AN: Will is Jo Harvelle's son (named after his grandfather, Bill), and the story mostly follows him in order to keep an element of mystery about what's going on, although eventually it becomes clear that the entire plot does revolve around Sam and Dean. This story takes place in the not-so-distant future, and it should seem a little floaty and detached for reasons that will later be revealed...although the chapters might be in need of a little editing so it won't seem quite so floaty and detached;-)

Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy the story!

Disclaimer: I really like the Supernatural disclaimers that say something like...if I owned Sam and Dean, there's no way in hell I'd have the time to do something as lame as write fanfiction about them.

"What're you, Chicken?" Elliot challenged.

Will's features hardened, but otherwise he didn't move. His hard brown eyes scanned the property beyond the fence he leaned on, searching for any sign of something out of the ordinary. His mother had taught him a little about spirits, but he'd never seen one. He knew salt would keep him safe, and when Elliot had come up with this stupid dare, Will had made sure to swipe plenty of salt packets from the cafeteria during lunch that afternoon.

He looked down at the damp packets held tight in his palm, then began to open them one by one, dumping them into his hand and discarding the packaging.

"Fifty bucks when I come back. You better have it ready," Will informed the much larger boy in passing. He paused just before pushing open the old gate in the fence, glancing back over his shoulder. "If you don't have it, I'll kill you and take it anyway."

"Ooo," Ray Tate taunted. "Willy Harvelle's gotta kill you, E. You think he's packing a blade again? Or is he going to bitch-slap you to death?"

Will decided to ignore that last comment, even though he despised being called 'Willy' with his entire being. Instead of turning around and breaking Ray's face, he left the two boys behind, pushing open the gate and stepping through, feeling the cold, stiff breeze that kicked up the second he entered the yard. His hand squeezed tighter around the grainy lump of salt he held, making sure not to lose even a little of it.

Will had a bad feeling he might need it.

A few measured steps brought him to a window at the side of the house, and he pulled out his knife and unfolded it. In spite of his suspension from school just three days before, he hadn't ceased carrying the weapon. He just hid it better. He used the blade to turn the lock on the window until he could push it up and crawl inside.

The house was ancient. People said it'd been haunted for years, but no one could ever prove it. No one had even died there—or near there. Will's mother had said it was probably just an old house that needed to get knocked down.

The only reason it still stood was because the owners had come upon it through inheritance, and instead of selling the lot, or leveling the house, they tried to rent it out. They had to lease by the month because no one ever stayed there long.

Will lived down the street, across from Elliot. He'd seen over a dozen neighbors come and go through that house. Not even college students would stay there long. The previous summer a bunch of boys on the block had been out playing war games in the middle of the night, and the middle-aged man who'd lived in the old house at the time had come out and yelled at them, taking Elliot's air soft pistol and never returning it.

Elliot was stupid enough to think the guy might've left the gun there when he moved out. A new renter had moved in months before, and odds were better than good the air pistol was history. Will had agreed to go in and find E's gun in exchange for money, but he had his own motives for wanting to break into the house.

Will wanted to see a ghost.

His limbs had stretched out a great deal over the previous summer. He still couldn't top Elliot for height, but his mother assured him he would one day. Will didn't care so long as he didn't become one of the awkward, stumbling masses many of the boys in his class had grown into over the past two years. So far his training had kept him coordinated, and lithe. When he slipped through the window and into the house, he had the strength and balance to ensure he didn't brush any surface he didn't mean to, didn't make the slightest noise.

Will dug his flashlight out of the pocket of his jacket and flipped it on, keeping his salt ready.

It was a dank, foggy day in October, and he was standing in a possibly haunted house.

Time to get to work.

He flashed his light around the small mud room he'd entered, quickly deciding he wouldn't find anything of interest in there. Some old pairs of muddy boots sat along one wall next to a box of tools that might've been as old as the house itself.

Will moved quietly out of the room, finding himself walking down a dark hall that smelled strongly of mold. Step after step, he went forward, trying to step lightly and avoid creaking boards in the flooring.

By the time he reached the kitchen, he could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, in spite of telling himself not to be afraid.

There were dirty dishes everywhere. Newspaper too. Most of it old, and none of it recent. A heavy-duty knife rack hung on one wall, and Will approached it, his curiosity piqued. There was nothing he loved more than a good knife. His grandmother had taught him the basics of knife fighting at a young age, and he practiced in secret. He'd wanted to buy a balanced blade for years, but he didn't have the money, and he wasn't sure his mother would allow him to have one. She barely put up with his three inch foldable knife, deeming him too impulsive to be trusted with a more dangerous weapon.

Will looked over the rack's contents, and his eyes settled on a simple blade with a black grip. He held his flashlight in his mouth, and, hand shaking, reached out to take it, examining it under his light.

The letter 'S' was engraved on the flat of the blade near the hilt just before the steel curved to its elegant, yet sturdy point.

It was beautiful, and he wanted it, but his mother would want to know where he got it from. He could professionally con anyone else, but his mom could always tell when he was lying.

A whisper behind him caused him to whip around, his eyes searching the darkness. Will felt his heart start to race, and if he hadn't held his flashlight in his mouth, his breathing probably would've come faster too. He could've sworn he'd felt a presence nearby. He thought for sure something had walked past him while his back had been turned.

He put the knife back, taking his flashlight and shining it around, finding himself completely alone.

"Ain't afraid of you," he said under his breath, stepping forward, his eyes flicking back and forth purposefully. "You wanna tango, you show your fucking face and we'll dance," Will informed the presence he suspected was just beyond the edge of his vision, just out of range of his senses.

An icy hand dropped on Will's shoulder and violently turned him. He tried to go with the motion and strike back in kind, but his attacker was too fast, and far too strong. Will felt his feet leave the ground, and lost all the air in his lungs in a loud 'oof' when he came crashing down on the kitchen table.

His flashlight had gone flying, but Will could see the thing hovering over him, holding a knife to his throat to keep him pinned on his back on the tabletop. It was a man. A man who must've died in the prime of his life, because in spite of the scars on his face and forehead, he still appeared young. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and from what Will could see, the man had been freaking ripped at his T.O.D.

Will attempted to struggle, but the blade's edge was sharp. The spirit didn't have to exert pressure to make a shallow cut in the sensitive skin of Will's throat—he just had to keep it tight under Will's jaw while the boy wiggled.

Finally rediscovering his wits, Will threw the salt in the ghost's eyes, praying to God it would make him disappear.

"Fuck!" the ghost growled, shutting its eyes against the onslaught of tiny crystals and turning its head away, never letting its grip falter.

Will laid on his back, perfectly terrified. If salt didn't work on this thing, what the hell was he going to do?

The man turned his attention fully back onto Will, one eye still shut, but the other open and glaring down at him. "What the hell is wrong with you, kid?" it asked, grabbing hold of Will's jacket and roughly brought him to his feet so he stood face-to-face with the spirit, looking up at it. The knife fell away, and suddenly Will found himself free to run, punch, scream...

"You don't know you're dead, do you?" Will opined when he saw the ghost wiping vigorously at its eye, trying to get the salt out.

The man laughed sardonically. "Oh, I'm not dead, you little bastard. I'm tired, and hung over, and since you won't let me pass out in peace, I'm tempted to make you very, very dead. What the fuck are you doing in my house?"

"I came looking for you," Will said, wondering how he could convince the ghost he was telling the truth. "I've seen you haunting the street. You stand on the sidewalk and stare at my bedroom window in the middle of the night every Thursday, and then you walk down here and disappear. It started a few months ago, and I always know when you're out there because it gets really cold in my room. It's gotten kind of creepy, so I decided to check it out."

"Great," the ghost intoned, laying down the knife he held on a near-by counter. "That's just terrific. You think you're a hunter, and you rush in when you have no idea what you're facing. What if I was a werewolf? Or a guy with a thing for little boys? You thought a little salt would save you from someone seriously evil?"

"No," Will replied. "But this might," he said, right before he sent a right hook flying toward the man's face.

Not even his mother could've topped that dude for speed. He blocked Will's punch and grabbed his outstretched arm, swinging him around and letting him go flying into the wall.

Will slid to the floor, coughing and sputtering, his ribs throbbing where he'd slammed into the counter.

The ghost stood over him, shaking its head. "You're going to have to come back when I'm completely wasted if you want to catch me off guard with that busch league bullshit. You're looking for an angry spirit that won't rest? Look somewhere else. Or better yet, go be a kid. Play in the sun, mow your lawn, get a girlfriend. I guarantee if you keep exploring the dark corners of the world it'll get you killed, boy."

The man turned, walking away and leaving Will sitting on the kitchen floor.

"Wait," Will said. "If you're not dead, prove it. Tell me your name so I can look you up."

The man paused, and then turned his head, glancing at Will over his shoulder. "I can't. Reading up on me would give you nightmares, kid. You're too young, and too green. Go home to your mommy," he said dismissively.

Will's face took on its best stubborn look, and his eyes narrowed. He spat the only word he could think of at the stranger's back. "Jerk!" he half-shouted, hoping the force he put behind it wouldn't sound childish.

The man turned, his features a perfect picture of cocky self-assurance. "Bitch," he shot back nonchalantly, perfectly comfortable with sinking down to the immature taunts of teenaged boys.

Will's furrowed his eyebrows in a confused expression, and the ghost smirked upon seeing it, then turned and walked out of the kitchen.

"Bitch."

"What're you calling me a bitch for?"

"You're supposed to say 'jerk.'"

"What?"

"Nevermind."

-Dean, Sam--What Is and What Never Should Be

AN: I decided to put a Supernatural quote at the end of chapters. Let me know your favorites and I'll be sure to include them somewhere down the line:-)