Disclaimer-Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke and affiliates, not me.

Warnings-Violence, Slash, Bad Language. No Wincest. The boys ain't bros in this.

AN- This story is unfinished. I've got it about half done, but then got stuck, so I decided to start posting it to see if anything rattles loose. I figure if it doesn't then I will just re-watch the boxsets. Life's busy, so I will be posting irregularly. Much love to my beta, who has made this story better. Hope you enjoy and if you have any criticisms or comments I'd love to hear them. Every review is a chance for me to learn more. Flames will be used to make smores. Hope you all enjoy.

Trunk Space

The block was silent save for the soft rustle of the leaves in the slight breeze. Light from the lampposts a block over trickled into the street, and joined the flickers from the sleepy houses to chase off the darkness. The neighborhood appeared to settle down for an easy sleep as, one by one, lights were extinguished by tired occupants.

In one house a family gathered around the second floor nursery and guided the newest member of the family into an easy sleep with soft whispers of love and affection. The eldest son forced his parents to lift him so he could kiss his new baby brother to sleep before allowing his father to carrying him off to his own bed. The young mother smiled as she watched her boys, her husband's hands flying animatedly as he illustrated the story that the oldest had pressured him into reading before allowing sleep to claim him. She shook her head and made her way to her own room knowing that the boy would manage to get at least one more story out of his father.


She opened her eyes and tried to place the noise that had woken her from a light sleep. Her hand immediately reached under her pillow for something that hadn't been there in nearly a decade. A soft hum coming from her left that clued her in and she sighed, slumping down into her bed. She loved her son, she truly did, but she was looking forward to the day when he could finally sleep through the night so she could too.

"Honey?" She rolled over, determined to make her husband go check on the child and sighed when she saw his side of the bed was empty.

She wandered towards the nursery, rubbing her eyes as she walked down the softly lit hall. The light began to flicker, casting dancing shadows across her. The artificial twilight caught her white nightgown and for a few seconds she looked like an angel floating across the hall.

She peered into her baby's room and smiled tiredly, seeing a familiar silhouette already looking after the baby. "Is he all right?" Her voice slid through the gloom with the shadows.

"Shhhh," he whispered, raising his finger to his lips.

She shook her head, turning down the hallway. If he was going to be like that then maybe he should have woken her, she thought grumpily as she trudged down the stairs. As soft lights flickered across the wall she realized he had left the television on when he went to go check on the baby. She rolled her eyes and touched the final step, already mapping out a route to shut off the television.

Her husband was asleep on the couch.

She took the stairs three at a time. She threw herself in to the nursery and went to rush the stranger, ready to do everything to keep her family safe.

An invisible force began slammed her into the wall. She screamed in rage.

Then slowly, oh so slowly, she began to slide up it.


He woke to the sound of screaming. It took him several precious seconds to realize that it wasn't the golfers on the screen who had made that noise. The realization sent the half eaten bowl of cheetohs flying to the new carpet, dusty orange staining the white.

None of that mattered to the man flying up the stairs.

He checked on his oldest first. The kid was buried under a heap of blankets, a lone foot sticking out. Despite his panic the father had made sure to open the door both as quickly and as quietly as possible. Despite the silence of his father's entrance the boy still opened a groggy eye.


"It's okay," his father's deep voice rumbled, "go back to sleep."

"'Kay," the sound was like a sigh as the boy's body instantly relaxed back into the bed.

Next the father headed to the nursery, moving slower as his panic abated. It disappeared completely as he pushed open the door to see his youngest kicking his feet and cooing softly. The child smiled as his father approached, but his intelligent eyes soon darted back to the ceiling. The child cooed again while his father watched with a tender expression.

It wasn't until something dark dripped onto the blanket that he turned to see what had made his youngest so happy. He lifted his gaze towards the heavens and his eyes met those of his wife. She lay pinned to the ceiling, her hair flared out like a halo as her stomach wept crimson. Silence filled his mind as time stretched out impossibly wrong.

"Daddy?" A small voice from a child who hadn't gone back to sleep cracked through the night. Then the fire broke out.

The man turned to his oldest son. "Run!" he screamed at the boy.

So the child did. He fled, running down stairs that he was only supposed to walk down and onto the lawn in bare feet, feeling damp grass between his toes. He looked up at the orange glow coming from the room where he had left his family.

Dean shot up, clawing his way out of the nightmare and back into the safety of daylight. Well, the supposed safety of daylight, he thought with a bit back moan as light stabbed into his through his eyes directly into his brain. The young man fell back onto the bed, his pillow squeezing against his pounding head. He let out a soft moan as he rolled onto his side, his stomach swimming in the opposite direction.

A soft chuckle echoed like thunder rattling in his skull. Dean Winchester silently cursed the world and Jack Daniels, both the man and the beverage.

"Worth it?" John Winchester's deep rumble made Dean wince but even that pain couldn't keep the smile off of his face as he remembered the previous night.

"Yeah." Dean grinned lewdly. She had been a leggy red head, which normally would have made for a great night, but this chick had been yoga instructor. She had been able to do things with her body that Dean hadn't known were possible. Yoga instructors had definitely made their way onto his list of the best ways to spend the night. Hell, they might have even passed pent up librarians.

"Good." John nodded in approval as he watched the hung-over form of his son crawl his way towards the bathroom. Not that he approved of getting shit-faced and going for a tumble with the most convenient bimbo. It made a hunter vulnerable to be out of it like that. It's hard to watch your back if you can't even see straight and are stupid to end up in the sack with a stranger. Yet John had come to accept this behavior from Dean back when the boy was just a teenager. It had been hard to realize that they both had a different way of coping with the job. Dean had managed to find one that was stupid, but he supposed it was still better than what it could have been.

At least it worked. He knew that Dean would be fresh on his feet for few weeks or until the next hunt went bad, which ever came first. And consider how much of a dozy the last hunt had been he was glad Dean seemed as languid as he did. They had gotten the prick but for Dean it hadn't been enough.

The thing had been a div, a type of witch that fed off of the flesh of children. It had operated from a house nestled deep in the woods of the Tahoe but just close enough to a campground to keep it well fed. Children had been going missing in the area for over fifty years and people had kept placing the blame on the increasing number of cougars in the state. John had figured out it was more then that when a Boy Scout troupe had gone missing and the instructor had been found by hikers with his neck twisted. He and Dean had tracked the thing down and killed the sucker, which had been damn hard to do. They had been required to drown the fucking thing. Watching its abominable flesh melt into the water had been enough for John, but not for Dean. Something in the boy had crumpled when the search for survivors turned up a single bloody sneaker.

"So." Dean's voice floated from the bathroom, breaking into his thoughts. "You have a new job for us yet?" He emerged with a towel, drying his face. He still looked pale but he had obviously taken something for the pain.

"Nah." John set his gun on the table. "I got a call while you were out." He was torn between rolling his eyes and chuckling as Dean once again relived the memory of the previous evening, "And he had some info he needed to pass onto me. In person."

Dean straightened at that, his cocky demeanor vanishing. "The thing that killed…?"

John shook his head. He loved Dean, the boy was his son, but there was a part of Dean that didn't yet have what it took to see this job through to the end. Despite being twenty-four there was a part of him that wasn't old enough to know what John had been hunting all these years. "No. It's separate and it's personal. I'm going alone. I'll call you when I'm done."

"Yes sir." Dean wilted and John realized Dean knew the score. He knew that his dad would be incommunicado for the next few weeks.

John leaned back in his chair. Dean's mouth may have been saying yes but the boy's body was definitely unhappy with the decision. Then again, Dean was always pissed when John left him alone. Kid had dependency issues of some sort he needed to work through. Which wasn't really John's problem.

John frowned. Part of him felt bad, so he threw Dean a bone. "Why don't you go see Pastor Jim? He's always got a case floating around and I'm sure he'd be glad to have you clean something up for him."

"Yes sir!" Dean went even straighter and John congratulated himself on knowing how to handle his son. Jim would keep the kid busy and make sure he didn't go in over his head while John dealt with his business.


"Boy! Get your keister down here!"

"Coming Bobby!"

"Don't you 'coming Bobby' me! Get your ass to the kitchen now!" The tone left no room for argument.

Sam sighed as he saved the file, looking mournfully at the old text. He been trying all week to type the thing up and he hoped to email Ash a copy before the month was out. He sighed again as he flipped his laptop closed. By Bobby's tone it was unlikely that Sam would have a chance to chip away at the job tonight.

Bobby waited as patiently as he could for Sam to come downstairs. For being 6 " 4' the kid could sure dawdle when he chose and he damn well knew the boy was choosing to now. Not that he could blame the kid. Dealing with Bobby while he was pissed was something no one really ever wanted to do. Last guy who had gotten Bobby in this much of a twist had found his face full of shotgun.

"So, what's up?" Sam leaned against the doorframe, hands stuffed into his pockets, going for casual. He would have made it too if Bobby didn't know the kid so well. The boy was wound up tighter than a spring and ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble, though he'd probably trip with the way that Rumsfeld had wrapped himself around the kid's knee.

Traitor, Bobby glared at the dog. The dog huffed in response and then, in the ultimate display of contempt, began to lick himself. The damn mutt seemed to have conveniently forgotten whose hands it were that fed him. Rumsfeld was heading the right way for vegetable kibble and an attitude adjustment.

"Bobby?" Sam hesitantly peeked out from underneath his shaggy bangs, breaking the silent war between the man and his dog. He winced, realizing his mistake when Bobby shifted his piercing blue eyes towards Sam.

"When the Hell were you gonna tell me?"

"Tell you what?" Sam bowed his head, trying to make himself a smaller target. He had no idea what Bobby was talking about.

"Don't give me that bullshit, Samuel." Sam winced at the use of his full name, knowing he was screwed. The feeling only worsened when Bobby held up an envelope addressed to one Samuel Singer. The return address read Stanford University, California.

Oh, Sam thought dumbly as panic began to numb his brain. "Look Bobby, I can explain-"

"Explain what?" Bobby snapped. "That you were planning on going on an all expenses paid trip to California?"

"No, I- wait, what?" It was then that Sam noticed that the corners of the envelope were torn.

"That's right," Bobby puffed out his chest, offering Sam the envelope. He grinned as the kid fished out the letter, his expressive eyes filling with shock as they skimmed through its contents. When he was finished he looked up at Bobby, who openly smirked. "Congrats on being the first Singer destined for better things."

"You're not pissed?" Sam asked hesitantly.

Bobby huffed. "Course I'm pissed, boy. That thing there says they need your ass in Cali in three months. Do you know how hard its gonna be to track down and gather the crew in that time?"

"Gather the crew?"

"Hell yeah. We got a lot of celebrating to do and I'll be damned if you get out of here without a party."


"There a damn echo in here or something?" Bobby clapped a hand on a dazed Sam's shoulder. "Now why the Hell didn't you tell me this sooner?"

Sam blinked and looked down at the letter again. "I didn't think I'd get the scholarship."

"What the Hell has that got to do with anything? You know that I would have rustled up some cash so you could go."

Sam shook his head. "That's why, Bobby. You've already done so much for me and I didn't want to cause you any more trouble." Sam looked at Bobby with imploring eyes, begging for understanding.

And Bobby did understand. He understood that Sam was too damn guilty for his own good if he thought that he had ever caused Bobby a lick of trouble. He'd tried explaining that to the kid, but it seemed as though Sam would really have to learn that lesson on his own. So Bobby tousled Sam's hair. "Well, you got your scholarship, so go clean up. We've got some celebrating to do."

Sam flashed a smile, an honest one that made his dimples standout before vanishing back up the stairs.

From his spot on the floor Rumsfeld whined, rolling onto his back. Bobby glared at the dog, cursing the animal even as he bent over to give his belly a good scratch.