The night was cool and the Mojave Moon hung still in the sky, large and foreboding, leaning in close and watching over the small camp of traders taking shelter from the wasteland. On the ground, Sam Winchester sat cross-legged, gazing up at the sky, with the comforting weight of his hunting rifle laid across his lap, but nothing could rid him of the sense that something was wrong. A feeling, almost like...
being watched.
Sam scrutinized the sky for a while longer, but even he couldn't see through the moon's placid, pale white poker-face, despite all his skill at playing cards and gambling which had gotten him and his father enough money to eat off of and have access to the higher quality trading goods that most merchants could only dream of. He didn't mind being on watch, he preferred it to lying helpless on the cold, hard ground pretending to get sleep, whilst his father or their hired mercenary watched over him.
The trio had tried their best to cover their tracks, they lit no fires, left no traces of where they had been or where they were headed next, but in spite of all their precautions, that night, the Vipers found them.
The night drew on and Sam sat, alert and ready, with his back to the camp on the small cliffside, the night silent except for the sound of the nearby river over the cliff edge. In fact, Sam noticed, it was too quiet. Eerily so. Small hairs stood up on the back of his neck, and a cold dread filled his body.
Slowly, he turned to look behind him, tightening his grip on his gun, breath quickening. A loud coyote howl made him jolt, and he jumped to his feet, rifle in hand. Sam circled around frantically, but there was nothing. Sam walked over to his pack Brahmin, where all his goods lay untouched beside the sleeping animal, resting from a hard days travelling.
Sam walked to the edge of the cliff and cast a careful eye over the land, the moonlight bounced off of the river and the ground below. All was peaceful. Another coyote howl, closer this time, and Sam turned around to see a darkly clothed figure poised with a knife over his father, ready to strike. Sam raised his gun in an instant, but as he prepared to shout a warning, a sharp pain, white and hot jammed into his back and the noise died in his throat. He stayed conscious long enough to see his sleeping father stabbed in the dark, and to experience the slow tumbling feeling as his frozen body was pushed over the edge of the cliff, and hurtled into the water below.