A/N So, I picked this back up again after a couple years. I rewrote the two original chapters because they were ten parts artsy and ninety parts too hard to follow. My new writing style is a lot simpler and a lot more enjoyable to read.

Sam is fourteen.

Dean is eighteen.

John is... I don't know. I hate math.

Chapter One

Merrimack, New Hampshire 1996

Sam Winchester tried not to be a bother.

Really, he did.

He tried so much in fact, that when his father burst through the motel door, his brother in tow, waking him from the first deep sleep he'd had in months, he kept silent.

"Rise and shine, Sammy," John said. "Up and at 'em." He yanked the sheets to Sam's ankles. Sam sleepily noticed the long, thin scratch running along the curve of his jawline.

Dean clicked on the bedside light. His face, peppered with darkening bruises, broke into a crooked grin. "Wake up, princess," was all he said. Sam blinked slowly, throwing an arm across his eyes.

"You said Dad promised," he murmured.

"Promised what?"

"That we'd stay for my mock trial this Tuesday. They picked me to—"

"Sam!" John snapped. "Let's go!"

Dean squeezed his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sammy."

"Yeah. Whatever." Sam snatched his duffel bag and began packing, looking anywhere but at his father.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't ever fair.

Several minutes later, the motel room was clean and empty, beer bottles tossed in the trash can, maps unhooked from the walls.

"Did you find it?" Sam asked Dean. "The Wendigo?"

When Dean nodded, something primal flickered in his eyes.

Sam never understood how his brother could look a creature in the face and blow it to bits.

Sam didn't understand a lot of things about his family.

"Ready to get out of here?" John asked the room.

"No," Sam muttered. John flashed him a warning glance, jaw tightening. Dean just licked his lips, rubbing a hand over his face, wondering how the hell his little brother could bear such a temper.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't ever fair.

When the motel door slammed shut, it was seven in the morning. Sam bit his lip at the finality of the sound, turning his back to John and Dean and the guns poking from their pockets and duffels.

He tried not to be a bother. Really, really. But sometimes, he wondered if John even cared about him at all.

They walked across the parking lot in silence, dew clinging to the soles of their shoes.

"Sammy?" Dean whispered.

Sam looked up.

"You can take the front seat. If you want."

Sam couldn't help but smile, and even though he shook his head no, Dean seemed to latch onto it. Sam would always have Dean. He needed his little brother to know that. No matter how many promises their father broke, Sam would always have Dean.

Sam settled into the backseat of the Impala, spreading a blanket across his lap. "What happened back there, Dean?" His voice was thick with sleep, but the question had to be asked. Just a simple reassurance that neither his father nor brother sported any mortal wounds or witches' curses.

Dean chuckled, a low rumble from the front seat, and Sam grinned. "Smoked that mother to hell, didn't we, Dad?"

"Yessir. Lit up like a match."

Sam decided to ask the question that had lingered on his lips since the beginning. "Where are we going?"

"Holyoke," John answered after a beat of silence. "And by the looks of it, this case is setting up to be a real bitch."

Holyoke, Massachusetts

Two hours later, John nosed the Impala into the lot of a run-down gas station.

"So what's going on, Dad?" Dean asked. "Why are we here?" John passed Dean several fliers stamped with seven nearly identical round faces tilted skyward.

"Seven boys. All adolescents. One minute they're eating dinner and the next they've got wanted posters racked up all over town."

Dean's eyes hardened. "These kids," he said. "They can't be more than fourteen."

"Try thirteen. Oldest is seventeen."

Sam spoke up. "That's why we're here, isn't it?"

John's gaze fastened on him for a moment, then slowly looked away. He brushed his lips against the lip of his coffee, going through the motions of taking a drink even though Sam knew the cup was empty and he was just gathering the right words, and, more importantly, the right way to say them.

"Yeah, son. That's why we're here. There's a lady who works as cashier. A mother. Her son…"

"The latest vic?" Dean asked.

John nodded. "And his mother was there the night the kid got 'napped, according to the papers."

Sam wrinkled his nose and crossed his arms, refusing to move as John and Dean stepped out of the Impala. If his father found no guilt in breaking yet another promise to his youngest, Sam certainly had no qualms in ducking out of whatever investigation John had cooked up.

"You coming, Sam?" John said. It didn't register like a question. "Come help your brother find something for dinner."

"C'mon," Dean said. He thumped his hand against the car. "I'll buy you a bag of Funyuns." He winked. "Know you like those."

Sam groaned, shoving the door open. "I'd like," he mumbled through gritted teeth, "to eat something that doesn't come out of a freaking package, for once." Dean grinned, shoving his shoulder, and Sam shoved back. The moment John disappeared inside, Sam stopped Dean, shoving a few of wadded bills into his hands. "Here, Dean. I hafta pee, and the only bathroom's outside."

Dean squinted. "You little sneak."

But Sam was already laughing, already gone, strolling around the corner of the building. He knew it was stupid. He knew, in the long run, his father would always have the upper hand.

But he sure as shit wasn't going into that gas station.

He wasn't going to let his father win.

Not this time.

Whistling, he fumbled with the door handle and slipped inside the bathroom. Almost immediately, he pulled back, taking several steps backwards and plugging his nose.

"Rank," he murmured. Peering around the door, he gave another shudder. The floor was dingy tile, smeared with slippery brown wetness, something yellow trickling from the ceiling. And the smell—holy shit, holy God, the smell— it was something like a combination of weed and feces, and it hit Sam's stomach like a punch in the gut. Sickly yellow light pooled from a flickering bulb.

"Still better than going inside," he choked. He crossed the floor, taking care not to slip, and shimmied his zipper down before the urinal. He to tried concentrate on something, anything, other than that horrific smell, but each time his mind wandered, it drifted into his nostrils again. Grimacing, Sam finished his business, feeling dirtier by the minute, and zipped his pants up.

The door squeaked open.

Sam sighed. "Dad, I really did have to pee. I wasn't lying. I swear, I was—" He stopped. He wasn't facing the door, but he knew the sound of John's boots when he heard them. His breath quickened.

This wasn't John.

Or Dean.

The squelching footsteps of shoes far too large issued forth in a series of jerky, haphazard motions. Sam's stomach tingled; he bit his lip, swallowing, as the whispery hum of the lightbulb mounted to a flat buzz. He shook his head slightly, and turned around.

Standing before him was a clown.

He recoiled, reeling backwards until his back bumped against the wall. Sam knew, knew, knew his fear wasn't rational, because God, clowns were only people, after all; beneath the wigs and makeup, they were just plain, boring Tom, Dicks, and Harrys, only people after all. But good Lord, none of the clowns Sam had ever seen looked at him the way this one did.

Like it was hungry.

Sam's mouth gaped in the formation of a scream, breath expelling in soft hisses, trying not to laugh or cry or scream all at the same time.

The clown cocked its head, a slow smile slithering across its face. It swayed delightedly on its toes, its black, toothless gums smacking.

"Jesus Christ, what do you want, man?" Sam whispered. "How'd you even get in here?"

He searched the thing's face for any sign of the supernatural, and on finding none, gained a little more confidence. Still, even the non-rapey-looking clowns scared the ever-living shit out of him, and he couldn't deny the instinct to run any longer.

"Get the fuck out of my way," Sam said, a little louder now. He brandished his pocket knife, thrusting it forward several times in the hope of appearing braver than he actually was.

The clown's lips pulled back wider.

"Did you hear me?" Sam was using that deep, guttural bark he only heard from his brother and father when they were seriously pissed or frightened. "I said, did you hear me?" Not waiting for a response, he took off. The clown simply watched as he rammed his shoulder into the door, scrambling outside.

That was what scared him most.

And yet, as he turned the corner, he seemed to hear the clown all around him. Beside him, behind him, in front of him— the tinkle of little silver bells. The squelching of rubber shoes. Sam's chest was fit to bursting, the fear an almost tangible thing knocking at his heart. Where was his brother? Where the hell was Dean?

He glanced over his shoulder, only to hit something before he could turn back. He raised his fist, ready to drive the pocketknife home.

"Whoa, Sammy!"

"Dean? Oh, God. Dean!"

"Are you all right?" Dean frowned. "You've seen something, haven't you?"

"No—yes, Dean, I—"

Dean grabbed his shoulders and shook gently. "Sam— what did you see, kiddo? You can tell me. It's okay." He shook his head, mumbling, "Jesus. You're shaking like a leaf."

"It was a clown, Dean. And—" He shuddered. "It—chased me."

Dean started. "I'm sorry?"

"A clown. Like, a circus clown. It walked in on me when I was taking a piss— I don't know how it even got in there—"

"Are you hurt?" Sam took an unconscious step back. Dean's eyes were alight with fury, pure, unadulterated rage spiking each of the three words like a barb. Damn straight, Dean was mad. No one had ever harassed his brother and gotten away with it. This little clown fucker wouldn't, either. "Sam," he repeated. "Are you hurt?"

"Well, no."

"Did it touch you?"

"No. It didn't."

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, trying to smile but finding it very hard to. "Freaking killer clowns. What the hell is this world coming to?"

"A clown? Dean, you say you saw a clown?" John said as he jogged to meet them, eyes wide.

Sam nodded, biting his lip hard. "It followed me into the bathroom."

"It's gone, now," Dean said.

John swore. "Damn it all!" He swallowed hard, meeting Sam and Dean's stricken expressions. "We need to get to the motel room. Immediately."

Dean sat in the backseat with Sam. No one asked any questions.

That night, the Winchesters dined on Funyuns, Moonpies, and lukewarm Pepsi. For once, Sam didn't mind. By the light of the television screen, he tore through bag after bag, almost sick with hunger. He could hear John and Dean whispering on the other side of the room. Part of him desperately wanted to block his ears, but the other, truly terrified part, had to listen.

"…going on?" he heard Dean ask quietly. "…something I need to know?"

"The woman I spoke to…" John whispered. He said something unintelligible, and Sam listened harder. "The kid's mother. Said her son and all the other missing kids complained about clowns—following them, smiling at them… talking to them."

"Jesus." A pause. "…think one of 'em's after…?"

"Too soon to know. One thing's for sure, though. We can't leave."

"What? Why not?"

"Don't give me that look, Dean. The thing's got wind of Sam now. If we blow out of here, it'll just follow us."

"Better to fight it, then! In its unfamiliar territory!"

"Better to stay here, find its hiding place, and kill it dead before it lifts a finger on your brother. Better to kill the damn thing where we've got actual leads. You understand?"

"…yes, sir."

Sam rose from the couch, speaking softly. "I can help, you guys."

Dean gave him a comforting smile, John following suit. "We know you can, Sam," John said. "Thank you."
Suddenly, the stolen police frequency transmission radio burst into static, a muffled voice saying, "Lincoln Twelve, code 10-57. I'm en route to 881 Sussex and sending an alert on your party, Whahl, James Q., date of birth twelve eighteen of eighty."

John stood up quickly. The radio crackled a second time. "Party is a juvenile, white male, five feet and ten inches, one-forty, brown and blue, break—"

Sam rubbed a finger down the string of his hoodie. "That's another kid, isn't it?"

John's stare fastened on Dean. "We passed that street on the way in. Address has to be that closed Biggerson's."

Dean was already moving. He slipped a gun into the back of his waistband, pocketing a smaller Ruger. "We're not leaving Sam."

John frowned. Did his son just give him an order? He exhaled. "Then we'll take him along. Like we always do." He shouldered open the door. "There's no time to argue about this. Get in the car, both of you. That's an order."

Sam and Dean looked at each other. They attempted to quell their painful imaginings of what could come out of this ambush for each of them. Dean wondered if it were possible for Sam to be able to sit this one out in the car, and Sam wondered if Dean could do the same.

They followed their father to the Impala, very stiff and very quiet. Dean took command of the passenger seat without question; it was clear he was top dog now, and Sam would listen to him along with their father. As the road sucked beneath the tires, the heaviness of the situation dragged on the Winchesters like an anchor dragging through sand. It wasn't often the monsters they hunted went after one of their own. This time, they had so much to lose.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't ever fair.

After what felt like seconds, John pulled into the deserted Biggerson's parking lot. Two police cars crouched in the darkness, smoke curling from the hoods.

"Geez," John said. "Someone set 'em on fire."

"Those were the police that must've come from the radio call," Sam said. Dean silently passed him a luger, his father supplying him with a small container of salt. The prospect of fighting a supernatural clown made Sam's stomach weak, but he took the weapons and pocketed them. After all, Dean's safety was on the line, too. The oldest boy taken was seventeen years old, just like his brother.

Dean wasn't the one deathly frightened of clowns, however.

"All right," John said, unlocking the door. "I'm going inside, okay? Dean, Sam, wait here. I don't know enough about these sons of bitches to get you involved."

"If you're in trouble, I'm coming in," Dean said.

John's grip tightened against the door handle. His face was unreadable, but he gave a thick swallow. "I don't want you to," he said, "but I can't stop you." And with that, he opened the door and disappeared into the night.

Sam made eye contact with Dean, who smirked, poking his shoulder. The expression on Sam's face almost killed him— horribly masked petrification— and he cursed the twist of fate that made this case involve clowns. He cleared his throat, mind scrambling for something to say. "When he kills that thing, we are definitely gonna get some pie."

Sam laughed, the tension easing. "Sure Dean. That sounds good."

Several clipped shouts sounded from inside the building. They jumped to attention, squinting out the window.

"That sound like Dad to you?" Dean asked.

"Who else would it be?"

"DEAN!" their father shouted. "DEAN, YOU NEED TO—"

"Sammy, stay here," Dean said, voice strangled. "Don't even scratch your ass. I'll be right back."

Sam's stomach dropped. "Dean," he mumbled, lips so numb he could barely form his brother's name correctly. "Don't—don't leave—" Sam could kick himself at how pitiful he sounded. Dean's expression softened, and he cuffed his ear.

"You'll be safer in here."

"It's not me I'm worried about."

But Dean was already gone, already racing across the parking lot. Sam positioned the luger against his chest, mimicking the same gesture he'd seen from his family many times before. He watched Dean fumble with the side doors, but no matter how roughly he yanked them, they wouldn't budge. Sam had just gathered the confidence to get out and help when the noise of screeching tires sounded around the corner. He saw Dean cock his head, frozen. Sam leaned closer, waiting. Everything was deadly silent.

Almost as if in slow motion, a large black vehicle careened into the parking lot, headlights casting a harsh blue glow on the form of his brother. Sam gasped, hands pressing against the window, frantically shouting Dean's name, screaming at him to run, to leave, to get the hell back to the car. And in that moment, he didn't mind leaving his father, if only it meant he and Dean could drive to safety. Surely John wouldn't begrudge him of that.

The van charged right at Dean, who threw his arms about his face, dropping into a low crouch and rolling sideways with his back to the ground. It sputtered to a stop before Dean, the doors sliding open. Dean swung his pistol and fired, the shots cracking emptily into the air, one after another, after another. His back faced Sam in a last-ditch effort to protect him.

A single clown stepped daintily from the van. Dean stumbled to his feet, anger tearing through his chest. The gun had been knocked clean from his hands during his fall, but he would always have his fists.

When Dean was furious, his fists were enough.

"You're the sonouva bitch that stalked my brother," he spit. "If you bleed, I can kill ya. And believe me, I'm going to." He smirked coldly. "Don't worry, I'll give you a few seconds' head start." The clown only stood there, the bells on its clothing tinkling in the dry wind. "All right," he said. "That's it." He advanced on the clown, but right before he could swing his fist back, he heard a movement behind him. His face crumpled. Sam. He heard Sam's footsteps thudding against the pavement, nausea sweeping his insides. "Sam, get back inside the car," he said calmly. Sam didn't respond; his chest ached, and he could feel his eyes beginning to wet.

"Get out of the way, Dean," he said. Sam was crying now, unable to see through his blurred vision. The fears that kept him up at night screaming, the fears Dean promised would never come to pass, the fears of clowns and Dean's death and Dean's fear and Dean's pain— He raised the luger, and without any further thought, fired the shot. The bullet whined, striking home in the clown's suit.

"Sammy," Dean started, "You—"

"It didn't work, Dean," Sam said lowly. "It's still standing."

The clown tilted its head, touching its chest. A slow smirk spread across its face. To Dean and Sam's horror, a second clown stepped from the van, followed by a third, a fourth, a fifth, until a ring of clowns encircled them. They skipped in a tight circle to their own horrific song and dance.

"We're going to a birthday party!"

"Would you like to come to our birthday party?"

Dean snatched Sam's luger, firing round after round at the ring. Each bullet zinged past, or through— it really made no difference. Inside the building a voice screamed, "BOYS! RUN! IT'S A TRAP! RUN!"

They stood back-to-back. Dean reared his fist back, but before he could plough it into the nearest clown, a gloved hand cracked into his cheek, sending the luger flying from his hands. He shouted, clutching his stinging face. It hurt worse than almost anything, worse than any of the fights he'd been in before. Before either he or Sam could react, a pair of arms enveloped him, squeezing him tight.

"Sam!" he gasped. He reached for his brother, who was already thrashing in the arms of another. It glanced down at Sam, smiling softly.

"Hush, little boy!" it said, clamping a hand across his mouth. "There'ths no reathon to be thcreaming. Why, no reathon at all. We're going to thutch a lovely birthday party." Its black eyes glittered in the street lamps. Sam's muffled shrieks were clipped as it held a filthy dishrag dripping chloroform to his lips. His legs buckled, and he collapsed in a limp heap, hands swinging.

"No! SAM!" Dean writhed as the rag drew to him. He scratched at the arms, nails digging into the spongey skin until the rag pressed against his mouth.

From inside the building, John continued hollering at his boys to run, continuing long after Dean and Sam were dumped into the back of the van, continuing until the wail of sirens brayed in the distance.

A/N Thanks for making it this far. Don't forget to leave me a review to let me know how I'm doing. I THRIVE off feedback.