1988

"Okay, Dean. You know the drill. I'll be gone 'til morning. You keep your brother safe, got it?" said John. He checked his gun one last time before stowing it in his belt and picking up his duffel bag. Dean handed him his journal, which he tucked into his jacket.

"I know, Dad. Nothing will happen to Sammy, I promise," said Dean. He had never meant a promise more.

"Good," said John. He walked towards the door, giving Sam an affectionate hair-ruffle as he walked past. "Stay out of trouble," he warned Dean, and then he was gone.

Dean glanced at the clock – it was almost seven! The Saturday night Western would be starting soon and he never missed them if he could help it. He loved cowboys, like most nine year olds did. He'd even had his own set of green army men once that he'd painted to look like the characters, but Sammy had needed Knights of the Round Table - it was funny how much Sir Galahad and Lancelot resembled Billie Kingston and The Calico Kid.

He settled himself on the couch next to Sam, looking over his brother's shoulder at his colouring book. Sam was engrossed in a picture of a giraffe, which he was carefully colouring in green and purple – they were the only colours he could find when they'd left the motel in Green Bank. For a five year old he was staying in the lines pretty well, Dean thought.

"Good job, Sammy," he said sincerely, toying with the remote. Three minutes to go.

"Thanks!" said Sam, beaming. His tongue stuck out as he carefully drew purple sunglasses on the giraffe's long face.

Dean glanced out of the window, then started as he realised he'd forgotten to check them. Dad would kill him! Hastily he scrambled up off the couch and did a quick check of the doors and windows, making sure that they were locked and surrounded by salt. He was well practised – it didn't take him long and his watch struck seven just moments before he was done.

He put down the salt and raced back towards the couch, but was stopped short as he almost bumped into Sam. His little brother was stood in front of him holding up a book; the crayons lay discarded on the coffee table.

"Dean, will you read my story? I'm tired," said Sam, rubbing his eye with a pudgy fist.

Dean glanced at the TV and the clock above it, sighed, then nodded.

"Sure," he said, forcing a smile. "Have you brushed your teeth?"

"Yeah!"

"Have you honestly?" said Dean, raising a knowing eyebrow.

"…No," said Sam, and trudged off to the bathroom.

When Sam was finally settled in bed, Dean sat down beside him and opened the book on his lap, angling it so his little brother could see the pictures. It was a Dr. Seuss book, and the inside cover was stamped with [PROPERTY OF GREENVILLE LIBRARY – LATE FEES APPLY]. Underneath that, in scratchy handwriting, was written –Property of Dean and Sam Winchester, Greenville Library sucks!

"When I was quite young, and small for my size, I met an old man in the Desert of Drize," read Dean. Sam was already yawning, and by the time Dean was telling him about poor Ali Sard mowing his uncle's back yard, he was snoring gently into the crook of Dean's arm.

Slowly, Dean closed the book and untangled himself from his brother. He pulled the covers up to Sam's chin and then went to tidy up the kitchen. By the time that was done it was five past eight and it was dark outside. Dean sighed heavily, checked the door and windows one last time, then went to get ready for bed.

As he pulled back his covers something fluttered to the ground. Frowning, he bent to pick it up. His frown deepened further when he recognised the colouring page that Sam had been working on, with the sickly-looking green giraffe. He turned it over.

On the back was a hand drawn figure that was somewhere between a stick-man and a sausage, done in green crayon. It had a purple gun and a purple cowboy hat and sheriff's badge. It also had purple freckles. Underneath read 'Sherif Dean, HerO OF Mowtel Town'. Dean grinned.

"Thanks, Sammy," he whispered, as he folded it carefully and placed it under his pillow, next to his pocket knife. Sam snorted as if in response, and rolled over.

1995

"But Dad, I don't wanna stay with Mrs. Taylor! I hate always being left behind like I'm useless. Why can't I come with Dean and you? I'll be good, I promise," begged Sam.

"We've been through this, Sam. You need to stay safe," said John angrily. "You're twelve years old."

"Dean went with you when he was twelve! Dean had his own gun when he was twelve!"

"I don't care, I said no. That's the end of it, Sam!"

"I hate you!" cried Sam. He picked up his suitcase and stormed off towards the Taylor's house without another word. He didn't look back.

Dean frowned, straightening from where he had been leaning against the Impala. He made to go after Sam, but John thrust a bag into his arms instead.

"Put that in the trunk and get in," John ordered. He got into the driver's seat and slammed the door. Dean said nothing and obeyed.

Barely two days into their week-long trip, the Impala pulled up outside the Taylor's house again. Dean got out, hefting a heavy rucksack over one shoulder. The door had hardly closed before the car shot off, leaving Dean in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

He walked towards the house slowly, impeded by a bad limp. His jeans were torn and muddy, and his shirt was distinctly blood-spattered. He looked a mess, with dark circles under his puffy eyes and dishevelled, dirty hair. He hoped Mrs Taylor wouldn't be too mad at him for tracking dirt through her house.

As he approached the house the front door was thrown open. Dean flinched at the sudden movement, grimacing as his various injuries protested, but broke into a wide grin as he saw Sam stood in the doorway. He shuffled up onto the porch and put his bag down by the door, then gave his brother a one-armed hug.

Sam knew immediately that something was wrong, frowning deeply as he was released from the hug. It wasn't just that Dean was back five days early, or that he was clearly injured, there was something wrong. He could feel it.

"What's the matter?" he asked, brow furrowed with concern.

"Nothing, don't worry," said Dean, shrugging in an effort to seem normal. The shrug hurt and he screwed his face up in pain. "Got in a fight, is all. You should've seen the other guy."

"I bet you kicked his ass," Sam said.

"Damn right I did. When's dinner?"

After Mrs Taylor had stitched up Dean's leg, inspected his bruised ribs, made him shower and cooked a big dinner, she sent him to bed. Dean protested, but Mrs Taylor was a hunter's widow and a mother to five grown boys, and she was having none of it.

When Sam was sent to bed an hour later, Dean was deeply asleep. He got ready for bed in silence, desperate not to wake his brother. He read his book by the light of a torch, holding it under the covers so that it wouldn't disturb Dean (or alert Mrs Taylor). All was peaceful for about an hour, until Sam heard a voice.

He dropped his book and slid his hand under his pillow, reaching for the pocket knife that Dean had given him and straining his ears for any more sounds. There was nothing. Thinking he'd imagined it he started to put the knife back, and then the voice came again; this time it was louder. Sam flipped open the blade and threw the covers back… But there was nobody there. He looked around, squinting into the darkness, but all was still.

This time when the voice came, Sam realised with a sigh of relief that it belonged to Dean. He listened closely, trying to make out what he was saying.

"Nononono… Run! Dad, where is dad, where did he go?"

Sam frowned. In the darkness he could see Dean twitching and rolling around restlessly, his face contorted in fear.

"Too many, no way out, there's no way out… Help!" Dean cried out. Sam glanced worriedly between the door and his brother, wanting to help but also not wanting to wake up Mrs Taylor. He continued to listen for a few minutes, but Dean was getting louder and more panicked, his nightmare evidently getting worse as he thrashed around on the bed.

Sam got out of bed and gently gripped Dean's shoulder, shaking him awake. He woke with a start and a cry of alarm, diving for his knife before he registered that it was Sam.

"It's okay. You were dreaming…" said Sam. He sat on the edge of his bed, facing his brother. "Wanna talk about it?"

Dean was silent for a few moments, replaying his dream in his head. He ran a hand over his tired face and was alarmed to discover tears on his skin. Angrily he wiped them away, not wanting Sam to see them.

"Dad used me as bait to catch some Arachnes," he said in a small voice.

"What?!" said Sam, loudly.

"It was a good tactical move, I don't bla-"

Dean stopped as the hallway light flicked on. They both dived under the covers, not wanting to be caught awake by Mrs Taylor. They heard footsteps as she approached, listened intently at the door, then went back to her room. They both breathed a sigh of relief as the hall light flicked off.

"Dean, I-"

"I don't want to talk about it," snapped Dean, regretting telling Sam already. He knew Sam would be mad about it and he didn't want to cause any more arguments between him and their father. He rolled over, putting his back to Sam, and pretended to be asleep.

There was silence for a little while, then Dean heard movement. He squeezed his eyes shut and pretended to snore softly, listening to Sam rummaging around in his suitcase for something. There was a small noise of satisfaction as he found what he was looking for, then quiet footsteps as Sam approached Dean's bed. He fiddled with something for a moment, and then Dean heard him get back into bed.

When Dean opened his eyes, he immediately saw what Sam had done; hanging on his bedpost was a small dream catcher – the one that Sam had made with Bobby last summer. It was made with purple string (Sam's favourite colour) and had feathers and protection talismans hanging from it.

"Thanks, Sammy," whispered Dean.

"Sweet dreams, Dean," whispered back Sam.

2001

It didn't take Sam very long to pack his things – he'd lived out of a suitcase his whole life and never owned more than he could carry. There were one or two things that he'd asked Bobby to keep for him over the years - things that were sentimental and that he didn't want to accidently leave behind in some scummy motel - but he didn't know when he'd ever see Bobby again after today, and so he asked if he could have them back.

"Of course you can have 'em Sam, they're your things... But you know, just cause your old man flew off the handle don't mean everyone agrees with him. You always got a home here, if you need one, and screw what John says," said Bobby, with a sad smile and a slap on the back.

"Thanks, Bobby," said Sam. In his emotional state, he didn't trust himself to say much else.

"You're welcome, kid. Just promise me something; you go live your dream. Go be the best damn lawyer ever came outta Kansas, alright?"

"I'll give it my best shot," said Sam.

"Well that's all anyone can ask for. Now, your stuff's in the basement. I'll let you go do what you gotta do, and I'll put your bags downstairs. Come see me before you go, I got something I wanna give you."

Sam nodded and made his way down to the basement to find his stuff. It took him a good while to dig through the vast collection of occult bric-a-brac and car breaking tools that Bobby owned, but eventually he stumbled across a pair of plastic containers with his and Dean's name on them.

He hefted his box onto a table and started sorting through his stuff, packing it into an empty duffel. There were a few odd pictures of him and Dean as kids, and one or two with John as well. Sam took the former, leaving the others on the table. He packed most of the stuff, things like letters from friends at the schools he'd been to (he always gave them Bobby's address) and old books and games.

At the bottom of the box was an old Dr. Seuss book, courtesy of some library or other. Sam leafed through it, smiling fondly as he remembered the times he'd read it before. When he got to the end he sighed, and placed it on top of the other stuff he was leaving behind. He zipped up his bag, and pulled out Dean's box to put the other stuff in.

Sam took off the lid and started putting things in, when something caught his eye. He reached back into the box and pulled out a small sheaf of paper. On top was a picture of three stick men holding hands, labelled "ME + DAD + DEEN." The next was a cowboy with purple freckles that Sam had a vague memory of drawing. The rest were all in a similar vein, about ten of them in total. His eyes threatened tears as he sat on the floor beside the box.

One by one Sam pulled out the things in Dean's box. His wasn't as full as Sam's had been, but what it did contain was of infinitely more value. The dream catcher that he had made and given to Dean, newspaper cuttings from their first hunts together, Sam's first pocket knife that he'd broken the blade off of, a couple of army men with peeling painted outfits…

"You're really doing this then, huh?" said Dean, making Sam jump.

"Dean?" said Sam, hastily wiping his eyes. "What are you doing here? I thought you were on a hunt with Dad?"

"I was. I mean, for about an hour. But I couldn't let you just disappear."

"If you've come to try and change my mind, it won't work," said Sam, indignantly getting to his feet. "I'm going to Stanford. I got a scholarship."

"Do you really want to go to college though, Sam, or do you just want to get away from Dad?"

"Will you quit telling me what I want? Why does everybody think I am so incapable of making my own decisions? I'm not a kid anymore, and I won't let you treat me like one!" said Sam. There was still a burning anger inside him from the fight he'd had with his father last night, and now he took it out on his brother.

"If you stopped acting like a spoiled brat then maybe we wouldn't have to treat you like one!" replied Dean, taking a step closer.

"That's the point, Dean! I'm not a spoiled brat, I just won't do what you tell me anymore and you don't like it!"

"Damn right I don't! You are so full of yourself and one of these days it's gonna get you killed!" said Dean, taking another step and squaring up to Sam, fists bunching at his sides.

"Oh, that's right!" shouted Sam. "We're having an argument so you better make it violent! You're just like Dad. Well go on then, hit me!"

Dean took a step back, away from Sam. His fingers unclenched, falling lamely at his side.

Sam paused, breathing heavily. He took a close look at his brother. With the dim light in the basement he hadn't noticed it at first, but now he saw the shiner plain as day.

"Did Dad do that to you?" he asked, voice small.

"Sam…"

"Did he?"

"We were arguing; I left a hunt to come after you. Don't worry about it," said Dean, trying to shrug it off.

Sam shook his head. This was exactly why he had to leave.

"Hey, my playing cards!" said Dean, spotting the pack on the floor. He picked them up, grinning widely. They were faded and dog-eared, with a selection of naked ladies printed on them.

"Man, I haven't seen these in years," he said fondly, shuffling through them. "Ah, Kelly-Ann. She was my go-to when I was thirteen."

"That's great, Dean. Thanks for the information," said Sam sarcastically, though he couldn't help the small smile that pulled at his lips.

"Wanna play?"

"What, now? We don't have any chips. Or money."

"Ah, we'll figure something out. We always do."

Sam shook his head again, but this time he grinned.

"Sure. Let's play. I'll kick your ass, though!"

"Sammy, you couldn't kick my ass if your life depended on it."

"Oh, it's on."