chance that John already knew that his youngest was suffering.

“Joshua’ll be here within the hour.” Sam glanced up through hot eyes and sweat-soaked bangs as his father appeared from the shadows, tucking his cell phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. It was as if thinking of the man had conjured him. John stopped suddenly, glancing at his youngest son with a frown. “You look like hell, kid.”

“I’m fine, Dad.”

The reply was instantaneous, so ingrained that Sam hadn’t even realised the words had left his mouth until his brother snorted.

“Yeah, one step from spontaneous combustion, but he’s fine.” Dean retorted.

Sam gave his brother a dark glare, but John was already shouldering passed his eldest son. John placed a gentle hand on his forehead and frowned at the heat radiating from the twelve year old boy.

“Dean, unload the car. I’ll help your brother inside.”

John slipped his arm around Sam’s waist, but Sam pulled back feeling even more weak than he already did. It was different with his brother. Dean didn’t expect Sam to suck it up and deal. John… John expected miracles.

“I can walk.”

John gave the twelve year old a hard look, but relinquished. Slowly and carefully Sam moved forward on rubbery legs, trying to ignore the fact that his father was following him closely. It pushed Sam on to move more quickly. He wanted to sit down and he didn’t want to ask his father for help.

The cabin was directly in front of the Impala. It was a single storey building, completely encased in wood slats, and three long windows were streaming light from inside the building, casting murky orange glows across the driveway. A porch ran around the circumference, three steps leading up to the front door. Sam didn’t even want to think about how he was going to manage those. His legs were protesting enough as it was. By the time he reached the front door, Sam was shaking and sweating even more. Wordlessly, John pushed the door open and let his youngest enter the cabin first.

The main living space was a through-room that housed the kitchen, dinning room and lounge all in one area. There were two comfortable looking navy blue sofas and a recliner that was near the fireplace. Sam made a beeline towards the couch, gently lowering himself back against the cushions and raising his legs. Letting his head fall back, Sam felt his eyes closing. He was tired and he couldn’t decide if he was boiling or freezing.

Something draped over him and it took Sam a moment to realise his father had covered him with a heavy throw rug before his calloused hand came to rest on his forehead once more.

“You’re really hot,” John murmured with frown.

“That’s what all the girls say,” Dean injected as he stepped over the threshold. “Right, Sammy?”

Sam opened his eyes to half-mast slits and scowled at his brother, but his attention was snared by his father.

“Dean, get the first aid kit.”

His older brother came over to them, kit in hand, passing it to John. His father pulled out the bottle of antibiotics and pressed two pills into Sam’s hand. Pulling a bottle of water from his pack, he handed it to the young teen. Swallowing was painful as hell but somehow Sam managed to take the pills.

“Just two more, Sam, and then you can sleep.”

Sam groaned as his father pushed two more tablets into his hand.

“What are these?” Sam asked, glancing up through wet bangs.

“Tylenol.” His father said, relinquishing the tablets to his youngest. “It will help with the fever.” John assured him.

Once he had swallowed them both, Sam let his head fall back against the cushions and closed his burning lids. His whole body felt like it was on fire. His shirt was stuck to his skin, sweat seeping through the material. He shivered uncontrollably, wishing his body would stop hurting.

“Get some sleep, Sammy.”

Sam wanted to protest that he wasn’t tired, but the tempting lull of sleep was inviting him into the darkness, and Sam gave into it.

Dean watched with a level of uncontrollable trepidation as his brother shifted on the couch. Dean could tell the kid was uncomfortable and the deep frown lines marring his forehead even as he slept had the older Winchester matching Sam’s expression. His overly long, brown hair was darker and clung to his scalp like he had just stepped under a shower, and he had thrown one leg outside of the blanket, sweat pants rolled up to the knee as if he couldn’t decide if he was too hot or too cold.

It was only a chest infection, but Dean had to keep reminding himself of that fact. It was never easy seeing his little brother in distress – even if it was nothing more than a run of the mill illness. Sam seemed so much more vulnerable than Dean had ever been at his age and at times that frightened the seventeen year old considering their lifestyle.

“He’s not gonna pull a Houdini, Dean.”

Dean started and flicked his head around as his father moved further into the room, dropping the rest of their belongings onto the round table.

“I wasn’t –“ Dean frowned deeply. “He’s pretty sick, Dad.”

John waved a nonchalant hand and he pulled back the zipper on the weapons bag. “He’s fine, Dean. The doc checked him out before we left Toledo.”

“Yeah, I know but… shouldn’t he be getting better? Not worse. It’s been over a week since he came down with this thing… A week, Dad.”

John stopped unloading the guns and turned to his eldest son.

“Give the damn antibiotics a chance to work.” John slid his gaze towards the restless sleeping form of Sam. “I get that you’re worried, Dean, but it’s a chest infection. He’ll be fine. Bed rest and plenty of fluids and the kid will be back to normal in no time.”

Dean nodded slowly. He trusted his father’s judgement, and if John said he would be fine, then Sam would be fine. Still, it didn’t stop him from worrying. Finally, tearing his eyes from his younger brother’s supine form, Dean moved into the kitchen area and sank onto an empty chair that belonged to the dinning table. He let his eyes wander over the arrangement of guns and knives that had been carefully laid out across the surface by his father and scrubbed a hand over his face. He wished he had pushed his father to take his brother to Bobby Singer’s before they had headed to the Black Hills. It hadn’t been that much of a detour and Dean had the feeling that what Sam really needed wasn’t medication, but some TLC. Pushing that from his mind, Dean raised green eyes to his father.

“Why’d Joshua call you on this?” Dean asked finally.

John shifted his shoulders.

“Not sure kiddo. He just said that it was important.”

For John, that was enough. Dean knew his father didn’t have that many people he considered friends in the hunting world, but Joshua Turner was one. Dean had met the man on a couple of occasions – usually in passing, and usually when they were staying at Pastor Jim’s or Bobby’s – but he knew his father hunted with the twenty-six year old frequently. Scrubbing a hand over his face, Dean reached for a Taurus, and began to disassemble it, even as his father moved towards the fridge to unload the groceries they had bought in Deadwood.

Joshua Turner arrived forty minutes later. The man hadn’t changed much since Dean had last seen him. His chestnut hair grazed the nape of his neck, stray strands flicking out giving him a more youthful appearance and he was attempting to grow a beard. As John let him in, the hunter pulled off his beat up leather jacket and slung it over the coat rack near the door, straightening his navy blue t-shirt over his jeans.

“Johnny.” Joshua held his hand out and John shook it with a grin. “Glad you came.”

Joshua returned the grin with full dimples, his southern drawl giving him a slightly rougher edge.

“You said you needed my help,” John replied, following the younger hunter as he moved towards the kitchen. “And the fact you footed the bill for this place was a good incentive for me to drop what I was doing.”

Joshua snorted. “You’re all heart, old man.”

The kitchen itself was made up of a series of wooden cabinets, a relatively new stove and gingham. There was a hell of a lot of gingham every where. Joshua pulled a face.

“Man, I feel like one of the Walton’s,” he muttered. “This shit hole really is the back of goddamn beyond. Can’t believe how friggin much it cost.”

“Well, John-Boy, the motel down the road would have sufficed.” John told him, earning a scowl from the other man.

“Information that would have been useful hours ago, John – before I abused my damn Gold Card.”

John ignored the disgruntled man and continued to talk. “You know my son, Dean.”

Dean jutted his jaw at the man by way of greeting. Joshua offered Dean his hand and the teen took it.

“The damn rugrats are gettin’ bigger every time I see them, Winchester.” Joshua said. He noticed Sam on the couch and gave John a puzzled look.

“Sam – he’s not feeling too good.”

Joshua gave him a contrite look.

“Dammit, John, if you’d said your kid was sick, I wouldn’t have asked you to haul ass.”

John shifted his broad shoulders. “Sammy is ok. Nothing a couple of days rest won’t cure.”

Joshua snorted. “I know your idea of ok, old man.” The southern man leaned against the kitchen counter and folded his arms over his chest. “Even with limbs missin’ you’re still expected to keep damn well movin’.”

“Saved your ass on more than one occasion following that rule, Turner.”

Joshua shrugged, waving a negligent hand. “Semantics, man.”

Dean felt suddenly pushed out, like there was a whole part of his father that he didn’t know about. He had always felt close to John, but listening to him and Joshua bantering, Dean realised he didn’t know his father as well as he thought.

“You wanna tell me why you’ve dragged me to this back road hellhole then?” John asked. Joshua’s expression darkened and John gave him a knowing look. “Let me guess - Russell?”

“None other than the esteemed parent.” Joshua snorted, dropping onto the empty sofa opposite Sam. He draped an arm over his eyes and let out a weary breath. “Swear to god the old man thinks he’s twenty-one again.”

“What’s he hunting?” John asked.

“Werewolf,” Joshua growled heatedly. “He’s gonna get his dumb ass killed. Series of murders started in the area about six months ago. Dad figured out it was a wolf so he hightailed up here around the last full moon.”

“Did he find the wolf?” Dean asked curiously.

He hadn’t come across a werewolf before and he had to admit the thought of seeing one was pretty damn exciting. It was good old fashioned horror movie stuff – all that was missing was the b-movie bimbo, although Dean could probably rustle up one of those at a moments notice.

“Yeah, he found the fucking thing,” Joshua rolled his eyes. “Nearly killed him in the process.”

John sucked on his bottom lip. “Let me guess, Russell decided to play round two solo?”

“Round two? He’s in for the final showdown. He’s up here intendin’ to nuke the little shit, but there’s no way in hell he can take out a fully grown wolf alone.” Joshua brushed his fingers through his dark hair. “The man is a goddamn pain in my ass, but he’s my father. He’s gonna get himself killed and, as much as that shit would be his own damn fault, he’s the only family I got left, John.”

The issue of family didn’t need reiterating for John. Everything the older hunter had done had been for his family. He understood all too well that responsibility – as did Dean.

“Full moon’s not till Wednesday, Josh.” John laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. “If Russell is here, we’ll find him.”

Joshua gave him a smile that was filled with relief and gratitude. “Knew I could count on you, Johnny.”

“Always.” John replied sincerely. “I’m going to hit the hay. We’ll start researching this thing tomorrow - and looking for Russell. Don’t stay up all night, and don’t corrupt my son.”

Joshua grinned at the warning. “Would I do that?”

John rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

“Night, Dad,” Dean said.

John moved towards the hallway off the main living area that led to the bedrooms. Left alone with Joshua, Dean watched the older hunter as he moved towards the fridge and began rummaging. After a moment, he came out empty handed.

“Christ, is this what your Daddy classes as damn food?” Joshua demanded.

“Your body is a temple.” Dean smirked then added, “it’s Zen according to John Winchester.”

Joshua snorted, closing the fridge and moving over to his own bags. “Yeah, well it sucks.”

Dean’s expression faded into a frown.

“Your Dad’s in real trouble, huh?” He asked after a moment, watching as Joshua pulled back the zipper and rummaged through his belongings.

Despite only meeting the man on a handful of occasions, Dean found he liked the older hunter. There was something about the unruly brown-haired southern that was familiar. Joshua, Caleb, Pastor Jim, Bobby and Jefferson were the few constants in his life – that and the Impala, his brother and father. In his nomadic lifestyle, people and objects were the only roots Dean had, and he clung to those things fiercely.

Joshua raised his gaze and let out a weary breath, halting his searching.

“The man thinks he’s immortal.” He lowered his gaze back to the bag and let out a grunt of satisfaction as he pulled a bottle of soda from his bag. He unscrewed the cap with a grin and took a long swig. When he had finished, he dragged his forearm across him mouth before his expression turned sombre. “He’s too damn old to be playing Rambo, and the stubborn asshole doesn’t have a goddamn clue how to hunt in the field. He’s been out of the game for too long.”

Dean knew all about parents and stubbornness. John Winchester had invented stubborn. Picking up a Beretta from the table, Dean quickly dissembled it, placing the parts on the surface as he reached for the oiled rag that was balled up in the weapons bag. As he caught Joshua’s gaze, he smirked. The demon expert was staring wide-eyed at him.

“What?” Dean asked innocently.

“You’re…” Joshua shook his head, swallowing hard. “How in the hell did you take that damn thing apart so quick?”

Dean glanced down at the disassembled gun with a grin. “Helps having an ex-marine as your father.”

Joshua grunted and slouched into the nearest empty dinning chair, brushing dark hair off his face. “Yeah, Johnny’s a real hard ass. He’s one of the best in the field though – ain’t no denyin’ that.” He slid his eyes back to the disassembled gun, frowning deeply. “Still, dude, that shit was friggin’ freaky. I ain’t never seen someone do that.”

Dean shrugged, returning his gaze to his weapon and continued cleaning it, the rag whipping through the barrel in a blur of motion, but his eyes occasionally straying to the couch were Sam was sleeping. Joshua glanced over his shoulder, following Dean’s line of sight.

“You worried ‘bout the kid? “ He asked.

Dean pulled a face and lowered his eyes to his gun.

“He’ll be ok.” He wasn’t sure if he was saying that for Joshua’s benefit or his own. Dean suspected it was the latter. He’d never seen Sam so sick before and it had all his protective urges on overdrive. “So uh, how’d you get into this?”

“Into what?” Joshua asked, taking another sip of his drink.

“Hunting.” Dean replied, even as he reassembled the gun and reached for a shotgun. When Joshua pulled a face, Dean shrugged. “C’mon dude, everyone has a reason for doing this shit. No one chooses this life.”

The older hunter shifted uncomfortably.

“My story ain’t exactly bedtime readin’, kid.”

“Neither’s mine,” Dean replied with a wry smile.

Joshua’s expression contorted painfully, his fingers picking at the label on the bottle. Dean found himself grimacing at the older man. A myriad of emotions were flickering across his face, but Dean couldn’t help but pick up on the overwhelming sense of grief radiating from the demonologist.

“Didn’t mean to put my foot in it, man,” he apologised.

Joshua shifted his shoulders, visibly shaking himself as if he could throw off his painful past with the gesture.

“Nah, you didn’t. Don’t worry about it, kid.” He pushed a piece of hair behind his ear before he scrubbed a hand over his bearded chin. “The past is the past. Can’t change it.”

Cursing his big mouth, Dean fell silent and focused on the shotgun in his hands as the stillness grew in the room, becoming unbearable with each passing second. Most hunters got into this life because they had seen something or been affected by the supernatural world that existed side-by-side with the ‘real’ world. Joshua’s reasoning for getting into hunting was probably no different from John’s, and like Dean’s own past, it was probably painful as hell. Dean wished he hadn’t said anything and so he was a little surprised when Joshua spoke again.

“It was a demon,” the hunter said quietly, his eyes dark. “I musta been about seven when it happened. My dad… he’d hunted his entire life – was younger than you when he started - but he’d hit the road for months and then turn up at my mom’s beat to hell. She’d patch him up and he’d hit the road as soon as he could. I thought he was a crazy sonuvabitch. He was always talkin’ bout friggin’ demons and spirits, but I guess crazy’s relative.”

He paused taking a shuddering breath, his face lined with pain.

“Dude, you don’t have to-“ Dean started, but Joshua cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“It’s ok.” He brushed a stray strand of long hair behind his ear once more before he continued, his voice hitching a little as spoke. “Anyway, he’d exorcised this mean sonuvabitch a few years previously. The bastard crawled outta the abyss and came lookin’ for my dad. He found us instead.” His lips twisted. “It killed my mom, my sister…”

Joshua broke off for a moment and Dean felt his stomach clench painfully. He tightened his grip on the shotgun until his knuckles were white.

“My older brother, Jeremy… he hid me. I heard him – I heard him… die. Thought I was a goner too, but then Russell…? He turned up like the fucking angel of mercy. He stopped long enough to exorcise that bastard and then we hit the road. Never looked back either.” Joshua rubbed at his eyes, his brow pulled down into a v. “I’ve spent my entire life looking into demons. What I know about those sadistic fuckers, you could fill a book with, kid. I’ve exorcised more of them than I could count and every single one makes me feel that little bit better.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably and sniffed as he reached for his bottle once more and took a drink. He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably and he rubbed at his nose. “But I don’t know jack about werewolves – which is why I called Johnny in.”

Dean’s brow wrinkled as he studied the older hunter. Losing his mom had been hard enough, but losing his entire family like Joshua had…? Dean couldn’t even wrap his head around that. He couldn’t imagine what he would do without his younger brother. Without meaning to, he found his eyes straying towards Sam’s supine form once more.

“I’m sorry, Josh,” Dean said as much sympathy as he could muster. There were no words that could ever make Joshua’s history better, but Dean didn’t know what the hell else to say. What did you say to a guy who had lost so much? He knew nothing anyone said to him was going to make him feel any better about his mom’s death. Shit like that was impossible to put into words, and it was impossible to forget.

The older hunter shrugged listlessly, but there was still a tenseness in his bulky frame that belied his feelings.

“Like I said, it’s in the past, kid. Ain’t much anyone can do about it now.”

“We’ll find your father. Dad’s good at what he does. And we’ll even get the damn wolf,” Dean assured him earning a smile from Joshua.

“Yeah, well I’m not worried about the wolf. The wolf I can handle. Russell on the other hand…?” He grimaced. “Well, let’s just say he’ll make the damn thing look like Lassie.”