A young Sam and Dean heard a disturbance under the patio. "What was that?" Sam's voice echoed through the room. "Shut up. Get the salt. I'll check it out." commanded older brother Dean. A shriek was heard and a young Dean became wide-eyed. "Wendigo?" whispered Dean to himself. A fearful and defiant Sam called out, "Dad isn't picking up, as usual." "Sam, you're not helping."
The boys went out to the deck, armed with self-built rocksalt shotguns. Fiery red eyes looked back up at them between the cracks in the two by fours. At the open door, Dean stopped to take a breath, with confidence and self-control. Sam, fierce with trepidation, was in tow.
They had often heard about hunting trips from their father, but were never allowed to go. Dean was instructed to stay home and watch Sam. He was used to the parental role; their father was never home. Now was the time to prove himself.
"Stay back," Dean instructed as he tiptoed towards the patio. He tried to remember how his father described demon hunting. He imagined how proud his father would be that he not only protected his brother, but slayed his first demon.
As he approached the patio, he noticed a long bushy tail poking out. He cocked his shotgun. "I got you now." Suddenly, there was a loud squeak and the scratching of paws on the cement. "What was that?"
Sam, standing at the door, burst out in laughter. "Yeah, you're tough. Couldn't even get that big bad raccoon."
"No, but I'll get you!" yelled Dean as he chased his brother up the stairs.