Hey Guys. This is my new fic that I had been working on for quite awhile. I finally refurbished the first chapter. I hope it's alright!Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, just using them for my own evil plots. Plus, all places are made up in this story. If on the rare event that I am correct in naming a real place in the real state, it is purely coincidence.

Warning: this fic is really dark in the beginning and if you do not like a little bit of child abuse I suggest you do not read the next chapter. But it lightens up as it goes on. You'll see what I'm talking about.

It was another dreary, rainy night in the isolated farm town of Cottonsmill, California. Known for its unpredictable weather, the town's residents all made their way inside when another cowering thunderstorm brewed. It was the fifth one that week and it began to make its assault by casting down tumultuous rains and torrents of wind, producing cackles of ear-splitting thunder causing the earth to tremble violently. Beams of lightening lit up the sky striking down on various sites, frightening most of the cattle and barn animals in the vast acreage.

Another beam of lightening struck the ground barely avoiding a small house located in the middle of nowhere.

Inside the lonely rented space, sat a man in his tiny kitchen at a table diligently working on mounds of research. The flash of light and the noisy grumble of the walls around him hadn't fazed him in the slightest. He pressed on, writing down numbers, addresses, or anything that would be useful for the next hunt. The engraved name Winchester gleaming off his dog-tags.

John Winchester is an interesting man. Of the many people that had the privilege to know John, they would probably describe him as hard, stoic, and an impervious-to-distractions sort of being. Most would say he reminded them of a military general: mission-oriented, emotionless, his mind dead-set on one thing and everything else can go to Hell. For the many that only briefly met him, they would probably say he wasn't anything more than a hero.

Another flash of lightening occurred followed by the rattling of the window panes. A whimper brought the man out of his momentary obsession and he turned around to see two young boys seated on the floor, the older one cradling the younger one protectively whispering reassurances into his ear, a half-played board game of Scrabble lying in front of them. John smiled at seeing the pair of them.

Yet for such a hard, good-for-none character, nobody would have expected John to be a father. Widowed at the age of twenty-nine with two sons to care for, one four years of age, the other only an infant, John did the best he could. Sure he could've kept his job as his old town's main mechanic. Sure, he could've worked two jobs like most single parents do in trying to keep their heads above water and come home longing to fall into a drunken stupor at the end of each day. Sure, he could've become one of the lonely saps that go to bars every once in a while to retell their sop story to patient hookers, who only listen with a single purpose on their mind.

But John's life was no ordinary life.

The night his beloved Mary died, John saw something. Something no husband should ever have had to witness. He saw his wife brutally murdered. But it wasn't by some clichéd lonely psychotic murderer prowling the streets. Nor was it some freak accident typically heard on the news.

No, her death was different. She wasn't killed by someone.

She was killed by something.

Some thing from a mysterious world that just recently John learned was far more vast and ancient than the storybooks let on. And so far their own world, completely oblivious to this supernatural world's existence, was held in it's icy grip, ready to be crushed.

That same night his beloved wife died, John changed. Now-a-days, no one would be able to believe that once he used to be a kind-hearted sensitive man. Mary often had a way of bringing the best out of people, even his cold-statured Marine personality. She was beautiful, caring and loving, and stubborn at the best of times; hardly knew when to quit. She loved him. She loved her sons. She made the best out of every situation and would always act upon the kindness of her heart.

Those were the days to be cherished. Now, all John's heart, mind, and soul were set on was protecting the family he had left and exacting revenge on the preternatural entity that bestowed this miserable life on him and his sons. And if that meant traveling the countryside tracking and killing every unnatural monster out there to keep his sons safe, then so be it.

It wasn't fair for his two boys to be put through this sort of existence of always remaining alert of the dark forces, to always be afraid, even if the two whippersnappers wouldn't admit it. In some ways John felt they were much stronger than he had ever hoped to be, and he couldn't be prouder.

"It's okay Sammy," he heard his older boy Dean assured, "Remember thunderstorms can't hurt you. It's the gods up there, remember? They're bowling, right?"

The younger boy nodded his head, his watery eyes peering at the window fearfully.

"And when lightening happens..."

"The gods made a strike," the little boy answered.

"That's right. See, everybody, even the gods can have fun. Now are you ready to get back to the game?"

The smile on John's face widened when he saw his youngest scramble off his brother and went back to the board game, happy and content. He knew he should've been the one to comfort Sam, but the truth was it never really was his place. He fell out of being the loving father figure when he allowed his obsession for finding his wife's killer to take over.

His oldest, Dean, at the tender age of four, innately took on the responsibility of caring for his younger sibling, especially during the time of grievance after Mary's untimely death. Dean, who looked more like his Mary with his blonde hair and piercing green eyes and delicate face, was extraordinarily precocious and intelligent…when he wanted to be. Now at the age of eleven, the boy accomplished more than any typical eleven year old was even capable of. He took care of Sammy, clothed him, offered comfort, and in many ways fathered him. Surprisingly, Dean also managed to care for John when on the rare event he would come home broken, bloody and in a psychological mess after facing a big bad nasty. And he never complained once which made John's heart soar over the moon.

Sam, however, was a different story. Though also gifted intelligibly, Sam often had the convenient tendency to find trouble or trouble would normally find Sam. It was like the kid was the classic epitome of a walking and talking Murphy 's Law in real form. If anything could go wrong, it did.

Like the time the family hung out at Pastor Jim's convent and Sam 'accidentally' climbed the bookshelf in the pastor's office, causing it to topple over and smash into the office desk, in turn causing that to fall over and scattering all of the pastor's service notes five minutes before mass was to begin. Luckily Dean was there to stall the crowd of church followers with his round of comedic jokes while the pastor located and organized his notes, all the while the five year old laid on top of the piles of books giggling incessantly at the pastor's plight.

John rolled his eyes, fighting hard to suppress a laugh at that memory. The look on his fellow friend/hunter's face was surely a Kodak moment.

Yep, Sam was a troublemaker; always recalcitrant to John's uptight regime. But Sam was lucky in that he had his big brother to bail him out on several occasions, even when sometimes Dean was the instigator. But nevertheless, the little tyke with his big mossy green eyes consistently followed his brother around, looking up to him, mimicking his every movement, pretending to be just like him. In a way, they were like conjoined twins, joined at the hip. When there's one, the other is tagging along not far behind.

John continued to watch them as they played merrily by the board game. Sam sat hunched over on his knees, his tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth, obviously strategizing for his next word. Dean lay on his stomach appearing impatient, tapping his fingers methodically on the carpeted floor.

"Sometime this century Sammy," Dean chided.

"I'm thinking," Sam whined.

Deciding to play with them, John walked over and sat down next to Sammy, lifting him into his lap, and began whispering little hints into the little boy's ear.

"Heeeyyyy, not fair," Dean reprimanded, "Why're you helping him? He's kicking my arse over here!"

"Arse!" Sam laughed looking at his letter bank.

"Dean, watch your language," John warned.

"Sorry sir," the kid apologized.

"Ha, arse. See," Sam exclaimed pointing at the spelled word on the board.

Dean cringed, avoiding his father's scolding glare.


"Sorry," Dean whispered sheepishly.

John shook his head, stifling a laugh. He was about to tell Dean it was his turn, when his cell vibrated in his pocket. Lifting Sammy off him, he got up to answer it.

"Caleb. About time," John announced heading back into the kitchen.

Sammy leaned in, "Hey Dean?"


"What's an arse?"

Dean only had to stare at his brother.

A few minutes later, John ended his call. "Hey Dean, come here."

Immediately his little soldier came to his beckoning. He bent down looking straight into his child's bright green eyes. "It's time for me to go out again. More than likely I'll come back late tomorrow night. You know the drill."

"Yes sir," Dean answered automatically.

"Good boy. Take care of Sammy."

"I know," the boy nodded before heading back into the small living space.

John stole one last glance at the two of them before heading into the back of the house to go pack. It only took a few minutes to gather his belongings and soon he came out ready to leave.

As he headed towards the door, Sam rushed up to his side. "No daddy, please don't go. Please!"

John sighed reluctantly. He peered down at his boy clinging onto his leg. "Sammy, we've been through this. With my job I have to go. You should be old enough now to understand."

"No please," the boy pleaded, "I-I don't want you to go, not again. Stay with us."

"Sam, don't do this please," John huffed. He looked up at his other son, "Dean, come get your brother."

The tiny child squealed, stomping his foot, "Noooo daddy. Please."


Dean instantly came forward at the commanding tone and pried the little boy off his father's leg. For a fleeting second, John believed that his oldest had told his youngest the truth, the grand secret. Never before had Sam pleaded desperately for him not to go.

He sighed again. "I'll be home soon," John said turning away, avoiding the distraught look on his child's face. It was better not to look back. What he had to do was important. Hopefully one day, Sam will understand that. And with that, he left out the door and into the stormy night.

Angered at his father's dismissal and equally angered at his brother for allowing his father to leave, Sam wrenched free of his brother's grasp and fled to their small bedroom in the back, slamming the door shut.

Dean flinched at the slamming of the door and the muffled cries his brother made. He understood completely for Sam's temper-tantrum. He too wanted his father to stay with them, not only to keep them company, but also because he knew what his father faced on a daily basis. Every night when John was gone, it was agonizing, holding his breath, constant with worry that one day his greatest fear will come true and he and his sibling would become orphans. Part of him knew one day it would happen. Inevitably everybody dies; he just hoped that his father would not bite the dust anytime soon.

The next day dragged by somberly. Sam was still angry and a little distant, continually straying from Dean whenever they managed to come three feet from each other. Dean had to admit it was a little aggravating. But he had to remind himself that Sam was still just seven years old, still a child, therefore he still had rights to all-out selfish stubborn acts.

It wasn't until late in the evening close to Sammy's bedtime when the little tot came ambling up to his brother, sitting next to him on the couch, appearing bothered.

Dean noticed his hesitant mood instantly. "What's wrong Sammy?"

His brother's hands twisted anxiously in his lap. Sam's expressive green eyes swiveled frantically back and forth in their sockets, indicating that he was nervous in revealing to him the matter.

Dean sat up straighter, turning the TV off with the remote. "Talk to me Sammy. What's the matter?"

"I'm scared Dean," the child spoke, his voice quivering.

"Scared about what?"

"I…I…just have a bad feeling," Sam answered.

"About what? Is it about Dad? Because if it is, he's going to be okay. He'll be fine.

You'll see when he comes home later on tonight," Dean tried to reassure, trying hard of not to think of the worst circumstance.

"No, not Dad," Sam shook his head, "I have a bad feeling something is going to happen to us."

Dean eyed him fearfully. Usually Sam was never nervous about anything, and it kind of scared him a little bit to think that instead of something happening to their dad, the tables might be reversed. Dean shook his head to rid his mind of that thought. No way was he going to let anything horrendous happen.

"What do you think is going to happen?"

"I don't know. I just have a bad feeling and it won't go away."

"Well all the doors and windows are locked, and the salt is down," Dean began, making a mental check of everything.

"I know, but why is the salt down again?"

"Uh you know. Dad is just a little superstitious that's all."


"Still have that bad feeling?"

Sam nodded his head solemnly.

Uncertain of what to say, Dean took a deep breath before clasping a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Don't think about that. If you're still scared, there's one thing that you can always count on."


"Me," he gave a lop-sided grin, "No matter what, I'll be there. And if you somehow find yourself in a hole somewhere, I'll find you."

Still apprehensive, Sam calmly nodded his head again.

"Everything will be okay Sammy. I promise. I won't let anything happen to you, alright?"

Sam peered at him brightly.

Dean swiped a hand through his unruly chestnut hair giving him a comforting expression. "I'll take care of you; protect you even if it kills me. Okay?"

"Okay," Sam nodded, smiling a bit.

Unsettled by the little chick-flick moment, Dean looked up and saw the time. "Alright dude, time for bed. Let's go get your p-j's on," he hopped up dragging his little brother behind him.

"Come on Dean. Do I have to?" Sam protested.

"Yep, because Dad will be home soon and he'll have my arse hanging from the rafters if you're not in bed."

"There you go again with that word."

"Ha ha," Dean led him into the room and sat him on the bed. He crossed over to the dresser and pulled out a clean pair of jammies.

"Arms up," he ordered lifting the striped polo Sam was wearing and tossed it away, while Sam put on the over-sized navy-blue t-shirt.

"Dude you can take your pants off," Dean muttered playfully tickling his little brother's side. The child shrieked with joy running his little legs into the air. Both then joined in a round of playful antics, enjoying themselves so much, neither of them heard a vehicle pull up the gravel driveway.

The shenanigans came to an end with Dean helping Sammy into his jammie bottoms. He had just pulled back the blankets when the front door burst open with a loud crack, and two strangers rushed in.

Hi everybody. Okay, here's the thing I know I've used the beginning portion in another fic, but I wanted to use that again here, not only because it was already written out and I was too lazy to go back and change it, but because I love the symbolism thunderstorms have and the comfort and closeness that it brings to the two brothers (when they were kids). But since it is so repetitive, I won't use it again. Hope you liked the first chapter, stay tuned as things heat up in the next chapter and may leave you a little shocked.