Hey guys! This is my first Supernatural fan fiction so I really hope you enjoy it and I would really appreciate any feedback or comments! (just not mean ones of course) (:

"Hang in there Sammy, we'll get you all stitched up back at the bunker." Said Dean, his piercing green eyes darting from the road to his brother, whose arm had been badly sliced into during a run-in with a Wraith.

"Dean I'm fine! I'm pretty sure we've had worse, I mean I have literally been possessed by the devil." Sam sneered, shaking his thick, lustrous hair out of his eyes as he secured a rag around his arm to stop the bleeding.

"Yeah, well you're just lucky he didn't slice your arm off." Dean muttered, jamming an old Metallica cassette into the slot and turning it up full volume.

"Dude, this song again?" said Sam, a smirk playing across his lips.

"Sammy, you're gonna listen to it, and you're gonna like it."

They pulled up outside the bunker just as the last song finished, and it was times like these when Dean looked over at his little brother and felt entirely content, because it was just like the good ol' days before the apocalypse, before Leviathans, before Gadreel. When it was all about the family business.

As Dean collapsed, exhausted, onto his bed, the far too loud for three in the morning sound of his ringtone dragged him back to consciousness.

"Yeah..." he slurred, his voice heavy with sleep.

"Dean?" came a low voice. "Dean it's me… its, its Kat."

Kat was a hunter that Dean had hunted with almost a year ago; she'd been a friend of Jo's and Dean had had a bit of a thing for her, but knew that it would never last.

That's when Dean was completely jerked awake. "Kat? What's going on is everything alright?"

"You gotta help me Dean, I don't have long-" Her voice was beginning to sound thick, as though she was slipping in and out of consciousness.

"Just tell me where you are Kat" he almost shouted with urgency.

"You know where my house is, you gotta come quick Dean, you're the only one"

"Just stay alive, I'm on my way."

Dean had barely pulled on his shoes when he raced out of the bunker and slid into the driver's seat of the Impala, which roared to life and screeched at every turn as he drove hard and fast down the silent, deserted road, which shimmered with rain in the moonlight.

It was at least an hour before he ground to a halt outside a seemingly normal suburban house. He pulled his revolver from his back pocket as he climbed out of the Impala and stealthily crept up the stairs of the front porch until he reached the front door, which was half open. The carpeted floor was smeared with blood as though a body had been dragged along it. The hall was dark and quiet, but a warm light shone out of a room to the left, where the bloody trail led.

In the corner of the room lay a young woman, her black hair caked with blood and dirt, her chest partially ripped open, books and paper lay scattered around her, as though they had been pulled down by her struggle to drag herself in.

"Kat," Dean cried, lowering his gun as he hurried to crouch at her side "Damn you Kat, what happened to you."

She looked up, her shocking grey eyes bloodshot and puffy, her pale face stained with tears and eyeliner. "Dean," she breathed, her eyes suddenly widening as she looks up into Deans face urgently. "It's okay; it was bound to happen eventually."

"No, Kat we gotta get help, c'mon." He says, as he gets up, searching for a rag, a bit of fabric, anything.

"Dean – no. I need you to take her" Said Kat, her breath slowing, her sight blurring as tears rolled down her cheeks. "Your daughter"

Dean turned, his mind spinning. This couldn't be true – how could he have a daughter, how could this be happening.

"Kat – no," he began, but she was motionless, her shredded chest no longer moving. "Damn it." He yelled as he lowered himself to scoop Kat into his arms, a single tear rolled down his cheek and onto her cold, soft skin.

That's when he heard the crying. Dean slowly lay down Kats body, moving a strand of hair away from her face carefully before slowly rising to his feet, replacing his gun to his back pocket. The crying seemed to be coming from upstairs. Little by little, Dean climbed the stairs, his heart pounding and his head still spinning, a numb desperation rising from the pit of his stomach until he was almost completely engulfed by it as he stumbled into a small, well lit room. The walls were painted a soft pink, and the floor was scattered with soft toys and cushions. At the back wall of the room, stood a crib, a mobile suspended over it played an eerie melody, which was almost drowned by the desperate cries of a child.

When Dean peeked into the crib, it felt as though his heart had collapsed. She was so small, her face wrinkled as she cried but he could tell that she looked like her mother. Tears rolled from his eyes as he picked her up and held her in his strong arms. "Hey there," he said, his voice shaky, "Looks like you're comin' with me." At the sound of his voice she stopped crying, and she looked up at him with watery, piercingly green eyes.