Point Pleasant

Disclaimer: I own a few characters... yay... Dean, Sammy and well... "Supernatural" ain't mine but you knew that already.

Chapter 1 – Busy Life

A sudden breeze. A tiny movement. Nothing could mean everything and everything nothing in the darkness of this forest.

Aware of this, Dean Winchester stood still, listening intently to anything that dared disrupt the silence of the night. He was hiding with his back against a tree, his gun tightly held in his right hand, feeling the presence of the creature close to him. Far too close.

The Canisolus was a small but incredibly fast creature, similar in its appearance to a dog, but it was hairless and its long white fangs were filled with a powerful poison it used to weaken its victims before it took a few bites at it and then abandoned its lifeless body on the ground. The creature could jump from tree to tree as easily as an ape and not surprisingly, if anyone saw the creature move and lived to tell, they would usually think they saw the Chupacabra.

Dean had found out this creature was responsible for countless deaths of small children, all of whom had been found with fatal bites all over their bodies. The reason for the hunter to refuse to leave the case in the hands of Wild Life was that although every corpse had been found in the same area of a forest near Point Pleasant, most of the victims came from elsewhere in West Virginia. No one could explain how a small child could have gone from one extreme of the state to the other on their own, and so Dean had decided to investigate.

He had been extremely well prepared and had managed to catch the creature off guard, but the shot had missed the heart and only injured its shoulder, the Canisolus being faster than his bullet. It had been Dean's only chance to overtake it and he had wasted it.

Dean knew how much trouble he had gotten himself into, but he couldn't back off now; it was too late. The Canisolus was probably watching him and ready to attack, no matter how well he hid, no matter how still he stood.

He assumed the attack would come from a certain height, since the Canisolus preferred jumping from branch to branch, so he kept his eyes focused on the trees around him, watching any move that would warn him of the presence of the creature.

Dean would have never anticipated what followed. He was so focused on seeing the creature that he didn't notice how cold the forest had become all of a sudden. He didn't notice the unnatural silence the absence of insects created. Dean never noticed its presence until it was already too late.

The Canisolus materialized two inches from his face out of thin air with a deafening screech.

Out of pure instinct, Dean covered his face with his left arm and aimed his gun with his right and fired. But as he shot the creature right in the heart, he felt the sharp pain its long fangs stimulated as they dug deep into his forearm.

The Canisolus' body was so light, it hung limply off Dean's arm, the fang never breaking. Carefully, the hunter pulled its head backwards with an expression of disgust in his face, and eventually got the fang out, making the wound start bleeding freely, and Dean let it. Although he knew he was already infected, the more poison got out of his body, the better. He examined the wound apprehensively.

The poison wasn't lethal, but it would be at least two weeks before he was completely cured of it.

But what worried him more at the moment wasn't the healing process or even the immediate weakness he felt from the poison. No. It was the fact that his wife was going to kill him.


Somehow, Dean managed to stumble back to his dark green 1999 Mitsubishi Montero. Not exactly his dear old 1967 Chevrolet Impala, but she had been damaged beyond repair more than five years ago. Besides, although he would never admit it, he found the larger all-terrain vehicle much more suited for rough terrain, not to mention the considerably less amount of money spent on gas.

He was well aware that the last thing he should be doing right now was driving, but he had no choice. It wasn't a long drive anyway; his house was just outside of Point Pleasant, West Virginia; a twenty minute-long drive.

Just when his vision was becoming blurry, Dean entered his property. After a couple of years since he had started a small garage business that had grown hugely, he, with the support of his wife's own income, had been able to afford a colonial style house located in the middle of a large green garden adorned with flowers and neatly cut bushes.

Dean had never stopped hunting, even in the hardest moments of his independent business, but he did it less often and usually only in West Virginia, because leaving his family for days at a time like his father had done was a mistake he didn't want to repeat.

In fact, it had been during a gig that he had met Ignacia Rivera, a young woman of Mexican origin living in Charleston, West Virginia. Her father and her were being haunted by an angry poltergeist, and although it took Dean three exhausting days to get rid of it, he had done it in the end.

He had started planning his garage business the day he met her, never really knowing why until he realized his feelings for her: his mind had begun planning to settle down in West Virginia so that he could be with her way before he was conscious of it.

Dean and Ignacia were married about a year from that day and moved to the quieter city of Point Pleasant.

Nacha, as everyone called her, was a cheerful, generous and brave woman with curly dark brown hair that fell on her shoulders. She had wide brown eyes that always had a smile of their own, and long black eyelashes. Her naturally tanned skin always made her stand out in a crowd in this part of the United States, where Hispanics are rare. But Dean felt that she would stand out anywhere, even in Mexico itself because of her striking beauty.

And there she was, anxiously waiting for Dean sitting on a rocking chair in her nightgown. The moment she saw the car, she jumped up and ran to greet him, but her expression of relief turned into one of concern, as Dean took far too long to step out of the car.

"Hey, sweetie, why were you waiting out there, your date ditched ya?" he tried to joke, but Nacha became stone serious the moment she saw the amount of blood coming out of Dean's arm.

"In the house, now," she commanded, her usually gentle eyes now glaring furiously at Dean.

"Yes, sir - ma'am," he corrected with a quick shake of his head, which spun insanely, causing him a new wave of nausea. Sometimes his wife could sound strangely like his father, which half amused him and half scared him to death.

How he missed the old man.

John Winchester had passed away only a few seconds after the three of them managed to kill the demon, and although it had hurt Dean more than any wound, he could be sure his father had died in peace accomplishing his life-long mission and was now somewhere out there with Dean's mother at last.

He also missed Sammy, but that was a different story.

About a week after their father's death, Dean sat down with his brother for a serious talk. He could remember the exact words he had uttered that day, he had said: "Sam, I know you have your dreams, and I understand you want your normal life back so I want you to go back to Stanford and get it."

After much arguing, Sam had finally been convinced that Dean meant what he said and that he would be okay on his own. He promised to keep in touch and visit often and, thankfully for Dean, he had kept his promise.

Of course, the elder brother was far from okay at first. But Dean, although he didn't have Sam's psychic abilities, had foreseen how lonely he would feel and he had tried his best to be prepared to face his fears.

Because Dean's worst fear had always been to be alone. And it still was, and it would always be.

After helping Dean to their room on the second floor, Nacha cleaned and stitched the wound and finished by bandaging his arm carefully while her husband told her how the poison would probably manifest: fever, headaches, nausea and basically the symptoms of the common flu. Nothing to worry about.

"Dean," she said solemnly when he had stopped speaking, "I know we've had this conversation a million times, but I swear if you keep hunting you might not even be around for long enough to take Andrew to his first day of school."

"That's not gonna happen," he claimed and holding her face gently with his good hand, he looked at her straight in the eye. "I promise."

"You can't promise that, Dean," she said letting out a bitter chuckle. "Anyway…" she added sadly, "you should go to bed, you're burning up."

She kissed him lightly and stood up only to see a couple of wide green hazel eyes observing them from the door.

"Andrew! What are you doing here, honey, you should be in bed," said Nacha, but the two year-old boy had his eyes fixed on his father.

"Daddy!" he cried running towards him.

"Midget!" replied Dean in the same tone as his son, taking him in his arms.

Many would say that Andrew Winchester was an exact copy of his father. He had the same wide green hazel eyes and long eyelashes. His hair, although dark brown like his mother's, was straight and thin like Dean's. His facial features seemed to have been replicated off his father, but his skin had his mother's natural Hispanic tan.

"Daddy? Why you have 'zilly' thing on your arm?" he asked with the same lisp Sam had had at his age.

"Oh, 'cause all my friends had it and I wanted to fit in," Nacha laughed softly, but Andrew frowned.

"What you mean?"

Dean laughed, forgetting completely about the pain and fever as he played around with his son.

"Nothing, midget, let's get you back in bed." He held the boy close and winked reassuringly at his wife, who was gesturing at him to hand Andrew to her.

"Okay. 'Night, mommy!"

"Good night, sweetie."

Dean took his boy to the room next to theirs. Lovingly, he tugged Andrew in his youth bed and ruffled his hair playfully.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't 'zleep' now."

"'Course you do, midget, just close your eyes and sleep will come."

"But it don't want me 'zleep'!"

Dean suddenly grew serious and frowned, his eyes fixed on his son's.

"What doesn't want you to sleep, Andrew?"

"The 'clozet'! It making funny 'noizez'."

Dean froze momentarily, terrified of what could have happened if Andrew hadn't gone to their room when he did. He smiled warmly at the boy.

"Well, then, we gotta ask the closet to let you sleep, don't we?" Andrew nodded.

"Ztop making noizez, please, clozet," said the boy seriously and Dean chuckled, secretly wishing it could be that easy.

He stepped between his son and the closet and before opening it, he felt for the gun he always kept tugged in his jeans. He held it with his right hand, but didn't take it out, not wanting Andrew to see it.

When he had opened the doors, he found nothing, and he knew there was always the possibility of it actually being only his son's imagination or something that could be perfectly explained, but he didn't dare leave his son again.

"You sleep now and I'll stay here to make sure it doesn't make funny noises again, okay?"

"Okay, daddy."

He remembered putting the EMF meter in his jacket pocket in his previous hunt. Retrieving it, he pointed it at the closet and got no readings, but he knew very well that it didn't mean anything. Dean grabbed a chair and sat in front of the closet holding the small device.

His head was pounding and his body screamed for sleep, but he wouldn't take any chances. It would be a long, eventless night for the young father.

A/N: Hey! Well this is the start to my new story. I'm really hoping you guys will like it. I couldn't remember how fluent two year-old kids are supposed to be but then I remembered I taught my little brother how to read when he was two so they have to be pretty good at talking lol... Your reviews would be seriously appreaciated so umm... please review? Anyway, thanks for reading!

Random Note: I thought of a little version of Jensen Ackles calling Dean 'daddy' and I was like "ok that's it - I need to write" lol!