Well well well, I'm back. After getting so many good reviews on my first story, I figured I might as well publish another one. I had created a list of ideas I had for more Supernatural Shorts, but this one has been growing inside my brain for almost as long as The Cage. I've just now decided to start writing it to the public. This is the only chapter I have written so far, but don't worry, I'm planning for more. I've imagined it being a Medium length story, but may go on as a Long one if you all like it that much. Please let me know what you think about this first chapter, and if I should continue on. It's my pleasure to say yet again, Happy Reading! :)


Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of the characters. The only things I own are the errors. ;)


How long do people sleep?

Well, more specifically, how long do Winchesters sleep? Far too many years have gone by for him to remember such trivial facts, but he believed it wouldn't have been this long. At least one of the three Winchesters would surely get plagued with nightmares and decide to rise out of bed within the hour.

Looking across the room to the dirty clock hanging on the wall, he read the hands to be 5:23, meaning his statuesque form had been waiting for over 3 hours.

He readjusted his black overcoat so that the flaps overlapped slightly, concealing his black undershirt. He tilted his head slightly so that it was straight forward, staring at the staircase of this weather-worn, abandoned, two-story house the three unconscious occupants had managed to settle down in for the past month.

Most of the furniture was barely functional, all reeked into their very being the smell of old rainwater and dust that only objects with "experience" could acquire, if he was putting it lightly. The moth-ridden couch he chose to sit on was up against the far wall, to the right of the front door if one was entering the structure. A small recliner with the same faded mustard color as the couch sat diagonally to the right of the couch, and beyond that a small, round table with three wooden chairs surrounding it.

An empty bowl with what he assumed to be sauce traced the insides, so this ancient tabletop appeared to be the house's dining table. A few counters with the same grey wood as the dining table and chair lined the wall beyond it, adjacent to a fridge and a kitchen sink that made more noise than a banshee as it tried to swallow down the remnants of whatever food was washed down previously.

A pair of beaten blinds that inhabited mysterious brown stains on them hung in front of a couple of windows that had been placed directly across from the front door. One lamp sat on an end table by the recliner, the old 40 watt bulb blinking every few minutes like a person who begins to dose off but snaps up and awake right before they face plant into deep sleep.

With the light being so dim, the room is poorly lit and creates a dark night shadow over the entire couch he's sitting in. His feet, taking home in a pair of black combat boots laced up beyond the overhang of the black jeans he wears, are the only part of him the human eye could begin to see, the rest hiding in the shadows.

Anyone else would have gone mad at this point, simply risen from their perch and waltzed into one of the bedrooms to awaken the hunters so that they could retreat to somewhere else and carry on with their business. But this is was his job, his duty, and after going so long by rushing things, he found it what he imagined was comfort in the sleeping house.

He would not make the first move. He would not take control. He would simply be. And then he simply wouldn't.


Before long, he heard the rustling of bed sheets and the sound of feet falling rather hard on the wood floor paneling above.

One of the sons then, he thought to himself.

John had taken the bedroom next to the kitchen, leaving the two bed bedroom upstairs to Dean and Sam. His eyes darted across the ceiling, mapping out the boy's destination until the sound became clearer, meaning his steps were now on the same floor he was on.

After climbing down the stairs the boy stood for a moment, stretching his arms above his head and then letting them fall limply at his sides. His right hand scratched the skin peeking just above his sweat pants, showing because his shirt had rolled up sometime during the night as he tossed and turned during sleep. A yawn escaped the mouth, and then the footsteps continued until they noticed the unknown feet protruding from the darkness.

A shout escaped the mouth that had up until then looked calm, peaceful, but now looked grim and preparing to shout out more words to the man on the couch. The mouth asked him who he was as he moved across the kitchen to grab a knife from the drawer, and he noticed that during that entire process the boy made sure to never stray his eyes or turn his back to the figure.

The sharp words had apparently pierced through sleep of the other two, the second boy taking the steps two at a time and the father bursting out of his room with a gun filled undoubtedly with rock salt. The father stepped in front of his two boys like a mother bear protecting her cubs, although the first to wake and discover his presence was looking beyond his shoulder.

Now was the time for unnecessary pleasantries he assumed, as he brushed his hands together like one who had accumulated some sort of dust or dirt on them that friction could remove. He cleared his throat; it had been some time since he had to use his voice and he would rather not have it sound weak from under-usage when a simple cough could restore its booming natural vibrato.

He now stood, his back immediately missing the reassurance the couch back provided. The light now showed him from the breast down, still concealing his face.

The one in sweat pants asked him again who he was, slight undertones of worry and agitation in his voice.

He took two steps out from the shadows, revealing his face to the three Winchesters.

"Don't you recognize me, Dean?" he asked, but the three still held their faces with confusion, still tense from lacking understanding.

I suppose the age difference is rather great, but I thought they would at least notice some similarities.

John barked at him, "Who are you and where did you come from?"

He nodded his head forward slightly, his eyes passing over the three sets of two that were concentrated solely upon him.

Answering with his newly refreshed voice, he flatly stated: "My name is Sam Winchester, and I'm from the year 2018."


I hope you all enjoyed reading this! Be sure to leave a Review telling me what you thought about this first chapter, a Follow, and a Favorite if you like where the story is going so far. Don't hold back, I love the feedback. It may be what makes or breaks the start off to this story. ;)