All was silent as the night sky fell over the earth. The only light illuminating the small town came from the street lights above, which he dared to stay out of. The last thing he needed was his father to find out he got arrested by the fez for possession of a blood-encrusted blade. The burning sulfuric smell of the object forced him to place it in the back loop of his jeans, the metal nearly slicing through his rough fingertips. He popped the collar on his black leather jacket, hardly visible in the night, and wrapped it tighter around his body to keep warm. He exhaled before watching his own shaky breath dissolve in the atmosphere.

The boisterous sound of footsteps increased his pace. He knew exactly who they were judging by the pompous saunter of their newly polished suede shoes. He could almost taste their ignorance on his tongue and spat in response as he narrowed his eyes to the sidewalk. He was fast, but they were faster. Just as he was about to escape their wrath, a large hand clasped his shoulder tightly and spun him around. "Hey, pretty boy, wanna tango?" the teenager sneered. He was moderately tall with blonde hair, noticeably butch, and wore a red and white coat; a typical Soc. He did everything in his power not to fight back by holding his breath and biting on his lower lip.

When he did not respond, the other boy tossed him into a circle completely bordered off by his group. He fell to the floor, feigning his vulnerability. A smile lit their wicked faces before they pounced on him, one after the other. He struggled to stagger away but found himself helpless underneath the constant blows to his face and upper torso. The earsplitting siren of a fez car surrounded his bleeding ears just before his eyes began to close.

Every young had taken something out of him that night; all but one long-haired juvenile.

"Dean, what the hell happened to you?!"

That night Dean was driven home to the motel by the cops in handcuffs, his face marked with every possible abrasion. Blood seeped out of the corner of his mouth when he spoke to his father in his low, premature voice, "I got jumped. I didn't fight back like you told me to. It's no big deal."

"No big deal?!" John raged, "I'm praying you don't have a goddamn concussion. I can barely afford to put food on the table!"

Dean placed his bruised hands over his father's chest warily. "Dad, please, I'm fine."

"Did you at least kill the wraith?" Dean moved his long fingers over his back pocket to unfasten the blade from earlier. He held it under the fluorescent light so every edge of the silver gleamed, almost blinding to the human eye if it hadn't have been for the blood. John smiled, patting him lightly on the back. "Good work, son."

A fire ignited in the misty atmosphere. Every Soc gathered around the burning flames, celebrating their five-year reign on Lawrence, Kansas. One guy had even brought a turntable to the alley with the latest Beatles vinyl blaring on full volume. It was an important day in every young Socs life, almost as important as a new Beatles record. It acknowledged not only their sovereignty, but their social status as well. Socs were among the top wealthiest class of young people in the tri-state area.

Sam sat silently observing among the joyous crowd. He, unlike his group, enjoyed reading and writing in his spare time instead of hanging around his drunken friends. He also did not like that he was the youngest in his gang family, not to mention the least handsome. Sometimes he wished he was more like his friend, Boone, with his tall figure, sculpted face and bright blue eyes; or possibly Colt with his curly brown hair, toned frame, and full set of lips. Sam had not inherited any of these fine traits, though he wasn't bad looking, he supposed. Despite being moderately short for twelve, he had long brown hair, freckles scattered around his thin lips, and almond grey eyes that reflected the orange flames of the fire.

"Today is a day of celebration," one intoxicated sixteen-year-old rang out above the music and chatter, "a day of manifesting in the glory of our supremacy over Lawrence!"

"Shut up, Tom," Boone hushed before continuing to make out with his longtime girlfriend, Sally. Sam had always wondered what it felt like to kiss a girl. Would it fill him with the same authority as Boone? He pushed the thought away just as a young redheaded girl eyed him from across the alley. She approached him with poise; Sam began to feel his hands moisten. He was always okay around girls; however, none had ever come within a few feet from him.

She smiled at him through long lashes. "Dance with me," she said. Before he could answer, she grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the dancing area just as "In My Life" began to play. Judging by the good few inches she had on him and the eyeliner under her green eyes, she was a couple years older and very pretty. As the song picked up to the chorus, she leaned in to kiss him. He did not react when she pressed her lips to his, her mouth tasting of cherry lip balm. Her breath was surprisingly warm on his, sending goosebumps running down his spine. His chin dropped when she retracted.

He had not realized he was smiling all the while he stared at her lower half as she walked away. Suddenly, he felt large hands grip his shoulder tightly and spin him around to face the throng. "Attention, our little Sammy has become a man!" Boone yelled triumphantly before reaching into a keg and handing him an ice cold beer. Everyone turned in the direction of the two Socs and hooted provocatively. Sam opened the top reluctantly and ingested one taste before waiting until Boone left to spit out the alcohol. Sam should have smiled in light of the last few events yet couldn't help but feel down. He sighed before returning to his chair, contemplating his melancholy.

It was then he remembered the Greaser from earlier the same night; the one that had been attacked and beaten down. The only thing he could think about was the object most of his friends did not even take to notice: his silver scalpel in his back pocket. Whoever the guy was, judging by his crew cut brown hair wasn't a Greaser. Sam would discover his true identity much too soon.

Late night, just before the sun fell over the hazy horizon of Kansas, Dean decided to take a walk around the park to clear his mind. Ever since the last jump, he was beginning to question his life. John raised him to hunt, and that's exactly what he set out to do. He had been traveling place to place with his father since he was six, never questioning a damn thing. As nice as the park was this time of day with the outstretched green lawn and tall porcelain fountain with trickling water, it did not fill him with the answers he had hoped for. Instead he found himself in even more hell.

The bushes behind him wavered inexplicably. He pulled his knife, wary of new dangers. Soon, the same group of Socs hobbled out of the plants to face the same stranger that crossed their path the night before. He hid the blade out of sight. "Are you on our turf? You just don't give up do you, slim?" the same blonde boy taunted. His crew backed him up, eying the stranger curiously. He took notice now that the Soc had a good five inches on him which meant he was older. "What's the matter, baby gonna cry?" he teased, wiping away fake tears.

This time, a reaction was provoked out of Dean. He cocked the blade below his chest, daring they come at him. The blonde chuckled deeply and turned to his friends who were also laughing under their breath. The blonde made his first move pulling out his own knife and circling Dean before taking a stab. Dean ducked from the glossy object's aim and slashed the boy with his own knife. Blood oozed from his left arm before he bit back with a blow to Dean's face. He fell to the ground violently before beating the Soc to the next punch. Soon, the five other members of the group pounced on him. Dean grabbed his knife again and began hacking. He managed to scrape their faces badly; however, he was still outnumbered. With the force of every boy in the group, his body was hauled into the fountain, his skull ringing as it banged into the porcelain. Though his head began to spin, he used his feet to kick the boys off of him yet found himself useless soaking wet. Just as the blonde boy pushed his way through the throng, knife in hand to finish him off, a boy appeared out of the trees, kneeing one member in the abdomen and kicking him to the ground. He finished every boy off with a different tactic of combat before reaching the blonde, who turned around to his own surprise before being stabbed in the stomach. The blonde fell to the ground with a thump as blood spilled from his head and his eyes rolled back.

Dean lifted his weak head to see who had killed the Soc before sinking further into the fountain. The figure was on top of him now, slapping his face multiple times to get his attention. When he did not receive a response, he grabbed him by the shirt collar and dragged him out of the fountain and onto the warm ground. Dean opened his eyes, his vision clearing slowly. The figure before him was the same long-haired boy he encountered the night before.

A Soc saved his life.

"Who are you?" Dean demanded through a mouthful of blood. He coughed out the excess body fluid before managing to sit upright in the grass, his eyes never leaving the Soc.

"I was just about to ask you the same," the boy replied, extending his hand for Dean to shake. He refused. "Sam."

Dean cocked his head more out of curiously than anger. "Why did you save me?" he slurred. Sam retracted his hand, however, achieved in hauling Dean to his feet by wrapping his arms around his limp body carefully and standing him upright.

"I'm not sure," Sam stated justly, "instincts, maybe?"

Dean stumbled trying to stand. "Those are some pretty damn good instincts. How old are you, kid?"

"Twelve," he replied, his gray eyes sparkling in the nighttime.

"You learn all your moves from those asshats?" he scoffed, gesturing to the fallen bodies.

Sam shifted slightly in his stance. "Honestly, no. I've never fought in my life."

Dean looked him in the eyes and tossed him insolent smirk. "You honestly expect me to believe that? You're a Soc."

Sam returned the look, his attitude drastically dropping at the comment. "You think every Soc is the same?"

"Well they sure aren't any different from every asshole I've run across," Dean stated flatly.

"Well," Sam mocked, inching closer to Dean, staring him down, "I guess I'm just like my brothers."

Dean sneered. "You can call them your brothers? That's just damn wrong, Sammy."

"I'm not like them," Sam repeated, stopping again to look him in his green eyes. They appeared browner under the street light they stood under. "And did you just call me Sammy?"

Dean shrugged before grinning slightly under his coat. "That's true, you're a better fighter. And I don't know, did I?"

"I think so," Sam clarified, smoldering a laugh. Dean swore he almost laughed as well. He could not wrap his head around the fact that he was walking home with a Soc, especially one that had saved his life. The kid wore a red and white school jacket, indicating he was involved in at least one sport, most likely football judging by the size. His long hair even reeked of young jock, combed back neatly. Though, unlike a classic Soc, his hands remained in his pockets as he walked, indicating a shy demeanor. Dean felt out of place with his black leather jacket, jeans and light brown hair. "So, it's been bugging me," he continued out of the silence.

"What's that?"

Sam couldn't help but smile at the stranger before him. "You seem like a pretty good fighter yourself. Why didn't you fight back that night they jumped you?"

"Well, if there's one thing you should know, I'm not a Greaser," Dean said, leaning in close as if to tell him a secret, "It's Dean, by the way."

"What?"

"My name is Dean."

Sam looked genuinely shocked. Every kid he knew around Lawrence was involved with one of the two groups. He stuck to his inquiry. "Well, Dean, you didn't answer my question."

Dean stared at him for a long time. Judging by his boyish face and small frame, he made the appropriate assumption that he probably would not grow any taller than Dean. Before he could respond, a raspy voice called him from his motel a block away. He didn't have to turn around to know it was his father. "I should get going," he said, trudging away silently before turning around and adding, "Don't try to find me."

"You're welcome for saving your life and all," Sam called sadistically before turning in the opposite direction. "Wait, Dean—"he was cut off by the cold wind brushing across his face.

What he did not know was that he would be seeing a lot more of Dean in the next few days, more than he ever wanted to.

The minute Dean sauntered to the motel was the minute he knew his life was at stake. John leaned on the doorframe, his face observably furious. He kept his focus on the ground, avoiding his only son until Dean approached him cautiously, empty handed. His brown eyes, as Dean imagined in a cartoon, would be spitting fireballs. "Who the hell were—why you are so—"he stammered lividly, "I don't even know where to start, Dean."

"Dad, he's no harm—"

"No harm?!" John raged, eyeing his beaten son. "This is the second time this week you've gotten in a fight."

"Dad, I swear, it's not my fault—"

John continued to speak over his son. "I just want you to behave the one week we're in Lawrence, is that so much to ask?"

"Sam's not like the rest, he's cool," Dean argued, surprised at his own comment, "he saved me, dad."

"Who, the scrawny boy?" he retorted before shaking off the thought. "Anyway, that isn't my point. The point is you had a job to do today."

Dean stopped shifting in place. "What job?"

"What job?" he mocked, "the shtriga! I even gave you the gun."

Dean looked frantic now. He fumbled over every loop of his jeans in search of the object. He knew his dad was right: he did give him the gun early in the morning.

John's eyes widened now. "Don't tell me you lost it, Dean, or I will—"

"I—I it was here five minutes ago…"

"You lost the damn Colt?!" he shouted before noticing the peculiar looks from strangers around him and lowering his voice, assuring them he wasn't a child abuser. "He stole it, didn't he?"

"Who?"

"This Sam kid, the Colt must've slipped out of your jeans and he snatched it," he concluded.

Dean became livid now as well. This was the first time he ever had a real debate with his father. He was raised not to question a damn thing. His father was his role model, and that's all he ever knew. "Sam is not evil! Hell, we were raised around evil and this kid," he paused, taking a breath, "he's not."

"Oh, I'm sure you can tell by the way his eyes sparkle," he snapped. "If there's one thing I taught you, Dean, it's to never, under any circumstances, to trust anyone outside of family."

"Dad, you're the only family I have. "

"Exactly," John finished before saying the words Dean never thought he'd hear escape from his lips. "I'm disappointed in you, Dean."

Dean's eyes searched his father's desperately. When he knew he couldn't detect a hint of forgiveness in them, he pushed his way passed him, slammed the front door behind him, and trailed off to his bed. It was when he sank into his lumpy pillow that he realized he was crying.

The cold wind blew artfully through Sam's long brown hair as he trudged down the alley. This pavement served as a shortcut to his house. He usually wasn't fond of taking the way but figured since he was passed his curfew, he would have to deal with a lot more wrath than the alley.

The brown mud thumped rapidly with every hurried footstep he took. The howling of stray dogs wasn't enough to drown out his thoughts of Dean. His dark pupils moved across his eyes horizontally, going through the motions in his head again. Though Dean seemed like a fairly nice guy, he couldn't help but notice his underlying cryptic personality. He managed to dodge every inquiry, minus his name. Because of this, he didn't understand a thing about the guy. Sam couldn't help but wonder what he was doing in Lawrence. He had to have been visiting someone… a girlfriend, possibly, which wouldn't surprise him. Not only was he a good fighter, but he was relatively handsome with his four-sided jawline, bright green eyes and full set of lips.

One thing he did know for sure was Lawrence wasn't a place to just stop for a visit and you didn't leave without a fight.

Just as he was about to turn a narrow corner, a set of boney hands gripped him by his shoulders and pressed him against the damp brick wall. His heartbeat increased as the person that was on top of him wasn't a person… but a creature. He could faintly make out the creature's dilated blue eyes and patterned skin in the darkness. The thing stared him down for a long time before opening its mouth and releasing a cosmic blue light.

Suddenly, Sam found he was strangely weak under the thing's power and sank into the wall. Just as the creature began to perform its full action, another figure appeared out of the black and attacked the creature from behind. The thing went down with a loud blow after being shot down with consecrated rounds of iron, the sound of the large gun echoing across the walls and Sam's ears. He opened his eyes only to find the stranger before him inching closer, yet keeping a safe distance away. "Are you okay?" the man asked, in a low, brusque voice. Sam's eyes enlarged before he could completely comprehend the question. The man sounded vaguely familiar, yet he could commit the words to memory. He remained shaky from the occurrence. "Kid, are you okay?" he repeated, inching even closer until he stood under the shadow smoldering his face disappeared. It was then he realized the man was no stranger.

It was Dean's father.

"I—I—"he stuttered, struggling to breathe. His dad didn't help by moving his large fists inside his shirt collar and slamming him against the wall, even harder than the creature had. He stared him down angrily until he could feel his warm breath on his neck.

"I'll deal with you later," he breathed before releasing his grip and trekking in the opposite direction.

He exhaled sharply as he fell to the ground. After tonight, he knew one thing for sure about Dean: he definitely wasn't living the apple pie life.

The midday sun hid behind a mass of misty clouds just before rain began to pour over Lawrence. The sky began to darken as Sam traipsed home. He wanted to forget everything that happened the night before but the pain from the grazes around his small arms and chest, mostly from Dean's father's grimy hands digging into his collarbone, only served as a sharp reminder. He flinched as he gripped his backpack tighter. He managed to smother the abrasions from his family, knowing his brothers would not only probe him but tease him as well. Socs were raised to fight anyone or anything that stepped in their way. He would fail them. That was the last thing he needed. In six years, he would be off to Stanford and he wouldn't have to deal with anyone's crap.

Just as he approached the abandoned road leading him home, a low voice called him from behind. Knowing well enough who it was, he picked up his pace until the yelling grew even louder and he began to run. The figure eventually caught up with him and gripped firmly him by the shoulders. "Sammy, hey, where are you going?"

Sam avoided any real eye contact. "Don't call me Sammy," he muttered angrily.

"That's your name, isn't it?" Dean said rhetorically. Dean stood a good foot taller than him which made it hard for him to look in the opposite direction. "Hey, look at me."

"What, are you just going to beat me up too?" Sam replied through welling eyes. He bared the red nail marks underneath his shirt.

Dean removed his hands, his mouth agape. "What happened?"

Sam scoffed. "As if you don't know," he spat, a large lump forming in his throat, "your dad, that's what happened."

Dean's expression remained the same until the corners of his mouth met again and frowned slightly as he came to a realization: the Colt. "Look, I know you didn't take it, my dad can get irrational sometimes—"

Sam cut him off by handing him the silver gun out of his coat pocket. Dean couldn't make out any words now. Sam answered for him. "One of the guys pickpocketed it the night you got jumped."

"Sam," he began sadly, "I'm so sorry—"

"Save the pity party, Dean," he interrupted bitterly, "I get enough of it from my family as it is." Sam managed to push his way passed Dean and trudge silently.

"You don't have to take that."

Sam stopped in his tracks, unsure of the comment. "What?"

"You don't have to take your family's crap," Dean said, advancing to Sam once more, "you're a smart kid, not to mention a good fighter. You deserve a hell of a lot more than table scraps."

He knew he caught Sam's attention now as he turned around and inspected the teen before him carefully. He lied even though he knew exactly what he meant. "What are you saying?"

"I guess I'm saying you belong with us," Dean finished, looking at him through long lashes.

"What?" he repeated, unsure if his ears were askew.

Dean sighed, wrapping his coat tighter around his body. "You were right, okay? I'll admit you were right; you're not like the others. I mean, the way you handled those guys twice your age, that kind of stamina took me years to master. My dad raised me to be a skilled fighter. We know one when we see it." When Sam remained silent, Dean continued, "I'm offering you a chance to prove yourself worthy; hunt with us."

Sam contemplated the speech. He knew Dean was right; he was destined for more than he was bargained for, but was it worth leaving behind his so called "friends" and life in Lawrence. He hardly knew anything about Dean, although, he's treated him with more respect than his family ever has. He didn't give a straight-forward answer. "If I come with you, I would be using my skills for good, right?" Dean nodded.

"Your dad hates me."

"He's just over-protective," he corrected.

Sam cracked a small smile before placing out his hand. This time, Dean returned the action by shaking it and wrapping him in a brief embrace. "I'll keep you safe now, you hear?" he whispered as they walked down the road together again.

The only thing on his mind that day was Dean Winchester and a ride home.