Disclaimer…All together now:The TV show Supernatural and all characters therein are owned by assorted Americans, not me (though I'd like an option on the delectable JDM) – and after all, these people severely injured the Metallicar, so do they deserve ownership? Maybe I could sue for custody… g Anyway: this fiction is purely for the enjoyment of readers; no money is being made, yada, yada, yada. All Original Characters remain the property of Catherine D. Stewart and may not be used without the express permission of the authoress.

Summary: What if Dean wasn't really as immoral and shallow as his lechery seems to indicate, what if there really was a deeper purpose?

Rating:'T'/15. This story is set post-second Season and contains major spoilers for Season 2 and the beginning of Season 3!! – If you really do not want to know, please be advised that it may be advisable not to read this story.

Dedication: For CaroCali, who gave me Paley & Season 1 music, and who asked nothing in return save teabags.

(FYI British readers – Americans are wonderful people, but they can't do tea, cheese or irony and the greatest of these is tea. I have no idea why – this is a nation that had the creative vision and the scientific genius to put a man on the moon, yet the simple premise of adding boiling water to plant leaves confounds them…)


Chapter 1

"Dean!" Sam's instinctive summons of his brother came simultaneously with him waking up and sitting bolt upright in the crappy motel bed, almost causing him to break Dean's nose with the top of his rising skull as Dean proved to already be sat on the bed beside him.

Smoothly retracting his face from the danger zone, Dean's smirk remain firmly in situ; having awoken as soon as Sam started to move agitatedly in his sleep, in the seconds it took for Sam to reach awake and yelling, Dean was up and sat beside him ready to soothe and calm.

Sam unwittingly leaned into his brother's solid frame as he tried to come around from sleep. "Dean…"

"Yeah, we've established that. So, where's your Shining showing us evil badness is now?"


Dean groaned theatrically and abruptly stood up from where his weight had been inflicting more strain on Sam's already badly sagging mattress; this was one of those motels whose sole virtue was cheapness. "Damn it…that's a five hundred mile drive…what does your Shining show is happening in Missouri?"

"Not in Missouri, it is Missouri!" Sam corrected, throwing back the threadbare covers and scrambling upright, "Our Missouri…"

"Moseley?" Dean abruptly lost his expression and attitude of sardonic mockery. The murder first of Jim Murphy and Caleb Fischer by "Meg Masters", victim though she herself had been, followed by the loss of Ash – and nearly Ellen - at the Roadhouse, had made the Winchesters a great deal less sanguine about potential peril caused to their fellow hunters. Theirs was what someone had once described as a 'closed, locked and bolted society'. The culture of the demon hunters was highly secretive and very interdependent; a threat to one was a threat to all.

"Yes!" Sam affirmed urgently, trying to yank on all his clothes at once.

No more words were wasted; in ten minutes all their gear was packed back up in their military-style kit bags and stowed in the trunk on top of the false floor of the car that concealed their weaponry from the casual glance. They had been due to check out in the morning anyway and eventually the day manager would find the left in the empty room.

By 4:30am, less than fifteen minutes after Sam had done his 'rising from the mummy's tomb' impression, Dean was pulling out of the motel lot and applying an uncaringly leaden foot to the gas pedal as his unfortunately well-tutored imagination supplied a variety of increasingly nasty possibilities as to what could be threatening Missouri Moseley, their father's oldest friend and the person who had clued him in to what had really killed his wife and what was lurking out there in the shadows…

Oh great, Missouri was primarily responsible for turning our Dad into the implacable Terminator-style dude, Dean only now suddenly realised, which probably puts her high on any demonic 'hit list'

That prompted Dean to push the Impala's speed with greater urgency, not bothering as the needle crept up the speedometer to the 100mph mark. Although the Prime Directive of all Demon Hunters applied: Don't draw attention to yourself in any way, Dean had lived for so long in a constant state of what might best be described as 'anticipatory trepidation' that he had long ago stopped consciously realising it.

Knowing every time he got behind the wheel he could get pulled over by a cop for driving a car whilst being cool and end up with the guy – or gal – deciding to check out the trunk and understandably freaking out, or checking the glove box and discovering the eclectic selection of IDs from FBI through Homeland Security to the Federal Bureau of Fish & Game. Every slip of going over the speed limit or not noticing a red light or a broken taillight had been a potential catastrophe in the making. Every time of paying for a motel room with a fraudulent credit card feeling that twinge low in his belly of what if today was the day the card set off every bell and whistle going. Every time of some officious authority organ grinder's monkey running his ID the fear of them going, 'Hey, you should be dead in St Louis!'

Applying that humongous brain of his, more as a way to distract himself from his fresh grief over losing Dad…again, whilst Dean had, as usual, simply internalised and denied his own anguish, Sam had managed to perform a bit of minor damage control, by managing to get retroactive permits for quite a few of their mini-arsenal of firearms, including Dean's favourite Glock-17.

Sam had even had a small number of business cards printed that proclaimed them to be 'paranormal pest control' specialists, an idea inspired from the plethora of supposedly paranormal stuff being sold on eBay and like 'genuine black dog claws' and also the fact that you could look up 'Psychics' in the phone book. The latter was the same loophole that enabled all those crazy anti-Government Survivalist militias to legitimately wear quasi-military uniforms and not get arrested for 'impersonating an officer' and so on. "'People will treat it as being as real as they believe it to be, and how real they believe it to be is not our problem.'" Sam had stated with a firmness that had bordered on harshness, his demeanour one of tightly reined in tension.

Speaking of tension, on the passenger side Sammy's face was drawn and his expression bleak; time for a bit of subtle big brother nurturing.

Continued in Chapter 2…

© 2007, Catherine D. Stewart

Author's Note:

As per screencaps courtesy of www.supernatural.tv/ Mary and John Winchester were both born in 1954 and John's middle name began with an "E". I have picked Edward as the most likely 'suspect', though my favourite was Emerson, and I also preferred Ezra, just for something original. Also, as per the episode, 'Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things', we know that in 1983 the boys had at least one other living relative than their father, a great-uncle. This was in fact Mary's uncle (either the brother of her mother or the brother of her father) who paid for the headstone. It would seem from the context of the show that both Mary and John were only children and their parents were all four deceased by 1983. However, all of this may change due to revelations in Season 3.