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This story is complete. I'll post two chapters a week until all are posted.

Dean was a kid, just fourteen years old, when he lost his little brother to a witch. He was supposed to stay inside and watch Sammy, just like every other night, but this night he just couldn't stay inside any longer. He was practically climbing the walls. He was a kid, he was supposed to get to do fun things like watch tv and play video games. But he was doing research for his father, stitching the old man up and babysitting Sammy. He wasn't allowed to be a kid. And that nearly drove him out of his mind sometimes. Like tonight, when the motel they were staying at had a perfectly decent arcade in the lobby. He wouldn't stay away long. Just a few minutes. Just long enough to take the edge off the monotony and his bored. 

Just one game.

That one game turned into two. Which turned into three. Before Dean knew it, the lobby was closing. The manager said it was time for him to go. Reluctantly, he left. Hands in his pockets, scuffing his worn-out shoes along the driveway as he headed back to his temporary home. As soon as he walked in, he knew something wasn't right. There was a weird light coming from the bedroom area Sammy was supposed to be sleeping in. All his instincts, every lesson his father had ground into him, suddenly surged to the forefront. He wasn't as good at silently stalking as he one day would be, but right now he wasn't half bad. He slunk forward, grabbed the shotgun packed with rock salt and slowly eased open the door. 

What he saw froze him to the spot.

Something was hovering above Sammy's bed. It's cloak was ragged and seemed to be whispering or chanting in a strange language. Dean couldn't make out what, exactly, it was. Slowly, with trembling arms and waves of guilt washing over him, he lifted his shotgun, sighted in the witch and put his finger on the trigger. But just as he was about to pull it, the witch's gaze snapped to him. A horrible shriek resounded and he was flung across the room, pinned to the wall, the shotgun knocked from his hand. Sammy's body began to glow. Dean's eyes widened. He knew he was going to die. 

The front door slammed open. John stormed in and unloaded his gun on the witch. It shrieked again, a more pained one this time. A brilliant white flash and Dean was blinded. He felt his father grab his jacket and pick him up off the floor. The witch was gone. The terrible force it had used to pin him to the wall had vanished. John dragged him outside, yelling at him to move and get in the damn car. He was pushed forward, still half-blind from the awful white light. He felt the cold metal of the Impala underneath his palms. He opened the door and dropped inside. He heard the engine roar to life, the tires squeal on the asphalt, felt gravity pin him to his seat as they sped away from the motel.

"Sammy?" he croaked, hardly able to speak.

He could see now. He could just barely see the way his father's lips pressed into a thin line. The disappointed and heartbroken set to his face. He saw his father's tears for the first and only time. From then on, he only saw anger and disappointment. The loving, doting, happy father he knew up until he was four years old was forever gone. Bitterness replaced joy. Anger substituted devotion. Disappointment overshadowed love. These were what Dean grew up with from that night on. He was conditioned to be the perfect soldier. To never rely on anyone. To shoot first and ask questions later. 

He and John had a falling out. It wasn't the first time, but this one had lasted the longest. It had been nearly two years since they had spoken. He received text messages now and then, orders to go take on a case. Most of the time, he followed through, hunting alone. Occasionally, he worked with another hunter who had stumbled on the case. He found himself running into a female hunter who balanced his brashness with a calm tenacity of her own.

She was long and tall and she went great with cold beer and hot burgers. After the first night he talked her into his bed, they traded numbers. She helped him on research and he helped her with muscle. They just kind of meshed. So when they ran into each other the seventh time, she grinned. Her fountain of deep red curls fell to one side when she canted her head. Her deep green eyes sparkled from behind her thick, black lashes. 

"Dean, I see you and Baby are intact." She glanced at the sleek black Impala. "I miss that backseat. It's cramped but there's just enough room." She laughed at his flat look. "Good to know you're taking care of it. But why are you in this little podunk town?"

"Coordinates, same as always," Dean replied. "Although I'm not sure why here, though." He grinned. "I was hoping to get a little help with the research." 

Jesslyn laughed. "Good thing my laptop is better than yours. Dell beats HP." She turned and ordered another beer and a shot of tequila. "I've got a motel room in this run-down little dive two buildings down. Under the name 'Iliana Roshack.'" She giggled. "The fake names are always the best part." One long leg hooked around the back of his thigh. "What do you say you pay for my tab tonight and I'll pay for the room?"

Dean grinned. "I think that sounds like a plan. We can do some digging in the morning." They drank, each had a burger and fries and quit the bar a little after midnight. They stumbled their way down the road to the motel. Dean pinned her against the door, ran his hands through her hair and kissed her like there was no tomorrow. They broke for air and gasped before diving back in.

Jesslyn managed to unlock the door and they fell through. Jesslyn landed on her back and Dean on top of her. She laughed and threaded her fingers through his spiky blonde hair. "Dear God, Mr. Winchester, you are so forceful." 

The other hunter smirked as he pulled himself to his feet and closed the door. "They don't call me 'Dean the Damned' for nothing."

"That's because of how you charge blindly into a hunt. Not because of your prowess in bed," she said glibly. Dean pulled her to her feet and they stumbled back towards the bed. She kicked off her stilettos and unbuttoned his shirt. He undid her belt. She undid his. He toed his boots off. She kicked out of her pants. He pulled her shirt over her head. She laughed when he struggled with her bra. She pushed his hands away and undid it herself as he dropped his boxers. He peeled out of his socks as she dropped her panties. Then, they were tumbling into the queen bed, panting and gasping and thrusting and rolling. 

Completely ignorant to the life hidden beneath their bed. 

That small life was terrified he was going to be caught. He had been so careful when he scoped out the room. No one was there. It was completely empty and ripe for the borrowing. He slipped out of the vent on the other side of the room and darted across to under the bed. At first, it was a jackpot. He found a beautiful topaz in the metal clasp that looked like it had come from a necklace. He quickly stashed it in his bag, knowing his adoptive mother would love it. A few more steps and he found two more, although slightly smaller, gems. Those he stashed in his bag, too. Another five steps and he found more gems. And the gold chain that they had been on. Obviously someone's necklace had been ripped off their neck. Why, he didn't know. He just knew that they didn't care enough to look under the bed for it.

He was halfway between the beds when he heard two thumps against the door. Faint gasping on the other side, some moaning and the tiny being had a pretty good idea about what was coming in. He sprinted across the floor and just managed to slide under the other bed. Right as the door opened and the couple fell to the floor. The four-inch being crouched under the bed, peering through the eyelets in the cheap bed-skirt. He was going to hide in the middle of the floor under the queen bed and wait them out. That's what he had had to do before when humans unexpectedly entered the room. But as he was moving away from the edge of the bed, the woman's words caught his attention.

Mister Winchester. Winchester. Winchester. Could it be? A small part of Sam Winchester begged that it would be his brother. "Dean the Damned" the man had called himself. Dean. Winchester. Dean Winchester. But "Dean the Damned"? Why would he ever call himself such a horrible name? Because he charged blindly into a hunt. Sam's heart clenched painfully. Was this big, imposing man really his brother? Was he really a hunter? There was another painful twist as the couple stood and began undressing each other. When the man's shirt came off, a necklace fell back against his well-defined chest. The shape of the amulet at the end of the twine was something he would never forget, no matter the years that passed since he had given that gift.

Without a doubt, that was Dean. His brother. But there was no way to know what he would think of Sam now. Would he think of him as just something else to hunt? Would he listen to him at all? Or would he blast him with a sawed-off packed full of rock salt? He wasn't sure. And he didn't know if he should try to communicate with the older man. So, for now, he simply stayed hidden under the bed. He flinched when they collapsed onto the bed above him and began screwing so powerfully the bed springs creaked and dust motes floated down from the slats above.

There was no screaming, no calling out to each other or God. Just quiet noises of intimacy and pleasure. When they finished and lay quiet, Sam still didn't move. He remained where he was for another fifteen minutes. He wanted to make sure the two giants were asleep. Ten minutes after the initial fifteen, Sam carefully slid to the end of the bed. He peeked up. The humans were perfectly still. He decided to make a break for it. The vent that lead to his way home was on the opposite side of the room. But if he could run fast enough, he could make it and slide in without anyone noticing.

He took a deep breath then took off running. His bag slapped against his side. His hair flopped around his face. He was nearly halfway there. A feeling on the back of his neck nearly froze him in place. Eyes. He had been seen. He was being watched. He poured on fresh speed. The bed creaked behind him. Footfalls thudded against the carpet. Almost there. A hand reached out. Long, feminine fingers wrapped around his diminutive body. His feet left the ground and he struggled. He briefly considered trying to use his little knife to help him get away. But it would be futile. There were two humans. 

His eyes were wide with terror. The woman, now wrapped in a bed sheet, held him in her fist. The man, Dean, his brother, held a pistol trained on him. He trembled and hot tears burned his eyes. No matter what, he would not give away his adoptive family. He promised himself that. If Dean turned out to be like every other hunter he remembered, he would not put Walt and Mallory in danger.

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