Summary: Just weeks ago, John Winchester was killed by the elusive yellow-eyed demon. Before smoking out of its meatsuit, the creature said some things to Dean, things that went against everything the young hunter has ever known. But all demons lie, right? Dean barely remembers its words as the devastation of losing his father consumes him.

Since the elder Winchester's death, Dean has been on a downward spiral. He continues to hunt—the only solid thing he has left in his life—but mixing booze with the job isn't one of the best choices he's ever made. The morning after a hunt-gone-wrong with a werewolf, he receives an unexpected letter. What he finds at the other end of it is about to prove that not all demons lie. – Alternate Universe / Dean is 26. Sam is 22.

Author's Note:Thank you soooo much to my beta and dear friend RiatheMai. She was also the one who gave me this wonderful prompt. Also a quick thanks to my southern friend Texas-Devil-Or-Angel who was brave enough to want to visit behind the scenes and offer some of her own ideas. It's been fun ladies!

Disclaimer: Although I would love to claim ownership, Supernatural, Sam and Dean Winchester, and the Impala (as well as the rest of the characters I borrowed) all belong to the CW and Eric Kripke.

~~~ CHAPTER ONE ~~~

An empty whiskey bottle fell to the floor and rolled until it came to a rest up against the leg of the nightstand. Dean shifted in the bed from where it had fallen, slowly waking. It had been another long night of trying to bury the memories of what had happened less than three weeks ago. At the rate he was going, he was going to run out of cash and have to start hitting into his last credit card.

As consciousness gradually eased its way back, the hunter groaned. He mumbled incoherent words into the pillow under his face and pulled a bare leg back under the covers from where it had been hanging off the side of the bed. A hand came out from under the pillow where fingers were previously wrapped around the handle of his buck knife and he scratched at the side of his nose before resuming its original position.

He fell back asleep. Never mind that it was already half past noon. Dean didn't care. There was nothing out there for him, no one to yell at him to get his sorry ass out of bed.

Dean's stomach growled, protesting the lack of food. He cracked dry eyes open and blinked several times before the clock on the nightstand came into focus. 6:57 pm.

"Shit," he muttered when he saw how late it was.

He reluctantly threw the warm covers off of himself and pushed up, socked feet dropping to the floor. Scratching at his bare chest, Dean willed away the fog of sleep…or maybe it was the residual haze of alcohol. Glancing down, he toed at the empty bottle on the floor; guilt flooded into him. If his father could see him now… The man would surely kick his ass right over to the next continent.

But he couldn't now, not anymore. John Winchester was dead.

Dean stood up and swept his fingers through his short-cropped, sand-colored hair as he headed off to the bathroom. Another night; another hunt. Over the last few weeks, he'd taken down a banshee, a vamp, and a wayward spirit. He'd kept himself busy since…yeah; he didn't want to think about it.

He didn't bother closing the door to the bathroom as he reached into the shower and turned on the valve. Once the water was running, he tucked his thumbs into the elastic waist of his boxer briefs and yanked them down, kicking them off, and then pulled off his socks, tossing them into the growing pile in the corner.

I'm gonna have to get to washing those one of these days. But who was he kidding? Dean knew he wouldn't be getting to it any time soon.

As the steam started to fill the small bathroom, Dean looked at himself in the mirror. He didn't care too much for what he saw. His habits of the last few weeks were aging him prematurely. The fine lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened; dark shadows were beneath his eyes; the normally vibrant green of his eyes was gone as was the handsome smile that could once get just about any girl he pleased into his bed.

He frowned at himself, at what he'd become. It was becoming routine, this looking in the mirror and berating himself. Dean knew he was heading down a road from which it was hard to return. But it didn't stop him. Nothing could take away that empty feeling when he returned from a night of hunting alone, that time when he should have been rejoicing for a job well done with his dad, his family.

Not anymore.

Well, whatever. He had to get in the shower. It was a full moon tonight and he had a werewolf to hunt. Tonight, he'd take the son of a bitch out. Tomorrow, he would move on, find the next job, continue the hunt his father had started, the hunt for the demon that had killed his mother and baby brother twenty-two years ago…and his father a mere three weeks ago.

After swinging by a local fast food joint and scarfing down a less-than-fulfilling bacon cheeseburger and a box of lukewarm fries, Dean drove to the industrial section of eastern Emporia, the setting sun at his back. Go figure, this job was only about eighty miles southwest of Lawrence, a town he tried to steer clear from as much as he could.

He was only four when it had happened…

Dean had awoken to the sounds of his father yelling and shrill sirens howling. Innocent curiosity piqued, he'd slipped out from under his Batman covers and walked out of his bedroom, rubbing at his sleepy eyes with small fists. Instantly, he had found himself surrounded by the intense heat of flames licking at the hallway ceiling, their long tendrils reaching out from another small room down the hall—Sammy's room.

To this day, Dean could still remember the sweat prickling up under his pajamas, could still remember his father's face when the man had come running out of the room, eyes wild.

"Dean!" John had called his name as he came rushing out of the room at the end of the hall, tears running down soot-stained cheeks, his face twisted into something Dean had been too young to define. Big arms had engulfed the small boy as he'd been quickly scooped up and carried downstairs and out to the safety of the front lawn.

Dean might not have been able to identify the look on his father's face at the time, but he had been able to sense his grief. He'd tucked his face into the crook of the man's neck and held on tight as the firefighters had fought to put out the flames sweeping through their home.

He never saw his mother or his little brother again.

"They're with the angels now, son," his father had told him.

Dean hadn't known it at the time, but his entire life had changed that night.

Fresh tears clung to Dean's lashes as he sat in the Impala staring out into the silent and looming shadows of the buildings; he wiped them away and smoothed his hands through his hair. He pushed the memories aside. There was a job that had to be done and crying over something that couldn't be changed wasn't going to help him any. He shifted in his seat and waited.

There had only been a couple of maulings over the last week—one man and two women—but with the moon now at its fullest, the werewolf wouldn't be able to hold back. Dean was positive it would be out tonight.

His Colt 1911 lay at the ready on the leather seat beside him. The intricate etchings on the barrel shone under the moonlight. He picked up the weapon and double-checked that the clip was full—silver bullets—and then tucked it at the back of his waistband.

Dean took a deep breath; his eyes fell to the half bottle of J.D. lying against the seat. Just a little to calm the nerves. He picked it up and unscrewed the lid, swirling the remaining contents before bringing it to his lips to take a long pull of the burning liquid. It felt good, made him feel alive as it pooled in his stomach. Before he knew it, Dean had drunk almost all that had been left. He twisted the cap back on and tossed the near-empty bottle to the floor in the backseat; he licked his lips and wiped a hand over his mouth.

"Let's do this."

He squared his shoulders and opened the car door.

It didn't take long for Dean to find it. The werewolf was slinking around the back of one of the larger buildings, keeping itself hidden deep in the shadows. Dean remained pressed up against the brick wall of the old factory at his back, collar turned up against the chilly breeze of the late evening as he peered around the corner at the thing. His gun was in his hand, safety thumbed off and weapon cocked.

His vision was slightly unfocused—the whiskey was starting to kick in and the meal he'd had earlier wasn't doing much to help—and Dean narrowed his eyes as the werewolf came out into the open. He brought his gun up to level; his aim was far from steady and he swore to himself. He only really had one good shot. If Dean missed, the thing would be all over him in a fucking heartbeat.

The hunter worked at steadying his breathing, hoping that, in return, it would steady his hand. His fingers curved tighter around the grip and his index finger pressed slightly against the trigger.

"C'mon…," he whispered, impatient as the werewolf sniffed at the air and looked around.

And then it turned its head, dark, hungry eyes meeting Dean's.

"Shit!" Dean could have sworn he was downwind of the thing. Had the breeze shifted?

Suddenly, the creature was in motion…too fast for Dean's hindered reflexes. He took the shot when he could, but the damn thing went wide. Dean tried to hold steady, needing to get another shot off, but his shaking hand wasn't cooperating.

Another shot. Another miss.

And then Dean was down, sharp claws raking at his chest, deadly teeth lunging at his face and neck. Within seconds, he felt his gun knocked away. Feral eyes burned down at the hunter and Dean could feel the heat of its saliva running down his neck; its fetid breath made him want to gag.

This is so not how this was supposed to go down. Dean was better than this, he thought as his heart beat a pounding rhythm in his chest.

He risked a look to the right as he tried to hold the beast at bay with both hands fisted into the tufts of fur on its upper torso, trying his damndest to keep it from taking a bite out of him. Dean could handle the pain; he just didn't want to get bitten, get turned into one of these monsters.

His gun lay just out of reach. Goddammit!

Dean kicked his left leg up then, wrapped it around the werewolf and managed to roll them to the right. He straddled the creature and smirked. His Colt lay right there. Stunning the werewolf for an all-too-brief moment with a solid punch to its long snout, the hunter reached over and picked up his gun.

The sound of the weapon firing reverberated through the quiet stillness of the night. It echoed off the buildings, making it sound far louder than it actually was. Dean smiled when he looked down. "Sweet dreams, you bastard."

As he stood up, Dean looked down at his blood-soaked shirt and cringed. He knew the thing had torn into him good; it was going to be another long night. He hoped he had enough suturing thread in the kit.

Maybe he'd just sleep in tomorrow.

The door to the room rattled as a loud knock sounded against it.

"Winchester!" a muffled voice reached the hunter's ears.

"What the fuck?" Dean groaned, not wanting to wake up quite yet; it hadn't caught up to his brain yet that it was his name being called out.

Who the hell was pounding on the damn door? The room was paid in full for another whole day, so it couldn't be the manager.

He rolled over and sat up when the banging began afresh. Every bone in his body ached after last night's skirmish, and his head wasn't all that much better. Dean wasn't in much of a rush as he slowly stood up and arched his back, stretching his sore muscles; he winced when he felt the tug of stitches on his chest. Yeah, maybe stretching wasn't such a good idea right now.

"Answer the door. I know you're in there."

Aw, hell. He knew that voice.

Dean picked up his pace as he pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and grabbed a semi-clean shirt out of the pile of clothes resting atop his duffel. The person outside the door didn't need to see how beat up he was from last night's hunt.

The door rattled again.

"Fucking hold on already," he muttered as he strode across the room. He reached up to undo the door chain and flicked the deadbolt. "Ellen," Dean said as he stepped back and pulled the door open; he scrubbed his fingers through his sleep-mussed hair and tried to force a smile as he squinted against the late morning (or was it afternoon?) light now pouring into the room. The hunter knew he was going to get an earful from the woman—Dean had been ignoring her calls ever since that night; he didn't want to talk about it—but there was no way he could keep her out now that she was standing on his doorstep.

"Don't 'Ellen' me," she snapped as she pushed by him and walked into the room, brown eyes moving over the empty beer bottles on the table as well as on the floor, the nightstand, you name it. Dean cringed a little when he saw her gaze fall on the whiskey bottle sitting on the counter and maybe another one peeking out from under the bed. He closed the door and kept silent. Might as well grin and bear it.

When Ellen turned back to him, her eyes were hard. "I should whoop your ass, you know that? Your daddy would have your hide, Dean." A muscle ticked in her jaw as she stared up at him. The half a foot's difference between them certainly didn't intimidate her.

Dean went to open his mouth, but she cut him off.

"I know it's been rough for you," she picked up a half-empty bottle of El Sol from the table and looked from it to the young hunter, "but you know he wouldn't want you going down like this. It's a dangerous path, Dean."

Ellen was one of the few people who could get away with talking to Dean like this without getting a black eye. She was a tough woman, and pretty damn near Dean's surrogate mother. He knew she loved him like a son, and he loved her back in that weird mother/son kind of way.

Dean was startled when she set the bottle down and then cupped the side of his face in her hand; her eyes softened. "If it means anything, I don't want you doin' this either. What we do, hunting, Dean, you have to be straight up and sober. None of this…" She took her hand away and gestured to the table.

Dean turned away from Ellen and walked towards the center of the room. He really didn't want to hear this right now. He was coping. "I'm fine. I just need some time. Listen, if you came here to-"

"No, that's not why I'm here, so don't go givin' me any of that ol' Winchester attitude of yours; although I'm not happy you've been ignoring my calls. I just wanted to make sure you were still walkin' the earth. We haven't seen you since before…well, you know. – I'm sorry, Dean. He was a good man."

And there it was. The pity. Dean didn't need pity. He nodded, but said nothing.

Ellen's lips pressed into a thin line. She knew Dean too well to expect him to respond. "Anyway, I had to pull in a few favors to find you since you wouldn't pick up. This," she said as she reached into her jacket pocket then and pulled out an envelope, "showed up in my mail. I'm guessin' it means you or your dad; came in a couple of weeks ago. It's part of the reason I've been trying to get a hold of you." Ellen crossed the room and held the envelope out to Dean.

"Who's it from?" Dean asked curiously as he took it from her, glancing down at the envelope, then back to Ellen.

"The hell if I know." She shrugged. "The postmark says Milbridge, Maine. You know anyone up there?"

"Maine? No. Hell, I can't remember the last time we had a hunt up that way. I think even the damn ghosts would freeze their balls off that far north."

That got a flicker of a smile from Ellen.

Dean looked down at the envelope again. It was addressed to 'Winchester, c/o Roadhouse' with the bar's Nebraska address listed below. There was no return address.

"Well, are you gonna stare at it all day, or let me know what I drove all this way for?" She stood there waiting.

"Uh, yeah. – So how's Jo?" Dean asked conversationally as he got a thumb under the flap and ripped it open. He had to admit, he missed the girl some, even if she was like a pain in the ass little sister.

"She's good. She wants to get her feet wet huntin', but I've told her not while she's livin' under my roof. That girl's smart. College is where she ought to be. Not out here chasing down all this crazy shit."

"I can't agree with you more," was all Dean said as he slid the paperwork out from the envelope and unfolded it. He skimmed the few pages silently for a few moments. The first was a handwritten letter and the last two were photocopies of legal documents. "Shit."

"What is it, Dean?"

"Samuel Campbell. He's dead."

"Who?"

"Oh, um, my mom's dad. I only met him once when I was real little. Apparently him and Dad didn't get along. You know, Dad wasn't good enough for his only daughter. And then I guess the whole thing back in '83 didn't help. I'm surprised you didn't know him. He's a hunter. Well, was, I suppose."

He could see Ellen bristle slightly at his comment about no one being good enough for their daughter. If there was ever a mother bear, Ellen was it. Dean felt bad for the guy that ended up with Jo.

"No, sorry, can't say that I've ever had the privilege."

"From what I've heard, he was an asshole anyway," Dean said as he continued to look over the documents. "Huh." He raised his brow in moderate surprise.

"What is it, Dean?"

"Looks like he willed everything to me."

"Let me see that." Ellen stepped up next to Dean and took the papers from him; she read them over. "Any reason you can think of that he would have done that?"

It was Dean's turn to shrug. "As far as I know, I'm the only Campbell blood left. Mom had no other family, just Dad and me…and Sammy."

"But how would they have known to send this to the Roadhouse?"

"Like I said, the man was a hunter. Every hunter knows about your place. He probably figured that, between Dad and me, we'd cross paths at some point." It made sense, at least to Dean.

Ellen nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I guess you're right about that."

Dean read the letter over again. It wasn't written by an attorney; there was no legal jargon, just basic condolences and the fact that he now was in possession of some estate he'd never been to. And if he was honest, it was something he really didn't want to deal with. It was probably some rundown ramshackle of a house in the middle of the woods. He was tempted to just ignore it and let nature reclaim it.

The letter was signed by a 'B. Singer.' No one Dean knew. But the hunter frowned as he read the postscript at the bottom of the page.

"You are owed so much more than this. It's high time you knew the truth."

Truth. What truth? And who the hell was B. Singer?

...tbc...

Author's Note: Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...