Supernatural 1. The Fire Rages

"_I raised my boys hard. Dirty. Full of rage that was only dimmed by every evil bastard that I sent to hell. Shut down and broken, my heart couldn't take being a father, so I became the drill sergeant. _

_Dean, hell, my little four-year-old soldier, knew right from the start that his old daddy had snapped like a dry twig. And it had to be fate, because he just picked up the slack. But Sammy, my little brown-eyed baby boy, he needed more. And, well, I...I just didn't have it in me. _

_When I saw my sweet darling Mary on that ceiling...there was just no other way for me to handle it 'cept to be hard. My obsession kept me from dealing with that pain. Kept me from putting a bullet in my brain. _

_What I couldn't give to Sam he took from Dean. _

_And I let them."_

_John Winchester_

"**The Fire Rages"**

He woke up, blurry-eyed and fat-tongued, after effects of a hard nights drinking, at the sound of a baby cry. He closed his eyes and gave a groan as he levered himself out of the reclining chair he'd fallen asleep in. He didn't sleep much these days.

John Winchester stumbled towards the whimpering cries of his youngest baby. Sam cried more then he ever did before. Some part of him, little babe though he was, knew that his momma was gone and couldn't understand why she wasn't here anymore.

Coming, he flipped on the lamp light, only to find his oldest, doing his best to climb the railings of the crib and get in to calm his baby brother. Dean turned his head momentarily to acknowledge John's presence, but then just continued his unspoken duty.

Not for the first time, John wondered what went on in that blonde head. Dean hadn't spoken much since the night of the fire and john couldn't even remember if the boy had wept at Mary's funeral or not. He'd been too self-possessed, wondering what had caused his wife to burst into flames on Sammy's nursery ceiling.

People, so many damn people, had told him that he must have imagined it. But he'd been in Nam, he'd seen enough blood shed and carnage in war, not to go all cross-eyed when things were rough. He knew what he saw. Just now one was willing to accept that.

Still, something niggled at the back of his head, a self-deprecating voice that whispered he was crazy. What else could it be? And maybe, just maybe, it was more comfortin' to think that the delusion was true then really face the fact that fate had just taken her due.

"What you doing up so late?" he muttered to his boy, not bothering to help Dean into Sam's crib.

The boy nearly belly flopped into the crib, but was extra careful not to fall on the still whimpering Sammy. Dean sat up and shrugged his shoulders, rubbing a child-chubby hand along Sam's belly, doing what he must have watched Mary do a thousand times. Sammy wasn't fooled, no matter how gentle and loving his older brother's touch was.

It should have been a heart warming sight, instead it was a poignant reminder that things had changed and they wouldn't be right for a long time, if ever again. Dean's lower lip trembled but like always the boy kept a steely resolve over his emotions. Damned if he wasn't glad his little soldier didn't cry. John could barely manage to convince himself that Sammy's tears were nothing but that of a baby's inability to communicate intelligibly.

Still, the scene of a desolate Dean and inconsolable Sammy, chinked further at his shattered heard. Tripping over his own feet, he scooped both his boys into his arms and hugged them tightly.

He hadn't been much help to either of them, allowing Mike and Kate Guenther, the couple they were staying with and part owner's of the garage he and Mike ran together, to take care of the boys, while he buried himself in finding how exactly Mary had died.

Dean wrapped his tiny arms around his neck and returned the hug with equal vehemence. This was real. Dean. Sam. They were flesh and blood. Not nightmares and unanswered questions.

When he closed his eyes and hid his face against his sons' he saw only fire against the darkness.

* * *

He went to the library the next morning, taking the boys with him. He sat Dean down with a stack of picture books, in which the boy immediately began to show to Sammy who sat in a the car seat on the table. That was Dean in a nut shell these days. He never spoke to John or to Kate or Mike, only to Sammy, whispering quietly.

Again, John realized how much Dean had silently taken up the space that Mary had filled in Sammy's life.

Deftly, he began picking out books and magazines about fires. John hadn't been much of a bookworm, he hadn't even finished high school. The last few weeks he'd become accustomed to the Lawrence Library as he poured his grief into researching fires, looking for anything that slightly resembled what had happened to Mary.

He flipped through the pages, thumbing through them with an eye for certain key words. Ceiling. Blood. Nursery. They were all on his list that he'd written in the Journal that he'd picked up at a garage sale on one of his aimless walks.

It was leather bound with a tie to keep it closed when he was writing in it. He hadn't written much else in it, save the list and the empty summarization of each day since his wife died.

But each blank page mocked him, spurred him to fill them with his erratic thoughts and something, anything, that would lead to the questions in Mary's death and the emptiness in his heart.

Most of what the books contained were cut and dry, electrical fires, like the ones the investigation teams believed had killed Mary. Other cases, involved arson. John kept falling to that one. That fire had burned too quickly and too hot, incinerating everything in its path.

He shut the book with a definitive clap when it turned to pictures of the victims. He pushed it away and turned his dark eyes to see Dean with his head on the side cushion of Sammy's carseat, eyes closed, fast asleep. And Sammy was asleep too. His two boys, finally at some kind of rest together.

At night, when he'd stroll around Guenther's house, he would pull Dean from Sammy's crib and make him sleep on the bed. He did it out of some sort of need for normalcy. Except, they didn't have normal any more. Normal would have meant their mother safe, whipping at Dean's dirt smudged face, feeding Sammy a bottle. No, his boys couldn't have normal and so he decided right then and there to give them what they needed; the tools for survival.

He cracked the book open again, tearing through the pages until he came back to the pictures of the victims. Most of them were in black and white, sparring the casual reader from the horror of 3rd degree burns and charcoaled flesh. Those that weren't, showed the structural damage of homes, offices buildings, even a bridge. Unsatisfied, he was about to close the book again and head back...not home, but to the facsimile that had been thrusted upon him, when a one of the pictures sparked something.

The caption above the picture read: Below. Picture of an unexplained fire in 1923. He quickly skimmed through the surrounding paragraphs. Spontaneous human combustion, was one of the begrudging theories, something the author found clearly laughable, but had given himself a good chortle by adding it. All John needed to know was that it had burned hot, hotter than any normal house fire and it had been localized.

He studied the picture, took in every detail with the part of his mind that had been dormant since Nam. Instinct told him he was in a race for survival and his training kicked in to high gear.

Rising from the table, he hurried to the card catalog, with his Journal in hand, pulling the 'S' drawer open, and wrote down titles and locations to several more books, all while keeping one eye peeled on his boys.

It was insane, impossible, but it was a start.

* * *

The door to the psychic's house opened before John could even knock.

He gave a nervous half-smile and said, "What? You stare out your window? Waiting for me?"

Dark skinned, with eyes that were both piercing as a spear but as tranquil as a pool of water, the psychic looked to be only a year or two older then John. She wore a scowl that delved a line down her forehead and wasn't to abashed as to measure him with a jaundice eye.

"I thought a man like yourself, John Winchester, would have learned some manners," she said.

His eyebrows beetled together as he frowned at her. He'd walked up and down this street for days now, but hadn't, until now, been resolved enough to knock on her door until now. How in the hell had she known his name?

"How?" he said on a guttural breath, fear and awe mingling together.

"I know a lot of things, John Winchester," she repeated, her voice was high, breathy, like the wind whistling in the trees. Something softened in her countenance as she gazed upon him. She came down a step on her porch and took a stunned John's hand. "I know there's great pain in you." She tsked tsked like a school teacher, shaking her head one way then the other. "And no one can answer your questions."

"No," he said, and felt his heart start a triple beat.

"No one but me," she continued.

She tugged on his hand and brought him into the cool, dim house. He was dazed, caught off guard by her bold and benign attack. John hadn't spoken one crazy word, but already he felt as though she understood him better then any since he'd started his quest. Not one of his friends had believed him, had all but pressed him into the arms of a shrink.

He glanced at the sign in the window and then back at the woman.

Missouri Moseley.


	2. The Fire Rages: Part 2

"_Coming to the house, was like walking in a dream. Everything was just as I remembered it, but infinitely changed. It wasn't a home any more, gutted of everything that had made it comfortable, safe. _

_Instead it was a tomb, the place Mary had been hidden away._

_Missouri walked through the house and drew back the curtains."_

_John Winchester_

**The Fire Rages: Part 2**

Missouri walked through the house, starting on the bottom floor, where the living room and kitchen sat. She walked on, touching the counters, cabinets, what remained of the couch. But it wasn't long until she headed up the stairs.

John held his breath, bitting his tongue. Missouri had insisted that he not saying, give her no more details, so that her impressions could be solely her own. Her dark hands ran up the banister as she took each step deliberately. Several times, she paused and closed her eyes, taking deep even breaths.

A few paces behind, John followed. His heart in his throat the whole time, his skin tingling with anticipation, and the stench of ash twitching at his nose. He hated being here, everything inside of him, all that old Marine stuff, told him that there was an enemy that had singled him out. And now...well, now it was war.

And he wasn't going to be taken unawares again. No where was safe and the battle lines were drawn in every home and in every shadow.

Missouri gasped, her hand reflexively pulling away from the banister as she reached the top.

"What?" he asked, coming up the steps at a double pace. "What is it?"

"It started here," she whispered breathless. "It..." she trailed off, shivering. "Evil. I've never felt anything like it. This isn't a poltergeist or a restless spirit. This is evil, unmitigated. And it was here with a purpose."

"Purpose?" John asked, on a hiccough of air.

But Missouri continued her search of the house and is drawn to Sammy's old nursery. John hesitated before following her. This room, with Mary pinned to the ceiling and Sammy crying, limbs flailing uselessly, had plagued his dreams for days and weeks. To walk in would be to acknowledge the nightmare as reality.

When Missouri walked into the charred remains of Sam's nursery, John was a step behind her. He knew that there was no turning back. He had a oath to up hold. He was going to find Mary's killer and make the damn...thing...pay.

Missouri's trembling morphed into out right uncontrollable spasms. Tears filled her dark brown eyes and she turned from side to side as though she were deflecting unseen attacks. John rushed to her side, wanting to get her out of her as though she too would burst into flames and be devoured as Mary had.

The psychic stopped him with an unsteady hand. "Don't touch me," she reminded him in that light voice that had dwindled to the sound of a summer's breeze.

John brought his hands to his sides and waited, his breath coming in agitated gasps, heart bounding unyielding in his chest. Everything feels magnified. His skin tingled, the smell of ash and smoke were so overpowering, that it churned his stomach, the crunch of each step sounded like the echo of thunder in his ear.

"It came here to kill Mary," Missouri whispered.

John gave a sob. Just one because any more then that and he wouldn't be able to stop. "Why?"

"I'm not sure," she answered sadly.

"What is it?" he all but growled.

She shook her head. "I wish I knew John."

"Then how do I find it?"

She sighed and lead him out of Sammy's old room. "John. Finding this evil, will take a lot of years. Years that will take sifting out a pattern and identifying it. You can't live like that if your going to protect your boys?"

"My boys?"

"It came for Mary," she said gravely. "But it killed her in your baby's room."

"But...but."

Suddenly, nothing else mattered but seeing his boys, holding them in his arms and making sure that they never became a part of his living nightmare. He started down the stairs at a run, tossing a quick murmured, "I've gotta go," over his shoulder and then running to his car.

It didn't matter that he had abandoned Missouri to the Winchester house, didn't matter that she'd have to call a cab or take the bus back to her house, all that did was that he had to see his boys.

He tore through the streets of Lawrence, ignoring tiny things like traffic lights and signs until he came to Mike and Kate's. He barreled through the door, dismissing Mike's call from the living room and took the stairs two at a time as he ran for the room that Dean and Sammy shared. He pushed the door open and came to a stuttered stop before the bed.

Dean slept curled up around Sammy, giving the baby warmth and protection unconsciously. And Sammy slept quietly, knowing his brother was there.

John slumped to the floor, his muscles becoming liquified in the intensity of his relief. He laid his head against the mattress and simply listened to the dual sounds of breathing.

The door creaked and Mike Guenther walked in, his stocky build just a shadow against the hall light. "John."

"Yea, Mike."

"I'm worried about you," his partner admitted. "You're talking to psychics now. You've never been a religious man, John. This just ain't normal." Mike paused, hoping for a defense. None came. "You haven't been to work since the accident," he continued.

"It wasn't an accident," John stated fiercely, rising to his feet. "Something killed her, Mike."

His old friend shook his head with an air of despair. "What, John? The bogeyman? This kind of talk isn't going to help your boys."

"I'm protecting the boys," he argued.

"Come back to work, John. The garage needs you," Mike pleaded.

"It's yours now, Mike. I don't need it any more."

He couldn't see Mike's face, but he was pretty sure that man's eyes bugged out of his head. "You're just going to leave it. Everything that you've worked for."

"That ain't my life any more," John admitted.

"John, if you don't stop this nonsense, I'm gonna have to call social services. Dean and Sammy, they don't have their momma any more, don't make they loose their daddy too."

The door creaked closed, leaving John alone with his boys in the dark.

* * *

In the wee hours of the morning, John set to pack the few things he had recovered from the house. Toys for both Dean and Sammy. Bottles, Dean's sip-cup, a duffle of clothes. His .45. It wasn't much, but they wouldn't need much on the road. He took all the money that Mike had in his wallet and Kate had kept in her purse, raided the safe, and signed over the garage to Mike's name.

He called Missouri and apologized for abandoning her. Then he questioned her on how to find the thing that killed his wife. She answered them all and gave him a name. Bobby Singer.

He didn't ask how she got it. It didn't matter.

Missouri asked him to keep in touch and he promised he would.

Somewhere around four in the morning, he nudged Dean awake and explained that they had to be extra quiet. Dean nodded and picked up baby Sammy, holding his brother with the clear intention of never letting him go.

They tip toed down the stairs, Dean watching John's every movement and doing his best to emulate him. Reaching the car, Dean refused to let go of Sammy, so John belted them in the front seat next to him, flinging the duffle into the baby seat. Dean didn't ask questions, just instinctually trusted his daddy.

John took heart in this.

They stopped once before heading out of Lawrence, picking up maps of South Dakota, donuts and Coke for breakfast, and formula for Sammy at a convenient store, before heading out to the road.

John switched on the radio and music filled the Impala.

**Ring Of Fire**

Love is a burning thing  
and it makes a firery ring  
bound by wild desire  
I fell in to a ring of fire...

I fell in to a burning ring of fire  
I went down, down, down  
and the flames went higher.  
And it burns, burns, burns  
the ring of fire  
the ring of fire.

The taste of love is sweet  
when hearts like our's meetI fell for you like a child  
oh, but the fire went wild..

I fell in to a burning ring of fire


	3. First Blood: Part 1

"_Huntings a thankless job. Makes you hard. Leaves you soulless. And at the end of the day, when you've stood and spit in the face of hell itself for the last time, all you got is every ache and every pain you spared someone else. _

_You do it because you don't want any other bugger to suffer as you've suffered. _

_Most of us get into hunting for revenge, 'cause you've seen the dark and its bumped you mightly hard. We do it to fill up those empty spaces 'cause there's nothing left for us._

_That's most of us._

_Then there's John Winchester."_

_Bobby Singer_

**First Blood: Part 1**

The man standing before Bobby Singer had the look every hunter bore, having seen inexplicable horror, plus a little extra. Determination, sure, that was evident in the steely gaze, the tensed jaw. Whatever fear held the man, he'd crushed it with the iron fist of anger and new-found obsession.

It was a daunting sight. John Winchester was a tall man, with dark wavy hair and dark brown eyes. He stood ramrod straight and his eyes took in everything. He was a commanding and domineering presence. On his shoulder was a large duffle with the butt of a rifle sticking out of one end. And he reeked of military.

Next to him stood a boy about four or five, blonde, with freckles dusting the crook of his nose and cheeks. He sat a baby on his hip effortlessly and didn't mind when his baby brother tugged at his hair and put it in his mouth. Little Dean was quiet, too quiet for Bobby's liking. Boys were supposed to be rambunctious, touching and setting fire his last nerve.

They'd arrived before the sun was up, waking Bobby as headlights flooded his bedroom. Both daddy and boys were obviously exhausted, Bobby suspecting that they'd driven all night.

He stepped back from the door, silently inviting them in. John placed his hand on Dean's back and pushed him forward.

"I guess you're wondering why we're here," John started.

"No, I know why you've come," Bobby said, gravely. "Same reason every other poor bastard does. Not sure, though, that I can help you, Mr. Winchester."

"I was told you know about these things."

Bobby snatched up his hat, a cap with a mallard duck printed over the brim, from the well worn and near thread bare sofa and smoothed it over his head. "You boys look tired," he turned his attention to the two kids. He gave the sofa a firm pat. "Why don't you lie down for a spell."

Questioning, Dean's large green eyes looked up at his father. Winchester gave a small nod and the boy carried himself and his brother to the sofa. Carefully, Dean arranged Sammy before curling up next to him.

"We drove all night," John said, answering the unnecessary question.

"I'll put on some coffee," Bobby muttered and made a purposeful retreat toward the kitchen. He gauged John Winchester as a smart man when he followed.

John took one of the two metal framed chairs that sat around a small card table. He remained quiet, which suited Bobby just fine as he set to brewing. The silence wouldn't last, but he wanted to see what else made up the man, John Winchester. It took a sort to see the supernatural and not turn it into a very comforting every day thing, it took another altogether to want to do something about it.

Unlike most hunters, Bobby didn't take just anybody under his wing. Your heart might be in the right place, but unless you were capable...well, he'd just as well have an upset boy then a dead one.

He begrudgingly allowed that either John Winchester knew when to keep his mouth shut or he'd guessed that Bobby was testing him. Either way, it added one more check off the list Bobby kept in his head.

Still, the man was missing one key factor or to tell the truth he had two extra major ones that was slowing Bobby's acceptance.

He poured out two mugs of black coffee and sat one in front of Winchester, the man cupped it and took a deep swallow. "Tell me what happened?" Bobby said, for the first time, willing to break the silence.

John reported, there was no other explanation for the way he told the gruesome tale of his wife's death. He spoke dispassionately, only his eyes betrayed the agony that would always cling to him. When his tale was finished, he simply waited, watching Bobby with one eyebrow cocked in question.

Bobby knew what it was like to be in John's place. Lost and alone, vulnerable to an enemy you saw everywhere but could never identify. Wanting to stop it, the one It that had stolen everything from you, that you were willing to raiser down any ugly thing that came in your path. He'd done it himself for five years, until he'd found his It.

"I can't help you, Mr. Winchester," he said firmly but not without pity.

"Why they hell not?" the other man questioned, his thumping against the card table, liable to rend it in two. "I have the skill. I have the focus. This is war, Singer, and I know how to fight a war. I just need the tools. Give me the weapon and I'll take down the enemy. Just don't...," winchester drew off, his throat suddenly catching. "Just don't you take this away from me."

"Under normal circumstances, Mr. Winchester, I wouldn't hesitate..," he began.

"Normal? My wife was pinned to our ceiling with blood pouring from her belly, before she burst into flames over our baby's crib. Don't talk to me of normal." Winchester took long breathes as he calmed himself. "I'm not asking, Singer. I'm telling you. I need this."

Bobby bowed his head. "But it ain't what your sons need."

"My sons?" John asked blankly.

"Believe me, Mr. Winchester. John. I know how you feel. I've been in your position," Bobby felt he needed to defend.

Like a rip chord, John reached out and grabbed Bobby's arm. "Then help me."

"Do you know how I lost my family, John?"

That stopped the other man, loosened the tension on Bobby's bicep. Closing his eyes, the other man gave a sharp shake of his head. "No."

"We were out for a Sunday drive, going to a park, going to have ourselves a picnic. My two girls were in the back, dolls in their hands, chattin' and brushing. My wife sitting next to me with sandwiches in a brown weave basket. Just a day like any other."

The old wound was familiar to Bobby now, the companion that kept him alive on his hunt, it didn't cripple him any longer. "Then we were driving home. The sun was setting. Darla used to love sunsets. And on the radio there's music playing, can't remember what song, something light and happy."

"It started with static, the radio just started humming. I flipped the channel, but nothing seemed to help. I turned it off and it...it would just switch back on. Then I lost control. Of its own, the gas pedal was floored, the car just leapt over the road. I stomped and stomped on those brakes, and we just went faster."

"All my girls start screaming. Horrible. Daddy. Daddy. Bobby. I'm panicked but the road is clear and we're more or less going in a straight line. I'd never seen a vehicle react this way, but still I want to believe I can gain control. That's when the steering wheel starts leaping under my hands. It's twisting and swerving. The cars got to be going over 100 miles per an hour by now. And then there's this click, I remember it quite clearly, as I'm strapped into the car. And it's only then that I realize that it is my foot on the gas peddle and it is my hands causing the car to swerve and it is my fault the moment we crash and it goes end over end."

"Possession," Bobby explained, as Winchester's tan face went deathly pale. "The spirit of a serial killer who traveled from country to country, who liked to watch his victims die. I killed my family." Bobby blew out a long breath and with it, expelled all the memories of the past. "Took me five years to find that son of a bitch. Salt and burn his bones."

"I'm so sorry," John breathed. He added, "But why won't you help me? You should know how I feel."

"The problem is, John, you don't know how I feel. I died that day with them. And the hunt is for a dead man. And those two boys in there," Bobby said, tossing his head in the direction of the front room. "They need you very much alive."


	4. First Blood: Part 2

"Persistence pays off. Rules are meant to be broken. And all that other carp. Just, shut the hell up, John."

Bobby Singer

First Blood: Part 2

Maybe he was a sucker, but he couldn't just throw John Winchester out on his ass and been done with it. He gave him a place to stay, gave him the names of a few other hunters. John thanked him and insisted on helping him with the salvage yard. The man had left behind a successful garage in Lawrence, Kansas.

At first Bobby convinced himself that John was trying to regain his bearings. He wasn't exactly looking to be turned down here and just needed to find his compass. After three days, he'd figured he'd been lying to himself. John Winchester had a plan.

Of course, Bobby wasn't doing much to push the ex-Marine, John liked to drink and he took to talking when he was drinking, and his two sons out of his yard. Truth be told, he liked having the company. He wasn't much older then John, but he'd already faced his family's murderer and had come out a lonely old man.

Dean still wasn't much of a talker, but he warmed up to Bobby and the way he looked after his father and little brother was endearing at best. John was an ace with a vehicle and when sober not so bad to talk to.

So he allowed them to stay, allowed John to think he could whittle past Bobby's denial and fast rule It was all gettin' really cozy.

And then all hell broke loose, in the literal sense.

You'd think demons and the spawn of Satan would stay where they belonged, but no, sometimes hell spat out its own.

It was dusk, the sun having disappeared behind the horizon but leaving its ethereal glow as starlight pricked in and out. Something hit Bobby's talisman, the cords of protection he had wreathed all over the house. The walls gave a little shutter in warning and Harold was barking like a claxon.

Dean got up from the couch where'd he'd been playing with some miniature cars that Bobby had collected over the years. He looked around, searching for his father and brother no doubt, and headed for the back room, where John took Sammy to change a nasty diaper.

He didn't get far though, his father walking to the front room with baby Sammy in hand. His brown gaze was intense and Bobby could see the defense in his stance. But there wasn't any surprise.

"Damn you," Bobby cursed. "You knew this was coming."

"Hoping," John admitted unabashedly. "In war its only a matter of time before the enemy strikes. You're stationary, so they'll know where to hit you. And because you've gone and nested, I'm hoping you have what's necessary to beat whatever's out there back."

"And send it to hell," Bobby admitted begrudgingly. "What about your babies?"

"I'm not a baby," Dean said, his bottom lip jutting out in indignation. "I take care of Sammy."

Bobby needed at least a minuted to think. A minute he didn't have. "Come on," he said, and let them into the hall way.

He pulled a tattered woven rug away, kicking it up along with a plume of dust. Beneath it was an intricate etching, burned into the wooden floor. It was also the entrance to his safe haven, the one place he could go if he were injured, unable to fight, and survive. He gave the door a sound kick with his heel and it fell away into the shadows.

"There ain't any light down there. You boys' afraid of the dark?"

"They'll have to face it," John said and dumped Sammy unceremoniously into Bobby's arms.

John then toed around for the ladder that Bobby had put to the wall and climbed down. He vanished quickly. "Dean," he called a moment later.

The boy took a tiny foot forward, paused, and then looked up at Bobby. "Get down there, boy, your Daddy needs you."

Again, the boy tried to obey, but he was scared, as any smart little man would be. But they didn't have time for him to be scared. "Dean, now!" John barked.

Dean's mouth curled into a sob. "Daddy," he said, his voice tremulous. Tears rolled down the curve of his cheek.

"This is what I meant, Winchester," Bobby called down.

But John knew his boy and took a different approach. "Dean, I need you to come down here and protect Sammy. He's just a baby and he needs his big brother." John's head poked out and he held out and arm. "Dean this is an order and you know what you have to do with an order. Remember, Daddy telling you?"

Bobby was about ready to scoop the boy up and hand him over to John, but the boy boldly stepped forward with a, "yes sir." John caught him in his arms and brought him down. A heartbeat later he was up for Sammy.

From below he heard John say, "Now you keep quiet and don't come out until me or Bobby come in for you, you understand?"

"Yes sir."

Then John was out and he stood beside Bobby with fire in his eyes. "Let's get to it."

* * *

Bobby walked him out to the ramshackle shed and into an army depot. "Whether the hunt is spirit, demon, or just a real pain in the ass, you got your standard arsenal. Holy water, salt, and silver. Knife, bullet, its up to you."

Grabbing a rifle from the wall, he pulled it open and checked the chamber. He tossed it to John. "Rock salt's behind you. Grab a pouch. Fill it up."

"For the rifle?" John asked.

"Winchester, you wanted to hunt, well, here you go. Crash course. Sink or swim. Now shut your fool mouth."

In quick order, Bobby finished arming John Winchester. Silver knife. Flask of holy water. And shot of whisky, for ceremony.

He armed himself with the same.

"Now you listen to me, John Winchester. You might think you're clever. But if you don't do exactly as I tell you, when I tell you, and you actually survive this, I'm going to fill you full of buck shot. I mean it."

John nodded. "Yes sir."

"This ain't Nam, Winchester. You shoot this thing, it goes down, it doesn't mean it won't stand up."

"Yes sir."

"Shut up, Winchester."

John gave a smirk. "Yes sir."

* * *

Moon hung low over head, pale, and giving off much needed light. The salvage yard was mostly silent, the wind occasionally picked up and metal cried out against metal. It echoed in the silence, giving it more power then it would normally have.

It was winter out, turn of the new year, and it was as cold as an eskimo's nose. Snow stood in troughs all over the junk yard, picking up the dirt, rust and grime from the cars and propagating it a hundred fold. It had been a heavy snow this winter.

This was his place, he'd bought it with the insurance money after Darla and the girls' death, and there wasn't anything that could outsmart him in here.

John's breathing was a repetitive reminder that he wasn't hunting alone. It been months since Bobby had had a newbie, and usually first timers' got left in the middle of the woods and told to find their way. Johnny Winchester really was getting a quick lesson in the life of a hunter.

"Now, John, listen up. You see something, you shot it, just make sure it ain't my head. You got me?"

"Shoot first, ask questions later," John agreed. He held the rifle like a pro, nuzzling the weapon into his body, treating it like an other appendage. His eyes leapt from one corner of the junk yard to the other in a pattern that was well used.

Bobby turned back and did the same. Some men were just born for hunting and he was pretty sure that they'd stamped it on John Winchester's tiny ass the day he was born.

And otherworldly howl echoed in the cold air. The type that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end caused your heart to beat at triple the speed.

"What was that?" John asked, on a hush whisper, puffing tiny clouds of white into the night.

"Don't know yet. Haven't seen it."

He wanted the other man scared. To some, especially the young and bold, hunting could be glamorous. They started getting a hero complex. After all, who goes out there and fights the things of nightmares each night. They could make mistakes. And since John Winchester was risking so much already, playing with fate itself by keeping his boys close at hand, Bobby was going to make damn sure he didn't risk anything else.

There was another howl and Bobby narrowed his gaze in the direction of the sound. In the distance he caught a black shadow moving in the moonlight.

"Gotcha," he whispered. Then set off on a run.

Behind him, without a word, John followed.


	5. First Blood: Part 3

"_If there was a glove for hunting, John Winchester's hand fit perfectly. Not that I'd ever tell him. A man needs to know he's weak to force himself to be stronger."_

_Bobby Singer_

**First Blood: Part 3**

It was hard tracking it. Bobby had caught glimpses of it, out of the corner of his eye. But just as he saw it, it would vanish again. The way it moved, fast and liquid, and then seem to be stopped in a bottle of molasses, was not only chilling but made hunting a pain in the ass.

And then there was dread. Full on stomach twist that made Bobby want to vomit the dinner they'd eaten just before the warnings had started blaring. A wet blanket fell, a heaviness that something not right was about to happen and specifically to him. And by the way Winchester's breathing had quickened, he was pretty sure Johnny was feeling the same way.

All and all, it added it up on thing: Shadowman.

He told John as much.

"What are they?"

"Not demons, but not human either. There's all sorts of hogwash theories, including alien abduction, but I've narrowed them down to few possibilities," Bobby explained by rot. He'd fallen into the pattern of teaching this man.

John tightened the grip on his rifle. "How do we kill it?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself, son. To kill these things, you've got to know them better then your own body. You got to know how they work, how they think," Bobby lectured. "This isn't point and shoot, though you do so if you see it coming at you. I haven't heard of Shadowman making to possess a person, but that don't mean they won't. You've got to get as much as you can and then you don't rely on it. There's always something you don't know."

"Yes, sir." There was a long pause. "So how do we kill it."

"We don't. We trap it. Exercise it."

John opened his mouth to ask another question, but right then their Shadowman came flying out of now where, picked up the unsuspecting man and threw him 30 feet into air. Bobby spun and fired several rounds and the shadow figure dispersed into threads of darkness and then vanished all together.

Bobby ran over to John. "How you doing, Winchester?"

There was a grunt and then, "I didn't like the landing much. I think I hit something in my back."

John had landed in a hunk of twisted metal, one of those car wrecks that were beyond saving. The snow had cushioned his blow, but it had also masked one sharp piece of metal. Blood stained the snow beneath John a dark crimson.

"Let me see," Bobby ordered.

The other man waved him off, with another grunt. He sat up, sore but moving his muscles, getting used to the feel of the ache. "It's just a flesh wound," he assured Bobby. "Where did the Shadowman go?"

"Don't know." Bobby was relieved to see John still had his weapon. "Damn, boy. Next time you loose a round."

"Yes sir," John said, and stood up fully. Cocked his rifle into the crook of his arm. "How do we trap this thing?"

"Circle of salt. But we've got to close it after we've got it in there."

Raising a dark eyebrow, John said, "I'm guessing that ain't going to be easy."

"Don't worry, I've got a plan."

"I thought you might." He rolled his back, blood soaking through the layers of clothing. "So what do I do."

Bobby hesitated. It was dangerous, more likely to get John Winchester killed then anything, but if they didn't stop this Shadowman now, no telling what it would attract. That intense feeling of dread would be like a siren song to the supernatural forces, and anything else that headed their way would be just, if not more, dangerous then the Shadowman.

And this was the crux of the matter. Somehow the stuff he'd been telling John was just amateur at best, if he made them a team, even for just this one moment, then there wouldn't be any turning back. He'd be forced to turn John into a hunter himself. No turning back.

He thought of Dean then. Brave little guy. And Sammy, already without his momma. Would he be orphaned before he even knew what parents were? They'd grow up knowing anything in the dark could leap out at them, that their daddy could one day never come home, that the evil that John would seek out, could and would one day come knocking at their door.

Bobby wasn't too sure he could consign them to that fate. A future of nightmares.

Then that sucker howled again and the pervasive stench of dread thickened like rot in a land field. In the end, a man's got to make his own choices.

"You're the bait," Bobby answered.

John's eyes narrowed in shock and then he laughed. Victory. "This from the man who said he wouldn't teach me to be a hunter."

"Well, if you end up dead, I won't have to teach you anyway. Just be careful, John."

"I will."

Silence followed them, the kind men get when their in the trenches. Bobby prayed; for himself and for John, though he knew the other man wasn't much for God at the moment. Every hunter had to make a choice, embrace religion or reject it. 'Cause in this line of business there is no use for being on the fence.

They set about with two sacks of salt, creating the not quite complete circle that John would lure the Shadowman in to. John watched him, matched him inch by inch. And Bobby was struck once again that John had been fated to hunting. He just hated the fact that the man was carrying his two sons into it.

"A Shadowman was never a man, not human in the sense of flesh and bone," Bobby began, feeling that he needed to drill into John's head the importance of knowing your enemy. "Like I said there's a lot of theories, but what I tend to hold to is that they were supposed to be men. They're Not-men. Spirits that were stolen by hell before they were even born."

John snorted, but didn't say anything further.

"Anyway, they're feral creatures. Animalistic. It's human in shape, but you won't have any features. No eyes, no nose, ears. You felt it fling you. Well it doesn't have any physical strength, but it will whoop you on is this...," Bobby tapped his temple with one finger. "It's power is there and its based on every gut animal instinct out there. It will take it from you if it's so inclined."

"It feeds on emotions?" John asked.

"Mainly negative, but it won't be judgmental."

If John was questioning himself at this point, he didn't show it. Instead, his resolve thickened on his face. "It's going to hell tonight."

"Damn right, it is."

They exchanged glances then, the type of strangers that suddenly find themselves as brothers. The darkness forced people to make strange alliances, but shared pain became the bond between hunters. No one else, no one blind to the supernatural, could really understand it or them.

"I'm getting lost," Bobby said and went off to the shadowed area, he'd already scouted out. He situated himself, his own shotgun in one hand and salt in the other, ready to close the circle as soon as the Shadowman descended on John.

The man hunkered down, sitting cross-legged with his rifle in his lap, looking around and waiting. Bobby had chosen John as bait for the sheer reason the Shadowman had already targeted John once. This was all old habit for Bobby, his emotions easily controlled, but for John this was one hell of an emotional roller coaster.

Shadowman, as a rule, weren't incredibly intelligent. So it wouldn't see the trap spelled out in salt, but it could very well kill John before they closed the circle.

The Shadowman screeched and Bobby caught it out of the corner of his eye. It was a rare thing to have a Shadow come at you head on. Few people could say they'd seen one face to face. Bobby wasn't even one of them.

John stood up, rifle set, his head cocked, straining for the first sign of the Shadow. He snapped off a shot, a strangled cry following a heartbeat later. John circled, his muzzle of his rifle tracking the Shadowman.

When the Shadow descended a second time, it beat the rifle from John's hands, sending it sailing end over end. It circle again, if John's turn about was anything to judge by, and by now, Bobby knew John wasn't one for hysterics. And then John straightened like a board, his hands going up to his throat, his eyes looking liable to pop out of their sockets.

But the Shadowman was in the circle and Bobby had a job to do. Hoping that the Shadowman was distracted enough not to notice him, Bobby laid the rest of the salt down, sprinkling it steadily but quickly, until the line was complete.

Then he pulled the rosary from his pocket and held it up. In Latin, he began the ritual of exorcism. John gasped and continued to strain and he fell to the ground, still having the presence of mind not to disturb the salt barricade. The thing let out a screech and swung its black, membrane-like, head towards Bobby, red eyes seemed to glow through the black curtains.

With a cry, it shivered and broke apart, its oily countenance spinning out like fireworks on the 4th of July. Then it was gone completely.

Bobby turned to John, the younger man gasping but still conscious. He saw the look in John's eyes then. The look that turned a recruit into a hunter.

"Good job, son."


	6. First Blood: Part 4

"_Every hunter has their rituals after a hunt. Something to cleanse the soul - drink, women, prayer - it doesn't matter. For me, it's a shot of whiskey and a good nights sleep. And though he would deny it until he's blue in the face, John Winchester had once of his own. He waited for a few simple words to come out of his oldest."_

_Bobby Singer_

**First Blood: Part 4**

"Come on, Johnny," Bobby said, offering a hand to the downed man. "Let's get you patched up."

The younger man nodded, taking the hand that was given him. He groaned when he stood up and put his hand to the wound at his back. It came away stained with his blood. "I'm going to have to be careful of these things."

"You'll get better. But if you're worried about getting hurt, its time to get out now," Bobby warned him.

John gave him a half smile. "Still trying to dissuade me."

"A little late for that," Bobby said, returning the grin. After a while the grin faded and he gave a sigh. "But not on your end, Winchester. Your boy was scared, rightly so. And fear doesn't just get men killed."

"I know."

"John."

"I though you were going to stop trying to stop me," John interceded angrily. "Look, I appreciate your concern. But I can handle my boys."

Bobby held up his hands in defeat. He pulled his cap from his head, smoothed his black hair back, and replaced it with a definitively tug. "That was my last attempt."

"Thanks."

Together, Bobby and John walked back to the house, with its shining hubcaps gleaming in the moonlight. Cheap silver to help ward off, anything that was given to change shape. It was home, this desolate land, an island so to speak, where everything else was just lapping water, waiting to swallow you whole.

Bobby pushed the door open to the small house, his wards knowing him as he walked in and set for the hallway where two little boys sat in the dark waiting for their daddy to come home.

Carefully, so as not to frighten the boys, he pulled the rug away. Taking his knife out, he pricked his finger and let a drop of blood splash onto the ruins he'd burnt into the wood. If anyone or anything else had attempted to open the door before hand wouldn't have lived long enough to see what lay inside. But it only worked once. One death curse. He'd been counting on only one evil think lurking out there tonight. He was glad John hadn't yet figured out his assumption.

Reckless, John Winchester had proven himself to be, but Bobby wasn't fool enough to believe that he wouldn't stand in front of the legions of hell for his boys.

He propped the old cellar door open and held it for the younger man. John rested his rifle against the wall and crawled down. He came back up with both boys. Sammy cradled in Dean's arms and Dean cradled in his Daddy's.

Tear tracks had wiggled their way down Dean's freckled cheeks, but Sammy was content in his brother's arms. "We were quiet," Dean whispered to his father, his green eyes watching John's face intently. "We were really quiet, sir."

John's eyes clouded. Bobby averted his gaze. A man who'd just sent a Shadow back to hell deserved what little privacy the old hunter could give. He would have left John alone with his kids, if it weren't for the wound the green hunter still bore.

"I know, Dean. I know," John said back. "You did very good today soldier. But now its time to go to sleep."

"But the bad thing?" Dean questioned.

Bobby turned his head back to look at the boy. Just how aware was little, silent, Dean Winchester of the world his father had lead them into?

John brushed Dean's wild blonde locks from his forehead. "The bad thing's gone, Dean. Bobby and me took care of it."

The boy looked between his father and Bobby, then shifted Sammy closer to him. "Good."

"Now it's time for bed," John said, as if Dean was asking to stay up late or begging for an extra cookie. Couldn't the man see he needed comforting?

John carried the boys into the back spare bedroom. Bobby took the time to put the weapons back in the shed and gather the medical supplies he needed to patch up John.

Hunting was as much about who you knew, then it was guts and glory. There was an unspoken network, a friend of a friend, type of thing, that all hunters used. You had to know which doctors were willing to write which prescriptions if you dropped a few choice words.

Bobby knew the codes and the doctors.

And he just happened to have the needle, thread, and a shot for Tetanus. He grabbed a bottle of 40 proof for the pain. And headed back into the living room. He found John in the recliner, sitting on the edge of the cushion, his elbows resting on his knees, hands folded in front of his face.

"They say men find God in the trenches," Bobby murmured, handing Winchester his anesthetic.

John took a long pull on the whiskey. "I only find demons," he replied, smacking his lips to lap up the rest of the alcohol.

The older man knew the look in John's face all too well. It was one thing to believe another thing altogether to have it chocking the life out of you. "John, you got to bury it."

"I know what you must think of me, Bobby," John babbled as if he'd had more then just then cursory sip.

"No, I don't think you do." He took the seat across from the younger man and pulled the vile from his stash of first aid equipment. Measuring the fluid into the syringe like a pro, Bobby tapped the air bubbles away.

"Am I keeping them safe? My boys? My babies?"

"Rule number one, Johnny: no second guessing. You hesitate and your as good as dead." He grabbed John's arm, rolled up the sleeve and plunged the needle in one swift strike.

The younger man took another gulp of whiskey. "I know what you're thinking. But I can't deal with it, Bobby. I just can't."

Apparently, the whiskey wasn't helping and Bobby wasn't about to suggest John go find himself a girl, but John needed a cleansing and Bobby was short of anything but waiting until the man drank himself stupid.

"Rule number two: There is no rule book."

It took some coaxing, but he got John to expose his wound. He threaded the needle and set to mending the gash.

John looked up at him, his expression glazed now from the whiskey. "How can there be a rule number two, if there ain't no rule book?" He didn't wait for an answer, just tipped the bottle of amber liquid, let it pour down his throat.

When he finished the last stitch, Bobby lashed out and stole the bottle away from him. "When I said the hunt was for a dead man, I didn't mean that literally, Winchester."

John sighed, his mouth opening for one of his infamous drunken rants that Bobby had become accustomed to over the last few days. "What am I going to do?"

"You're going to snap out of this. First blood's always the hardest, you know that. You're going to do whatever it takes to push this away. And then you're going to find the son of a bitch that killed your wife and make it pay."

"Bobby," John slurred, holding up a finger. "I don't think Mary would have liked you."

"Then she was a classy lady," said Bobby with a sad smile. "Get over it, Winchester. Or you won't be much good to anyone."

With that, Bobby retreated. He didn't go far. Just enough to watch as he tested John Winchester one last time.

For several long minutes, John sat defeated in the dusty recliner. More defeated now, then he had been when he arrived. Bobby was about to give the man up for death, because a hunter in this funk was only going to get himself killed, when he heard the shuffling of tiny feet.

Dean came into the living room and took one hard look at his Daddy.

"I thought you were asleep," John said gruffly, whipping at the tears on his face before facing his son.

Tiredly, Dean walked over and climbed into John's lap, put a hand on his daddy's shoulder, looked him in the eyes and said, "It's okay, Dad."

Right then Bobby figured that John Winchester believed in miracles for a few moments as his son cleansed his soul.

**House of the Rising Sun**

_There is a house in New Orleans  
They call the rising sun  
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy  
And god, I know I'm one _

My mother was a tailor  
She sewed my new blue jeans  
My father was a gambling man  
Down in New Orleans  
Now the only thing a gambler needs  
Is a suitcase and a trunk  
And the only time he's satisfied  
Is when he's all drunk

Oh, Mother tell your children  
Not to do what I have done  
Spend your life in sin and misery  
In the house of the rising sun

I've got one foot on the platform  
The other foot on the train  
I'm going back to New Orleans  
To wear that ball and chain

Well, there is a house in New Orleans  
They call the rising sun  
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy  
And god, I know I'm one

The Animals

(Thanks to Sam666 for the correction.)


	7. Keeper: Part 1

"_This is Dad's thing, writing about the hunt. He says a hunter has to have a quick reference, especially us. Especially if we're going to find the bastard that killed Mom. But we kill any evil we find. And I'm glad they go out. Every evil thing we send back to hell, is another slab of icing on the cake._

_But I don't want to remember. I get enough replays of the close calls, the aches and pains, every day of my life. I don't want to be musing about a past hunt and have the thought that one day, Dad, or God forbid, Sammy, might not make it back. _

'_Cause I'll die first."_

_Dean Winchester_

**Keeper: Part 1**

It was no secret inside Oak Forest Middle School that new comer Dean Winchester was not like most thirteen-year-old boys. He wasn't active in class, slept through most of them. But when test time came around he managed to pass it.

He tended to shun most of the boys his age and wasn't afraid to pick a fight with any of them, even those bigger and older then him. In the matter of girls it was almost the same, 'cept he was looking for a different type of wrestling. Bullies didn't pick on the younger kids when he was around, if they did they'd end up their fist in his face.

Most of the teachers figured him for a troubled kid and had all but blacklisted him. Dean didn't care. He didn't care much about how other people saw him at all. They were blind after all. Blind to the world he'd been brought into at four years old. Didn't know that people's mom's got taken in the middle of the night, their deaths never avenged. Didn't know that baby brother's grew up and faced that same scary world, leaving Dean desperately trying to protect him from growing up the same way he had.

There was only one person's opinion he needed and John Winchester was on a hunt.

So after school, Dean grabbed his backpack, slung it over one arm and headed out of the classroom, bypassing all of his classmates. No one tried to stop and he couldn't be bothered with them. Sure, he hunted with his dad to save these people, but that didn't mean he had to converse with them.

The walk to the Oak Forest Elementary School wasn't far from his school. Dean usually arrived right as the last bell rang, but Sammy knew to stay inside the class room until Dean came and got him. Though, the nine-year-old was beginning to believe that he could ride the bus to their motel if he wanted.

Dean was glad that Dad had been there to nip that nonsense in the bud before he left on his hunt. Sam had looked crestfallen and had jutted his lower lip out in that stubborn pout that had developed in the last year or so. The kid had grown into a master of manipulation, with his big eyes, and Dean couldn't begrudge him anything.

Still, Dad laying down the law, hadn't sat well with Sammy and Dean was suffering the resultant tantrum. He was beginning to wish that Dad had needed him along on this one. A moppy Sam was never a happy Sam.

The Elementary was like all the others Sammy and Dean had been too on the road. Red brick walls, black shingled roof, a marquis with the Oak Forest Elementary School emblazoned in black letters standing like tall in the parking lot. There were kids being picked up by parents or walking together in small groups if their houses were nearby.

He walked through the front doors and rolled his eyes at one of the kids that waved at him. He'd stopped one of the High Schools kids from taking the kids lunch money from him and the elementary baby hadn't left him alone since.

Dean gave a tight grin back, his expression clearly saying, 'Go away.' Lucky for Dean, the kid's dad called for him and he trotted off.

The fourth grade glass room was covered in large maps. Geography, lessons, Dean remembered Sam bemoaning them the other day. When you'd seen most of the United States, hearing some old bat talking about it while pointing to a color-coded map, wasn't the highlight of education.

Sammy was sitting at one of the desks in the front row, his head down, his nose pressed in a book. The only thing truly visible was the mop of dark brown curls.

"Hey, Sammy boy," he said, loving the way Sam jumped in his seat. "Come on, haul ass."

Sam looked up at his teacher, his head tilted and flaming with embarrassment. "Language, Mr. Winchester," the old bat warned Dean.

Dean gave a false smile. "Yes, ma'am."

He came over to Sam, helped him put his books into Dean's bag and then heaved it over his shoulder again. Sammy followed him, dragging his feet the whole way.

"Dude, hurry up. It's going to be dark by the time we get to the motel."

Sam gave a kick and a rock went sailing a good distance away. Sammy had started training with Dean and was putting his skills to good use by clearing the streets of debris. "I don't know why we have to live in that stupid motel anyway."

Dean didn't dignify that with a response.

"What's it like to live in a real house, Dean?" Sam asked a moment later.

"Boring," Dean lied with a nonchalant shrug. "Now, hurry up, Sammy. We've got daylight wasting."

The motel was at the edge of Cook County Forest. Dad usually choose places where they could disappear in a hurry. And the forest was probably the best place to get lost in. Dean pulled out his key and let them in.

Sammy ran through the rooms. "Do you think Dad will be home tonight?" he called from the room they'd been sharing.

"Yeah, maybe. He'll call if he has to stay longer," Dean assured. He put the backpack down, grabbed the shotgun that was propped up against the south wall and checked it to make sure the safety was still on.

Sam walked out of the bedroom and sat on the small couch in front of the TV, flicking it on. "What was he hunting?" Sam asked, as he switched through the channels.

Dean closed his eyes and wished that Sammy could just be content with the information Dad had given them before he left. "You know, a demon or something," he answered. Time for diversionary tactics. "Are you hungry?"

His younger brother nodded quietly.

Dean put a pot of water on the stove and dumped a package of hot dogs inside. "You got homework?"

"A little."

"Well, get to it," he ordered.

"We're just going to move again," Sammy grumbled, but did as he was told. "You never do your homework."

"That's because I'm naturally brilliant. Now quit your yapping and there'll be ice cream in it for you when you're done."

Dean hoped the ice cream would put Sammy in a better mood. He didn't want Dad to come home and find that Sammy was still upset. Dad needed Sam happy. Dean did too.

The hot dogs were done in a matter of minutes and Dean put them on paper plates, a handful of chips on each. "Come and eat, Sammy."

Sam came to the small table and slumped into the chair, while Dean grabbed them two root beers from the fridge.

Dean ate like a starving man, hitting the first years of his growth. Sammy picked more than ate his food, his dark brown eyes glancing up at Dean ever so often, a question in them. Gulping down the last of his soda, Dean pushed his plate away.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing," Sam said, cowed by his older brother's initiative.

"Somethings been crawling up your ass since Dad left, now tell me. What's the deal, Sam?"

"Are we always going to be hunters?" his brother said so quickly each word seemed to blend into the other.

Sam wasn't really a hunter, hadn't been face to face with a spirit or been thrown a dozen feet in the air, but he counted himself as one and Dean wouldn't correct him. If knowing about the hunt was all that Sam needed, then that was fine with Dean.

Dean didn't like to think about the future or the past. It was easier, less painful to get by minute by minute. On the rare times, when he was missing his mom or when Dad was out for longer then expected, his mind wandered to what was and what might have been. Hunting hadn't always been their lives, but he supposed that it always would be now.

He was spared telling Sammy this by a large thump at their door.

"In the back room, now!" Dean ordered, rushing for the shotgun. He picked it up and thumbed the safety off. "Sammy?" he cried out, making sure his brother was secure in the ring of salt inside the closet.

"I'm in," the boy called back.

There was a scratching sound at the door and the knob turned slowly.

Dean whipped the hair out of his eyes and leveled his gaze down the barrel of the shotgun.

The door flung open and Dean sucked in a breath, ready to let loose a round of ammunition into whatever the hell threatened his brother.

"Dad?" he gasped, when the man fell to the ground, crying out to Dean, "Don't shoot. It's me, son."

"Get me inside," Dad ordered.

Dad's flannels shirt and jeans was stained with blood on the right side, his leg was held at an odd angle and there was a large gashed running from the end of one eyebrow to the center of Dad's hairline. He was hurt, worse then Dean had ever seen him.

The young hunter dropped the shot gun and snatched at his father's arms, dragging Dad the last few feet over the threshold of the motel room. He heard something howl and ran to close the door.

"Dad?"

"Where's your brother?" Dad asked, with a grunt.

"He's safe in the circle," Dean assured him. "Dad what happened?"

His father gave a weak chuckle. "Pissed off the wrong demon. Got the upper hand on me."

"You brought it here?" Dean accused, thinking of Sammy and knowing instinctively that salt wouldn't cut it.

"Got to leave," Dad gasped. His eyes were glazed with pain. "Got to leave." Then Dad's eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out on the cheap linoleum.


	8. Keeper: Part 2

"_I never really had a childhood. It went up in flames when I was four years old. Grew up too fast, went hard before I knew what it would do to me. It was my own fault. Not Dad's. Not Sammy's. Just something I knew I had to do. Sammy was too little, Dad too lost in grief, that someone needed to make the sacrifice."_

_Dean Winchester_

**Keeper: Part 2**

Ruthlessly, Dean cauterized the part of him that wanted to break down and sob at the sight of his father. However little that might have made him feel better, it was going to get him and his family killed.

Instead, he bellowed, "Sam, get in here."

His baby brother came running into the front room, but stopped in his tracks at one look at Dad. "Daddy," the boy breathed before dropping to his knees before his father.

"Get one of the duffles from the closet, put a blanket, the cereal from the cupboard and the soda from the fridge inside. Grab our coats, the heavy ones. Its going to be cold out there and we need to keep warm," Dean ordered.

Sammy's big brown eyes filled with tears.

"Don't you cry on me, Sammy. Don't you dare cry," Dean hissed, kneeling so he was eye level with his brother. Not taking his gaze off of Sammy, he began rummaging through Dad's pockets.

"But Dad...," Sammy said, drawing off in preparation for a wail.

"Will be just fine, if you do what I tell you," Dean growled. "Go now, Sammy."

His brother looked up at him, no doubt ready to argue his way out of this, but stopped at the look of fire in Dean's eyes. Sammy knew when not to cross him. And this was perhaps the only time Sam didn't push him further. He stood up and ran into the back room.

From Dad, Dean pulled out a bottle of holy water, a silver knife, and a pistol. After a look into the chamber he found consecrated iron rounds. Whatever Dad had been hunting, he'd prepared for any contingency. Dean took them all. He put the pistol at the small of his back, pocketed the holy water, and tore at Dad's leg sheath to strap the blade to his own calf.

Then he set about gathering the medical supplies. He grabbed the first aid kit, pulled it open and did a quick inventory. He'd have to splint Dad's leg after they were to safety, but he could make it so he didn't feel any pain.

Sammy came in with the bag trailing behind him, just as Dean was snapping the first aid kit shut. He grabbed the bag from Sammy and hefted it onto the tiny table, while Sam pulled the cereal and soda. They finished putting everything they'd need inside.

"Put your coat on, Sammy," he instructed, doing the same before picking up the shotgun. He hoped Dad would be warm enough. "We're going to make a run for the car. I'm going to give you the keys, you run as fast and as hard as you can and you get inside. Don't stop for anything."

"Dean..."

"Damn it, Sammy, I can't explain everything to you now, just listen," he cried out. He regretted seeing the shock in his brother's face, it was just in Sammy's nature to question, but if it saved his life, he could live with it.

"Okay," his brother said, his lower lip jutting out in a quasi-pout.

Dean took the keys and held them out to Sam. "Okay, how fast do you run?"

"As fast as I can," the boy repeated.

"And what do you stop for?"

"Not anything."

"Good." With that done, Dean shouldered the duffle and knelt one more time next to Dad and gave his father a good belt upside the head. Dad's eyes shot open at the blow, eventually coming to rest on Dean's face. "You got to stand up, Dad."

Dad held out his hand and Dean stood up, took it and let Dad use it as an anchor as he brought himself to a standing position on his good leg.

"We're going to make a run for the Impala," Dean informed him, taking part of Dad's weight.

"Where's Sammy," Dad muttered.

"I'm here, Dad," Sam trumpeted, jangling the keys.

Dad gave a half smile. "You listening to your brother?"

"Like I have a choice," Sam said, looking pointedly at Dean.

"Sam you know the drill. Dean's...," Dad's good leg buckled under him and Dean did his best to steady him. "2nd in command."

"Get by the door, Sammy," Dean said and half carried Dad close to the exit. "Where's the car?"

"Southeast end of the lot under the parking light."

They'd practiced this, emergency escapes, where one or more of them were injured. But Dean had never felt so much weight from his father before, hadn't felt the press of the shadows around them so strongly.

"Now, you fling it open and you run, son," Dad told Sammy.

"We'll be right behind you," Dean added.

Sam gripped the door knob in one hand, tightly grasping to the keys of the Impala. With one sharp jerk, the door flew open and Sammy bolted, his little legs carrying him through the parking lot.

There was a cry in the air, like the screech of a hawk and a shadow played across the . "Dean shoot," Dad cried, shifting so that Dean could bring his other arm up to brace the shotgun.

With a practiced eye, Dean followed the shadow figure with the barrel of the shotgun and let loose a round. This time the screech was louder the before. Dean looked up at Dad.

"You didn't kill it," Dad said, his words slurred as though he'd been drinking. "But you've pissed it off."

Dean gave a cheeky grin. "Then we better get out of here."

They switched back to their original position, Dean holding the shot gun in one hand, with the other embracing his father's frame and carrying the duffle, with Dad's arm draped around his shoulder.

Sammy was already in the car, having started the engine and was now looking out the back window, waiting anxiously.

Dad hoped alongside of Dean, stopping ever so often for Dean to antagonize the demon a little further. "What is it, Dad?"

"Let's get on the road first," his father said, his breath uneven.

"Dad we need to get you to a hospital." His father shivered against him, but didn't say anything else.

They made it to the car, Dean all but shoving Dad into the passenger seat. He kept the shotgun raised as he made his way around the Impala's front end. Opening the door, he slung the duffle bag to Sammy and slipped in, letting the muzzle be the last thing that came into the car before he slammed the door shut.

"Dad needs Codeine, Sammy," Dean shot back to his brother as he put the car into reverse, spinning the tires as he did.

He knew Dad was more injured then he originally thought when the old man didn't snap at him about wasting rubber. "We've got to get to a phone. Call Caleb, Jim, or Bobby. Need reinforcements."

"What were you hunting, Dad?" Dean asked again.

"A morph," the older Winchester answered tersely. "Damn thing can turn into anything. Man, animal. It started off as a stray retriever when it attacked me. Broke my leg when it bit into me."

"How do I kill it?" Dean asked, turning the car down the next road in their pre-planned escape path. Another thing practiced.

"You don't," his father grunted.

"Dad," Dean started.

Despite the haze of pain his father's dark eyes, Dean saw the stubborn ass determination in them. "This thing took a chunk out of me, son. You aren't getting anywhere near it. You aren't ready."

"Yes, sir."

"Get some distance then we find a pay phone."

Dean gritted his teeth but remained silent as he wove an intricate path through the city of Oak Forest. It stung that his father wanted to call in another hunter, when Dean was sitting right next to him.

His father still didn't trust him. Everything he'd done in the last three years, every rule he'd followed, and still his father didn't believe that he'd changed since the Shtriga incident. Not that Dean blamed him. He'd nearly gotten Sammy killed and even the thought of that sent a pang to his belly.

Yet, after all this time, he wanted to find a way to make it up to his father. To let Dad know that he wasn't going to fail him again.

A familiar shrill cry rented the area and something hit the back of the Impala with a loud thud. The extra weight set the Impala off balance and Dean struggled with the steering wheel. Through the rearview mirror, Dean saw what looked like a small black bear with glowing red eyes, clawing at the back of the Impala.

"Sammy," Dad called and held out his hands to the nine-year-old boy who hadn't stopped screaming since the arrival of the morph.

Sam dove into Dad's outstretched arms and the old man managed to pull him over the seat and into his lap. The nine-year-old buried his face into their father's chest, causing the old man to wince.

Dad raised Sammy's head with a finger to his chin. "Sammy, it's okay. It's okay. We aren't going to let that thing hurt you. Now, Dean and I need you to be brave. Can you do that?"

Tears still dancing in his eyes, Sammy nodded his head. "Yes, sir." He sniffed and sat more carefully in Dad's lap, rubbing at his eyes and nose.

There was another terrible cry and an instant later the rear window was shattered by the might of one meaty paw.

"What do salt rounds do to it?" Dean asked.

"Causes the transformation to ripple. Can't hold its shape."

"So it's some sort of possession?"

Dad shook his head. "No, whatever that thing was before, it chose to become like this. But they are linked."

The Impala veered as the morph swung a black hairy arm at the front seat occupants. Dean put his hand on the shotgun, wondering if he could make the shot one handed. When the bear disappeared from the back seat in a cloud of sudden feathers.

Dean was about to sigh in relief when that black bird came sailing towards the front of the Impala, talons the size of throwing knives angling towards them. With a jerk of the steering wheel, Dean dodged the morph and leapt the Impala off a curb and onto the sidewalk.

Dad's head flopped and lulled on his neck, that glaze of pain in his eyes making the dark orbs almost opaque. He was holding on the best way that he could, stubborn as a mull. "Need to get out of the open. Head for the forest."


	9. Keeper: Part 3

"_Since the first time my dad took me shooting, I had an instinct for death. I mean come on, how many six year olds can bulls-eye? At the time I was so proud, because it meant that I was special. That I was doing and being everything my father needed. I was keeping him from the monster that wanted to swallow him whole and never spit him back to me."_

_Dean Winchester_

**Keeper: Part 3**

Dean had arched through the city, bringing the Impala back to Cook County Forest and only a few miles away from their motel. He plowed a thousand pounds of Impala metal through the red and white stripped entrance gate, shattering it to near oblivion.

The Morph, still wearing its black feathered suit, was hot on their tails. Dean could hear each beat of its wings, feel the air pick up with each flapping whoosh.

"This bitch isn't letting up," Dean muttered to his father.

Most father's would have chastised their son for such language, but Dad just nodded. "We'll have to loose it on foot. Double back and pick up the Impala."

Dean's forehead furrowed with a frown too deep and too old. "You're no good on that leg."

"I'll take the Codeine," his father said.

"And when your half off your ass asleep, what then?"

"You leave my ass," his father replied.

Fear gripped him again and this time, he let the anger fly. "The hell I will."

"Dean Jeffrey Winchester, you will do as I tell you," his father snapped.

The Morph screeched, hitting against branches as it tried unsuccessfully to dip beneath the umbrella of trees.

Dean stamped on the breaks, pulling the Impala into an alcove of trees. "I'm not leaving you here to die, Dad. So just get that thought out of your head." Before his father could disagree further, Dean pushed the door to the Impala open, making sure to take the shotgun with him.

It wasn't often that he disobeyed any order his father gave. But there was some sort of unspoken accord between them. Dean took every order unless it dealt with his father's life, then the roles switched. Dean kept his father alive.

He brushed glass from off the duffle and pulled it out of the wreckage of the back seat. "Sammy," he said. "You're going to have to help Dad. I need to keep this thing off us. I know you can do it, Sammy," he added when he saw the fear encroach on his brother's dark eyes. "You don't want to be cry baby girl, do you?"

Sam went from being scared to being annoyed and he saw pride feel the dark orbs of his brother's eyes. "I can do it," he said, forcing his voice to be strong.

"Good."

"Where's my pistol?" Dad asked as Sammy helped him out of the car.

"I got," Dean assured him. "Will iron kill it?"

"I told you, you aren't hunting this. We're running until we can contact someone else or I recover, you understand me?"

"Yes sir," Dean conceded, forcing his face to reflect his disappointment. But deep down he saw this as an opportunity to show his Dad that he was just as good as a hunter as Caleb or Bobby or any of the others that John had learned the game from.

Dean brought the shotgun into his shoulder when he heard the morph cry out once again. He exchanged a concerned glance with his father.

"Okay, boys, we're going on a hike."

"Family fun for everyone," Dean said sardonically.

They didn't make good time or distance. Dad had taken several doses of Codeine and was now walking like a drunk on a police line. Managing to stand on his feet only because Sammy was keeping him up.

The Morph was playing hide and seek with them. Popping out unexpectedly in random shapes, only to have Dean throw pressurized rock salt at it. It would loose its shape and fall to the ground limp, long enough for them to delve deeper into the forest.

He didn't like it. He hadn't packed a compass and the further they delved into the monotony of green, he knew the harder it would be to gain their bearings. Despite the cold of the night, the night sky was clear, and the stars were beaming down in their intricate patterns. At least they could use the stars to get out if worse came to worse.

Dean vowed that worse would never happen. Not on his watch.

"Dean," Sammy said, stressing the syllable into a whine.

The older brother looked back to find that both father and son had pitched over into the dirt. Dad was drained, Sam was tired. And if he was truthful, he'd admit he was tired as well. His shoulder ached from the kick-back of the shotgun, his legs trembled from adrenaline, come and gone. Sammy was dirty and bloody. Dad was pale and marginally conscious.

They all needed to rest, catch their breath, regain their strength.

"Come here, Sammy," he sighed. He haded out the duffel. "Do you think you can carry this?"

"I'm not a girl," his brother said sternly, expecting another taunt from his older brother.

Dean smirked and ruffled his brother's chocolate curls. "Then why is your hair so long."

"Shut up, jerk," Sammy said without any real anger and snatched the duffle from Dean. "What about, Dad?"

"I'll take him," Dean said. "We're just going to find somewhere to rest for a while. Let the drugs wear off."

"He's hurt real bad," Sam pointed out on a whisper.

"Dad's tough," Dean said and walked away from Sam's sad eyes.

He snaked an arm around his father and forced the beaten man to his feet. Dad blinked at him. "I'm going to find us a place for shelter," Dean told him, not sure if he completely understood.

"It won't give us long," Dad warned him.

"Just enough time to get some food into you and Sammy," Dean replied. "Catch our breath. You're just too heavy for Sammy to carry."

Dean brought them to a grove of trees, where branches hung closer to the ground and would provided a level of warm. He could cut a few of them down and lay the on the ground before huddling Dad and Sammy into the blanket.

With that done, Dean scavenged for two large pieces of wood to brace his father's leg. He came back and sat by his father, using the silver knife to cut through his father's pant leg. He watched his father's face, seeing it go from pale to deathly white.

"God, I could use a beer," his father breathed.

"Here," Sammy said, handing Dad a can of root beer.

His father looked at it and then laughed. Not full bellied, but it was the first time Dean could remember him laughing in a long time. And this time, amusement touched his father's eyes. Usually, they look so dead, so lifeless. Despite how dangerous their situation was, Dean found himself smiling as well.

Dad gave Sammy a tight squeeze after the laughter died down. "Not exactly what I was looking for Sammy. But thanks."

The boy looked up at his father confused, then held out the box of cereal to his father. "Are you hungry?"

"You should eat something, Dad," Dean said quietly when it looked like his father was going to refuse.

Locking eyes with Dean, Dad held out his hand to Sammy. "Giving me some of that, son."

Carefully, Sam dunked his hands into the box of Lucky Charms and scooped two tiny hand fulls. He dumped into Dad's larger one. He turned his big brown eyes to Dean. "How 'bout you?"

"I'm not hungry, Sammy," Dean said.

"If I have to eat, you have to eat," Dad insisted. "Give your brother some, Sammy."

Dean rolled is eyes with an embellished sigh, but offered his own two hands to gather the proffered cereal. "We got any Coke, Sammy?"

The boy shook his head. "Just beer."

He popped the root beer open and took a swig. "You two should get some sleep."

Dad's eyes were already drooping from the mixture of exhaustion, pain, and painkiller. Sammy wrapped the blanket closer around him and cuddled next to their father's side. Both too tired to argue with him for once.

Leaning against a nearby tree trunk, Dean rested the shotgun in his lap and sipped at the soda. He was tired, but he was used to not sleeping. When Dad was on a hunt or when his father was hurt, he knew they weren't safe. And he wasn't about to leave his dad and brother unprotected.

"Dean?" Sammy's voice said sleepily from the dark.

"Yeah."

"Does this mean I don't have to do my homework?"

"Just for tonight, Sammy," Dean said with a snort.

"Dean?"

"Yes?"

"I'm scared. What if that bad thing comes back?"

Dean frowned, scooting close to his family. "Hey," he said, making sure he looked his baby brother in the eyes. "Nothings going to happen to you. Not to you. Not to Dad."

"How do you know that?"

"Well, I'm here, aren't I?"

"But this thing hurt, Dad," Sam pointed out.

"That's because he didn't know what it was. But now we do and he's going to help us get out of here." Dean gave his brother a grin, one that was both cocky and reassuring. "And I may not be as tough as Dad, but I'm sure as hell ain't no light weight. And only I get to pick on my punk ass little brother."

"You're such a jerk," Sam said, but the worry was out of his face.

"Bitch." He rearranged himself against the trunk. "Now get some sleep. I'm going to need your help with Dad in a few hours."

"Dean?"

He sighed, trying to exhibit the patience his brother needed. "Yeah?"

"I'm glad you're here."

"Me too, Sammy. Me too."


	10. Keeper: Part 4

"_It ain't done until its done dirty."_

_Dean Winchester_

**Keeper: Part 4**

Dean had come to a decision two hours later when he woke Dad. He was going to leave them behind with the pistol and get to a pay phone. If Dad wasn't going to let him hunt this thing, then at least he could divert it, keep it away from his father and brother and call for help.

He didn't tell his father when he woke him. Instead, he finished the splint and cleaned his father's wounds. He did it methodically, doing his best to disconnect from the blood, the raw and torn flesh that belonged to his father.

It was harder to convince himself that this was just a practice as he watched his father's face grow increasingly paler.

"I'm leaving," he announced, placing the last strip of tap over the gauze on his father's side. Before his father can start reaming into him, he continued, "Not to hunt. But we need help and you and Sammy are slowing me down."

"You going to leave us unprotected?" Dad asked, no hardness to his voice. But his dark gaze was measuring, testing.

"I leave you the shotgun. A circle of salt, anything else you'll need to keep you protected. And I'll make sure it comes after me. Lead it on a chase," Dean explained, not quite meeting his father's eyes. He didn't want to see an answer there. Didn't want to give up on his plan until it was completely laid out. "I think Caleb would be closest, could make it before nights end."

"Be sure to call everyone," John broke in.

That brought Dean's head up. He locked gazes on a resigned and resolute John Winchester. "That an order?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it is, dude," Dad said on a whisper. His father cleared his throat, turned his eyes away from him half a moment, as if to toss something away, and then turned back to Dean. "Now, remember what I've taught you. Everything can be used around you. The pistol won't kill it, but it sure as hell will hurt like a bitch. So you keep that. You know the numbers?"

"Yeah, Dad, I've got them memorized."

"Good. Now, you shoot first and don't ask questions. Get to the car if you can, but if you have to, hitchhike," his father lined out. "Don't give them your real name, just in case they're Samaritans. We don't want any unnecessary help."

"Yes, sir."

"You got the keys?"

Dean patted his coat pocket, causing the metal to clink together.

"If you make it to the Impala there should be more ammo in the trunk, you know where to find it."

Dean gave a brief nod of affirmation. His eyes flickered to the sleeping Sammy and then back to his father. "You guys will be okay?"

"Yeah. Just go. The quicker your gone, the quicker you come back."

Swallowing, Dean nodded again and stood up. He brought the shotgun and made sure it was loaded, and brought the shells of rock salt within his father's reach. He did this all while Sammy slept quietly at his father's side.

He was glad that the fear he felt settling in his stomach wouldn't have to reach his baby brother. At least not yet.

"I'm going. Be careful."

TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT

With the pistol constantly in his hand, Dean skulked through the forest, keeping one ear opened for the sound of the morph. He used the stars to guide him, an old Marine technique that Dad had taught him a couple of years ago. Still, he wasn't exactly sure where he'd stashed the Impala after all the twists and turns they'd taken during their escape.

Mainly, he headed in the direction of the main road and hoped he could hitch a ride to the nearest convenient store. He had change for a pay phone if the clerk wouldn't let him use the store phone.

When he felt he was a good distance from Dad and Sammy, he became purposefully noisy. He shot two rounds into the air, knowing that it would bye the attention of the morph. "Come on. Come on," he screamed into the night.

It wasn't long until he heard the familiar screech of the morph. He waited, heart pounding in his broadening chest, green eyes darting to the black sky overhead, searching out for the shifting black shape.

He spotted it a moment before razor sharp talons came barreling down for his head. Dean dropped to the ground and rolled away. He came up to his feet with a grin on his face. "Oh yeah, come on. You think you can catch me. You don't know who you're dealing with. I'm Dean Winchester, bitch."

He took off on a dead run, his legs taking him through the huddle of trees. Low branches tore at him as he ran, he ignored the sting of each cut as he went.

'A Hunter's got to push through the pain, Deano,' he heard Dad's word sin his head. 'Cause hell doesn't care if you hurt, it takes pleasure in it.'

As he ran, Dean's senses became heightened. He knew exactly when the morph was going to descend on him again, one more pathetic attempt to catch him in its talons. The air became more strident, he could feel it against his skin as if it were a stiff wind. Smells assaulted him, pollen, the healthy viscous smell of pine. Everything was sensitive, tender. But he could numb himself to those feelings he did not need.

It was that sense that had taken over him when he'd held his first gun.

His legs carried him further, even when his side felt as though he'd taken that silver knife at his leg and stabbed himself with it. Each step a sharp twist of the handle. Dean didn't stop, even when his breath burned in his lungs.

He had a job to do. One that he'd accepted without anyone ever asking that night he'd carried baby Sammy out of the house. A promise, he'd whispered to a picture, one of the last memories of his mother, that had never been told to another living soul. He'd make sure that nothing else would hurt his family. That Dad and Sam would be safe.

And that promise gave him strength where a man would have failed.

Still, even a stalwart boy, was nothing more then a boy. Even Dean Winchester.

In the dark, he missed a jutting root and the toe of his tennis shoes hit it at fool speed. He flopped to the ground, the little air he'd been able to suck through tightening lungs, puffing out in one rush, making it near impossible to suck in a desperately needed refill.

Fighting down the panic, he tried to relax and let his chest rise and fall. It was only a matter of seconds, but they were enough to scare the living crap out of him. Especially, when the morph angled down and landed a few feet away from him. It shifted, the thing scaly legs thickening and the torso lengthening, becoming humanoid before his very eyes.

It went from a featureless androgynous figure to a charcoal skinned man.

"You weren't what I was expecting, boy," the man said, his voice hissing out like smoke twisting out of a bad engine.

"Yeah, well, sucks to be you, doesn't it?"

"I'm going to gut you boy and eat your insides."

Dean squirmed on his belly. "Cannibal huh? Dude, that's all types of gross."

The morph came down on its haunches and Dean caught a foul stench, like that of a rotting corpse. Red eyes narrowed on him with decided malice. He didn't say a word but a grin splint his charcoal dusted face.

As the morph stalked forward, Dean returned the smile. "Eat iron," he quipped and from out beneath his belly, he pulled the pistol and shot three times into its grey cake-hole.

It reeled back and screamed.

Dean didn't waste anytime, and scrambled further into the scrub, ignoring the twinge in his right knee as he did so. "Hurts doesn't it," he crowed, taunting the morph. No doubt it scared him, but he wasn't about to let that thing anywhere near his injured father or his baby brother. He let another shot off, just to really tick it off.

Then he was running again, this time in a skip-hop sort of fashion. The pain a little harder to ignore this time.

By the time he hit the main road, blood had darkened one side of his pant leg. He kept close to the forest as he tread a light jog along the main road. It was late enough that the black asphalt missed the rays of head light beams. The morph was on him, he felt the crimson eyes following him, unseen.

He was surprised when he found the little attendant shack, where the entrance gate had been. His tennis shoes crunched what was left of the splintered gate as he ran up to the shack. The door was padlocked and he wished he'd thought to bring his dad's lock pick set.

Gripping the barrel of the pistol, he used the handle of it like a hammer and did to the lock what he'd done to the gate with the Impala. More public damage. With a grin, he told himself he was going to find a way to work this into the conversation with a certain brunette in the year above him.

No matter what the year, a girl couldn't resist a bad boy.

He slipped into the small shack and was relieved to see the phone that he'd hoped would be there. His fingers began to dial before he'd caught his breath.

Like his father had taught him, he didn't waste time with pleasantries. He gave their location, what they were hunting, and then an update on personal health. Dean was very thorough on his report for his father and less then silent on his own current scraps, bruises, and whatever he'd done to his right knee.

Each hunter replied with equal economy, as Dean heard them scurry in the background.

He called Caleb last, as he was the closest. "Yello."


	11. Keeper: Part 5

"_There's not such things as angels. I learned that the day my mom died. Knew it when I saw my dad turn into a broken shell from the man I only now have vague memories of. There isn't any higher power looking down and controlling our lives. There is just us._

_And those who hunt with us. _

_And we look out for each other."_

_Dean Winchester_

**Keeper: Part 5**

"'Kay little dude, you just sit tight and make sure your daddy and brother are okay. I'm on my way," Caleb said, the familiar sound of a shotgun being loaded just audible over the phone.

"I'm not little," Dean growled and hung up the phone.

Out of all the hunters that his father had come to know, and he and Sam by extension, over the years, Caleb was the closest to Dean's age and the most likely to drive the young man into fits of rage. At ten years older, Caleb was twenty-three reverting back to sixteen. He'd taken on a sort of big brother role for Dean, which caused the prideful young man to chafe at the attention.

"Whatever you say, Winchester," Caleb said with a laugh and cut off the connection.

Dean glared at the receiver, his hands ringing the narrow neck, envisioning Caleb's neck between his hands instead of the plastic.

Caleb wasn't always such a pain in the ass though. He had snuck Dean into a number of bars and had given him his first sip of beer last year on his birthday. A fact that had ended him on the receiving end of one mightily pissed off John Winchester much to Dean's everlasting amusement. There was a reason the spawn of hell were beginning to cower at that name and it wasn't because of Dad's people skills.

But Dean knew he didn't have a lot of time to worry about Caleb poking fun at him or anything else; Dad and Sammy were waiting on him.

He walked out of the toll booth and used it as a marker to where he'd stashed the Impala. Each step was painful, but he took them at a hurried pace. He didn't dare look down at his leg for fear that he'd see something that would freak him out. It was better just to ignore it for now and wait to examine the wound until he could do something about it.

The Impala looked like a black sleek nirvana by the time he found it, moonlight illuminating it like a spotlight in some morbid play. He didn't have a watch with him and couldn't tell how late it was to the hour, but he knew that the moon was heading down from its zenith. Daylight would be fast on its heels.

Using the keys, he popped the trunk and snatched a handful of iron bullets and placed them in one pocket. He grabbed one of the canisters of salt and tucked it under his arms. The first aid kit was with Dad and Sammy so he wouldn't have to worry about carrying that.

Briefly, he wondered if he should drive it further in. He ditched that thought when he figured the speed wouldn't do them much good when he couldn't use it in the thicket of trees. So far they were stuck on foot. At least until either Caleb or one of the other hunters arrived or Dad finally broke down and let him exterminate the morph.

He felt another twinge of anger at Caleb, Pastor Jim, Bobby, and all the others Dad was willing to place their safety in. All the others that weren't him.

He never directed his irascible emotions towards his father. Couldn't afford to even put the man in a bad light. Truth was, he needed his dad, needed him in a way that was physical. And so he would be whatever Dad wanted him to be, do whatever Dad wanted him to do. Anything to stop the final chink that would break John into tiny pieces.

Dean knew that it was only a matter of time and as he desperately tried to keep his father together, he did his best to shield Sammy from the worst of it. To let him just be a kid. But that time was dwindling away too. Soon, Sam would have to hunt.

As Sam moved up the proverbial ladder of hunting, Dean felt that he had to take on more responsibility as well. Lesson the burden that was placed on his father's shoulders, if he couldn't take it all.

Deep in thought, Dean found himself close to their makeshift camp without noticing the passage of time. And that's when he heard it. A soft huffing sound. One that he'd heard often on and off in his life. At one time it had represented hunger or a soiled diaper, then later, it had been the sound of sadness, loneliness, now, it meant terror, absolute fear. It was the cry that poured from Sammy when the kid didn't want to be a baby, but couldn't help but be afraid of the dark.

No matter how soft, Dean always woke to it, always reacted with perfect instinct and single-minded determinedness.

This was no different.

Dean tore off and it was only his brother's almost silent tears that kept his leg from giving under him. He moved through the woods as silent and stealth as a cougar. And in a minute he would be just as deadly.

Dean stopped a number of a feet away, just far enough in the shadows so that he had a good look at what was going on without giving his location away. Sam sat pretty much the way he had left him, sidled against Dad's side, only now he clutched the oldest Winchester's unbuttoned shirt and tried to burrow himself deeper.

Meanwhile, Dad had the shotgun up and cold steel in his eyes. He looked tired, pale, and inches away from passing out all together. But one thing was for sure; there was no way in seven hells that Dad was going to let that morph anywhere near Sammy.

Dad fired one handed, the kick back of the shotgun causing him to wince. The morph flickered, became distorted, like interference on an old motel television. It inky frame took a moment before it coalesced again. When it did, Dad fired another shot, sending it into fits once again.

Leaning against a nearby tree, Dean caught his breath. He watched as Dad cracked the barrel open to reload, his hands working deftly while his eyes continued to watch the morph. Stray strands of inky shadows, reached out and grabbed onto one another, pulling together, becoming solid and forming the humanoid charcoal menace with its crimson colored eyes.

Before Dad could raise his shotgun, Dean levered the pistol and emptied the barrel. Then put in the iron he'd grabbed from the Impala. He came out of his hiding place, making sure that evil son of bitch caught sight of him.

"Dean," his dad said, something indefinable in the tone of his voice. Worry. Relief.

"Don't worry. This bitch and I have unfinished business." He fired again and walked around it, taunting. "Isn't that right?"

"I'll kill you," it howled as it writhed with pain.

"Yeah, it was old the first time you said it," Dean shot back.

"DEAN!" he heard his father cry, as he'd just been gutted.

That tone almost brought Dean around. Almost made him stand by and hope that any of the hunters could get to them fast enough. But then he heard Sammy's whimpering cries and the whisper beneath them. "Get away. Get away."

It was the first time he had been conflicted between keeping Dad together and shielding Sammy.

In the end he had to pick one to save.

He picked Sammy.

UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU

As the morph hounded him, it changed shapes to match the terrain. It was a dog sometimes, a bear when it need to plow throw tress under brush, an eagle when the trees hung low and sparse. He ran and ran until he was sure he was going to pass out from lack of air and physical trauma.

Each shot of iron sent it into bouts of agony that made his own a little easier to deal with. His head long retreat was now more of a hunched over, half stumble. He wasn't fooling himself. He knew that the morph was just playing with him now, waiting for when he totally collapsed and it could feed on his entrails come sunup.

It had taken a great amount of glee in letting him now exactly how he was going to die. The morph would split his belly, and didn't that just bring back fond memories, and let his intestine spill out into his arms, all hot and warm, and then begun to much on them like sausages while Dean was taking to death icy finger by icy finger.

Apparently, the morph had been reading too much Poe, because it got off on its own piss poor poetry.

Dean only had a few shots left when he finally did collapse. His leg just couldn't carry him any more. For the first time in his young life, Dean contemplated death. It didn't seem so bad for himself like it did when he had thought about Dad killed by a werewolf or Sammy with the life sucked out of him, slowly slipping out of this existence into the nothingness that death brought. And it would be nothing. No more worrying Dad would break. No more fighting to keep Sam happy and safe.

"Once I'm done with you, I'll go back for those that your protected," the morph hissed at him. "Or maybe I'll keep you alive to watch as I gut them both."

Dean's jaw tightened, his teeth straining under the pressure. He emptied the last of his rounds into that smug bastard's face. Took particular pride this time around in the pain he had caused. "You touch them and you'll die. Slowly. Do you hear me? I'll kill you. I'll tear you limb from fugly limb."

As its pain dwindled, those red eyes centered on him and he rushed forward, picking Dean up by his neck, cutting off his already oxygen starved lungs. It thrust him into the nearest trunk, the bark cutting in his back and tearing through his coat and shirt. He heard a snap in his right shoulder and it flamed like a torched corpse.

"Oh, I don't think so, little boy."

"He ain't little," a voice said from behind the morph, sounding as though it was said through cotton.

Suddenly, the morph froze as a resounding boom echoed through the woods, causing a ruckus of woodland creatures. Its eyes grew big and the grip on Dean's throat slackened. The thirteen-year-old boy and the morph slumped down to the moss covered ground together, one gulping down gasps of breath, the other gurgling up ichor colored blood.

"Dean, are you okay?"

"Dad? Sammy?"

"Mac's with them," Caleb said, slinging Dean's good arm over his shoulder after a trial and error with the right shoulder.

Dean shuddered as he put weight on his bad leg. "Mac?"

"Pal of mine." Alarm must have played on Dean's features for Caleb was quick to assure him, "Don't worry, he's as a loyal a baby pup."

"As long as he don't try to chew on Sammy's shoes or hump my leg will be fine."

Caleb chuckled. "At least I know you can't be too far gone if your cracking wise. But damn it boy, you've got your daddy in a right snit. I feel sorry for poor Mac."

They walked past the morph and Dean saw more rust colored blood poor into the ground, turning it an eerie color in the blue moonlight. "What killed it?"

"Silver," Caleb answered.

"Son of bitch. I had silver, a knife on my leg, and Dad wouldn't let me kill it."

Shaking his head, Caleb said, "Wouldn't have done much good, buddy. Those things can shift like they were Playdo but they've got hides like a rhinoceros."

"Oh," Dean said, color rising to his cheeks. He certainly didn't want to be acting like some punk kid with Caleb.

"Come on touch guy let's get you to a doc and get you patched up."


	12. Keeper: Part 6

"_My dad...well, he could yell a whole helluva lot. He'd ream me up and down and tear me a new one as often as he could. He knew the power it had over me. Knew that if I saw he was mad, I wouldn't make the same mistake twice. _

_He loved me. He loved Sammy. And he couldn't bare the thought of losing either one of us."_

_Dean Winchester_

**Keeper: Part 6**

"What was going through your head, Dean?" Dad hissed in their shared hospital bed, his eyes a flame with a light that caused Dean to sit straighter in his bunk. Caleb had apparently ratted on Dean about not giving his own full health description and Dad had been ragging on his ever since. It had gone from his injuries to the dos and don'ts when you have an evil flesh eating quasi-demon after you.

"You wasted all of your ammo. I thought I taught you better than that. How are we supposed to do this? How are we supposed to find the thing that killed your mother, if I can't trust you to do as I told you?"

Dean clamped his mouth shut, holding back any and all arguments in his defense. They wouldn't do him any good in this instance. He was just glad that they were in the hospital and that Sammy, who from the moment he'd learned Dean was injured, had refused to leave his brother's side, was asleep curled like a puppy at his feet or this dressing-down would be a lot louder.

"If Caleb hadn't been there to...," Dad's rent dried up on his lips as the horror struck him anew. "Damn it, Dean," his father swore quietly, though it didn't have the intensity it had born before. In fact, it sounded as though all the substance in his father had been sapped out, leaving him bare and bereft.

Dean averted his eyes from this. Dad wouldn't want himself to be so exposed and Dean certainly didn't want to see it. He turned back to his father, when the whoosh of deflated pillows brought his attention. Dad sat back on the hospital bed, looking up at the ceiling, his chest rising up and down in an unsteady beat.

After several minutes of this, his father cleared his throat and lowered his eyes. "I guess we can swing by Jim's on the way to the next hunt. You and Sammy will be safe there."

Dean's stomach tightened. "No," he said before his mind could catch up with his lips. When he realized that the denial echoing in the room sounded a lot like his voice, his eyes widened in anticipation of Dad's rebuttal.

"Excuse me?" his father asked, in a demanding tone that Dean wasn't usually comfortable with. But it sounded more like Dad then that soft hoarse whisper

It was an order and Dean obeyed. "We don't need to go to Pastor Jim's. I did what you told me, Dad. I kept Sammy safe."

His father stared at him dubiously. "Dean, what in the hell are you talking about?"

Another sickening twist to his belly and Dean had to swallow to keep the hospital food down. "I didn't screw up like I did before. I didn't let the morph near Sammy, like I did with the Shtriga. I can help, Dad. Really, I can. Please, just trust me."

Comprehension dawned and Dad watched him with a new gleam in his eyes. Pride. Acceptance. And a number of other emotions Dean isn't quite ready to identify. "Well, I guess I'll just have to keep you with me then, won't I?" his father replied, softly. Then his voice shifted into gear. "But I'm taking you out and I'll teach you how to ration your ammo. Can't have you making the same mistake, can I?"

Dean deflated against his own bunk, relief as palpable as the bandage on his knee. "No, sir."

He expected that to be the end of their conversation. Winchesters don't waist a lot of time on useless talk, but Dad's still looking at him. "How old are you, Dude?"

"Almost fourteen, sir," Dean replied, slightly wary.

Dad snorted. "Almost fourteen. Practically ancient."

"Sir?" Dean asked, confusion wrinkling his brow.

Dad shook his head. "Forget it, kiddo. Just get some sleep, okay."

"Yes, sir."

Dean settled himself deeper into the warmth of the bunk, careful not to disturb his sleeping baby brother, but couldn't find sleep. Even after he heard Dad's breath deepen and even out, his eyes just would not drop closed.

Carefully, always aware of his brother, Dean crawls out of the bunk and reaches for his jacket. He riffled through the pocket and pulled out a weathered picture. A wide, shining smile, blonde hair, and green eyes, reflected back in still life on the photo paper.

"Hey, Mom," he said under his breath. Running a finger down the loosely curled hair, he tried to remember what her hair had felt like. "I just wanted to let you know, I'm keeping my promise. Dad was really hurt today. But he's going to be fine. And Sammy, well, he was pretty brave for a girl," he said, on a smirk.

The corners of his mouth melted down though as he grew serious. "I miss you. Sometimes, I barely can remember you. What you sounded like? What you liked to eat for breakfast? But I remembered my promised. And I'm keeping it. I guess. As long as I do, I won't forget you completely."

He kissed the photo and instead of returning it to the pocket of his jacket, he kept it in the palm of his hand. Climbing back into bed, he put the picture next to him and closed his eyes. Maybe there weren't any angels, but he could pretend for a little longer.

**Welcome To The Black Parade lyrics**

When I was a young boy,  
My father took me into the city  
To see a marching band.  
He said, "Son when you grow up, will you be the savior of the broken,  
The beaten and the damned?"

He said "Will you defeat them, your demons, and all the non believers, the plans that they have made?"  
Because one day I leave you,  
A phantom to lead you in the summer,  
To join the black parade."

When I was a young boy,  
My father took me into the cityTo see a marching band.

He said, "Son when you grow up, will you be the savior of the broken,  
The beaten and the damned?"

Sometimes I get the feeling she's watching over me.  
And other times I feel like I should go. Through it all, the rise and fall, the bodies in the streets.  
When you're gone we want you all to know We'll Carry on,  
We'll Carry on  
Though your dead and gone believe me Your memory will carry on  
Carry on  
We'll carry on  
And in my heart I cant contain it  
The anthem wont explain it.

And we will send you reeling from decimated dreams  
Your misery and hate will kill us all  
So paint it black and take it back  
Lets shout it loud and clear  
Do you fight it to the end  
We hear the call to  
Welcome To The Black Parade lyrics found on  
To carry on  
We'll carry on  
Though your dead and gone believe me Your memory will carry on  
We'll carry on  
And though you're broken and defeated You're weary widow marches on

And on we carry through the fears  
Ooh oh ohhhh  
Disappointed faces of your peers Ooh oh ohhhh  
Take a look at me cause  
I could not care at all Do or die  
You'll never make me  
Cause the world, will never take my heart  
You can try, you'll never break me  
Want it all,  
I'm gonna play this part  
Wont explain or say I'm sorry  
I'm not ashamed,  
I'm gonna show my scar  
You're the chair, for all the broken Listen here, because it's only..  
I'm just a man,  
I'm not a hero  
Just a boy, who's meant to sing this song  
Just a man,  
I'm not a hero  
I -- don't -- careCarry on  
We'll carry on  
Though your dead and gone believe me Your memory will carry on  
We'll carry on  
And though you're broken and defeated You're weary widow marches on  
We'll carry on  
We'll carry on  
We'll carry on  
We'll carry  
We'll carry on

by My Chemical Romance.


End file.

Supernatural, Supernatural