The beginning of John and Sam's falling out. Sam's first hunt. Lots of warm childhood memories for our boys. My first story, first chapter, please read and review.

Many thanks to Kripke and company for thinking up this wonderful universe, and letting us in.

Love to Noodles for the proofreading.

Midnight.

The small town slept fitfully under a hazy blanket of late July heat, its once green parks and trees dry and shriveled. Its streets were empty, deserted, with shadows that moved uneasily in the corner of the eye. The air hummed with heat and tension, broken occasionally by the far-off bark of a dog. Flyers stapled to telephone poles and taped to storefront window were curled with heat, their desperate words unheeded. The sound of a siren cycled lazily up through the night, far away and unimportant.

Movement. The steady hum of an engine. Blackness drifting through blackness. An old time Chevy Impala moved gracefully through the streets, its headlights cutting through the darkness, throwing the town's suffering into sharp relief. Empty parks, dead trees, littered sidewalks.

Three passengers inside, the father driving, his eyes weary, his face exhausted. In the shotgun seat his oldest son slept, bruises vivid against his face, tape over his nose, one arm curled around his chest. In the backseat his youngest son peered out into the darkness through a thatch of hair, watching the faded streets go by. The Impala passed a telephone pole patched with yellow and white flyers.

"Another one." said Sam in the backseat, trying to puzzle out the words on the flyer. All that could be seen as the grainy picture of child, smiling into the blackness.

"Yes." answered his father, John, his glance flicking from the pole and back to the rearview mirror at his son's reflection.

They were quiet as John guided the Impala slowly through the town, peering at the darkened houses, trying to find the address written on the torn piece of newspaper in his hand. He cursed suddenly, his foot hard on the brake as a pack of five or six dogs abruptly appeared in the street in front of him. Parent's instinct made him throw out an arm to stop his son's forward motion in the seat next to him, and Dean, the oldest, grunted as he was jostled against his father's arm. John was sure he was going to hit the pack, but somehow the dogs melted around the Impala's form as it nosed through them, and disappeared into the shadows at the street's edge. "For God's sake," John said wonderingly, as he looked around trying to find the pack.

"Where'd they go?" Sam again, rolling down the back window of the Impala and sticking his head out into the heavy night air. There was an odd smell, a mixture of musk and sage and cut grass. Sam sniffed at it, puzzled.

"What happened?" Dean said, carefully rubbing his face around the bruises, trying to wake up from a smothering sleep. His words were slurred, his movements cautious as he shifted to find a more comfortable spot. Hints of white bandages appeared at the neck of his t-shirt, at the small of his back where his t-shirt had pulled away from his body.

"Nothing," his father said, glancing at his son's drawn face. "Just a bunch of dogs." He shifted, found the gas, the Impala moved forward. "Roll the window up, Sam."

"Yes, sir," came the quick response, but the window went up slowly. Sam twisted to look out the rear window as the Impala moved away. In the shadows, he thought he saw someone standing, its form curved like a woman's, and at her feet was the shine of a dog's eyes. Sam felt the form meet his gaze, and the 15 year old slowly slid down the seat until she was hidden from his line of sight. He shivered, and the Impala turned the corner.

The landlord had left the porch light on in a gesture of kindness, its dim light all but crushed under the heaviness of the night air. The house was small and shabby, crouched at the end of the street with a lawn seared from the heat. The small family in the Impala viewed it with growing dismay, but their need for shelter had been strong, forcing them to take the first thing offered.

John sighed, and turned off the Impala. "Sam, here's the house key. Go unlock the door, and find a place for Dean. I'll bring him up."

"Dad, I'm fine, I can walk..." Dean's voice was less slurred, more alert, but John silenced his oldest with a look, noting the pale face and smudged eyes.

He turned back to Sam, handing him the key. "Go on."

Sam paused briefly, his gaze flicking between the two men in the front seat. John met his gaze, one eyebrow beginning to rise in annoyance; Dean did not look up. Quickly, Sam opened the door and slid out, the Impala creaking behind him, and ran up to the house. The porch steps groaned under his weight, and Sam nearly fell when the porch railing he grabbed for balance shifted suddenly under his hand. He fumbled with the key, trying to find the lock. Behind him he heard his father's low voice, speaking to Dean and a hiss of pain from his brother as he was brought to a standing position. He found the lock, inserted the key – and the door opened under his hand before he could engage the tumblers.

Sam paused, peering into the weighty darkness inside the house. A silver glint here and there, as metallic surfaces caught the wan light from the open door, but it was too dark to pick out anything more. The house smelled musty and old, with the scent of too many cabbage dinners ingrained in the carpet. Another smell, something sharper – sage.

Sam glanced behind him to check his father's progress. Father and son had paused at the end of the driveway, Dean leaning against his father's shoulder. Sam's heart gave a funny little thud, seeing his brother depending on something other that his own competence and his request that John enter the house with him went unsaid. Sam turned back to the doorway, took a deep breath, and slipped into the blackness.

He fumbled alongside the doorjamb, hoping for a light switch, and finding nothing, ventured further into the main room. The heat in the house was almost a physical weight on his chest, his lungs working to breathe the heavy air. He was now well into the middle of the front room, one shin having found a couch, and his eyesight had adjusted enough to make out the dimensions of the house. Off to his right was the entryway to what he presumed was a kitchen, next to a table and chairs. A hallway in front of him led back to the rest of the house, and as he stepped toward it, a shadow moved.

Sam froze, staring at the small flicker of movement. The shadow moved again, and the light from the doorway highlighted the curve of a dog's head, and the shine from its eyes. A low rumble, barely perceptible, filtered into the room. Growling. Sam stepped back, towards the door, wanting his father. "Dad?" he said it quietly, but the dog reacted violently, erupting into a spasm of hacking barks, jumping towards Sam and back, forward and back.

Abruptly, light filled the room, robbing Sam of his night vision, and he stumbled over a corner of the couch and fell. Blinking, Sam looked at the door, and caught a flash of John Winchester standing just inside the doorway, holding a length of wood and advancing on the dog. Dean was standing behind him, clutching the doorjamb, one hand still on the light switch he had found. For a moment the dog quieted, regarding the man in front of him, and Sam slowly drew his legs up to stand. The movement caught the dog's attention, and without warning it lunged towards him, teeth bared, and Sam threw up his arm in defense, closing his eyes.

There was a sharp whap of wood hitting flesh, an anguished yelp, and the dog's body rolled into Sam. The two tangled together, the dog's claws raking Sam's chest, the dog's breath in his face. Sam had a blurred impression of John's form above him, and abruptly the dog was gone as it finally untangled itself from Sam and ran out the door.

There was a beat of silence, the only sound John and Sam's gasps for breath, and then the night shattered into a cacophony of barking, snarling, growling. The sound was intense, causing Sam to clap his hands to his ears, surrounding the house. Flickering, darting shadows moved at the windows, behind Dean in the doorway, under the dead trees at the edge of the property. The sound spiraled up and up, leading towards some violent climax, and abruptly there was silence again. The cessation of sound was as unnerving as the barking had been, and the three Winchesters looked at each in bewilderment.

"What the hell?" John slowly lowered the length of wood he held, and Sam saw, with a small touch of humor, that it was a piece of the porch railing. A jagged nail at one end held a clump of hair and skin from the dog.

Dean, not liking his back against the darkness, took a step into the house, and gasped with the corresponding stab of pain. At the same moment, Sam got to his feet, pulling his shirt up with a gasp as the cloth pulled away from the scratches on his chest.

And John, torn between his sons, realized he had stumbled into a hunt. He was still for a moment, caught by the irony; looking for a refuge for his sons and, for once in his life since Mary had died, trying to avoid a hunt, had brought him to a shit house in the middle of a shit town with the shittiest weather he had ever experienced. And what the hell was with the dogs?

The thought brought a corner of his mouth up in a suppressed grin, and he moved to Dean, gently guiding him to the worn couch and catching Sam with one arm when the younger son came into his reach. He settled both sons on the couch, putting a pillow behind Dean, touching his forehead briefly with one hand. He helped Sam remove the torn remnants of his shirt, and after examining the wounds, went to the kitchen to wet a paper towel.

"What's with the dogs?" Sam asked, wincing as his father held the dripping paper towel to the red scratches on his chest.

"Don't know." John glanced up at Sam's face, faintly surprised at his son echoing his thoughts. He shook his head, and glanced over at Dean. His oldest son was slouched over the arm of the couch, a tiny line of pain marring his forehead from the awkward position. "Here," he said, thrusting the soggy paper towel in Sam's hand. "Throw this away and bring me Dean's pain killers."

Sam stood, but did not move away, unconsciously fidgeting with the paper towel in his hand. "Dad, " he began, "did you see…"

Dean moved then, pushing himself off the couch arm, and groaning softly. John was next to him instantly, soothing his oldest son, gently helping him find a better position. "Go, Sam." Sam moved quickly in response to the thunder in his father's voice, and the question was left hanging in the hot air.

The next hour was a blur of exhaustion for the whole family. John and Sam bringing in worn duffels, unpacking their meager possessions, and securing the small arsenal in the Impala's trunk. Doping Dean, which was always a treat, as the older son, fretful with pain and enforced uselessness, fought them with every bit of his worn will. By the time they had Dean situated in bed, the whole family was puffing with exertion and frustration.

Quiet now, the eastern edge of the sky turning grey with the promise of day, and John finally allowed himself to sit. The kitchen table was covered in items from the first aid kit, three or four of Sam's many notebooks, and a half-empty fifth of Jim Beam's. John gazed at the mess thoughtfully, too tired to care much about it, and when his younger son slipped into the seat across from, turned his gaze to Sam's tired face.

For a moment the two regarded each other, exhaustion and the weirdness of the day turning them into allies. "Thanks for your help, tonight, Sam." John said finally.

John's words caused Sam to duck his head, and he grabbed nervously for a nearby notebook. "I'm sorry," he blurted, not looking at his father, fidgeting with the notebook's wire coil. Something in his tone brought John's guard up, instantly.

"What for?"

"For calling the ambulance." He looked at John from underneath shaggy bangs, then back down at the notebook he was mangling.

John stood, his chair sliding back across the worn linoleum with an ugly sound. A touch of the old anger heated his face, and he could no longer look at his son. He opened his mouth, closed it, and swallowed. "Go to bed, Sam."

And he turned away, catching up the fifth of Jim Beam on the table, and did not look back.

TBC