The black Impala halts in the middle of the dirt road. A tall man with a scruffy black beard steps out of it, a grave expression in his eyes. A boy, sixteen or seventeen years old, climbs out, talking. "Dad, you're absolutely sure that leaving Sam with Melissa is a good idea?"
"What's wrong with her?" the older man asks, opening the car's trunk.
"She's a hooker." The younger boy deadpans.
"Son," the man begins, pushing a red lever on the floor of the trunk. "She's got children of her own; she knows how to take care of a fourteen year-old."
"Not what I meant."
"If she tries anything, Sam knows better."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then, it's his fault when he wakes up in the morning in bed with a hooker."
He grunts and the lever finally is eased down, opening a sort of trap-door. He places a short metal rod between the floor of the trunk and the inside of the door, revealing an arsenal of guns, daggers, machetes and other (deadly) weapons.
The younger one eyes the arsenal thoughtfully.
Still looking down at the weapons, the older one puts his hands on the edge of the trunk, pushig his weight on his arms. "Blade or gun?"
"Gun."
"Rifle or pistol?"
"Rifle."
"Rock-salt or Mountain Ash?"
"Rock-salt."
The boy is handed a relatively small rifle, and his father takes a pistol for himself, closing the trunk afterward.
The two promptly run off into the woods.
They're back-to-back now, their guns cocked and ready to fire.
Another whimper, this one a bit softer, is heard, and now they hear it coming from their left.
Naturally, they jump to turn around, and simultaneously decide to creep in that direction.
A hiccup and a rustle of leaves sound out in the silent woods. They stop.
"Dad," says the boy. "That doesn't sound like a werewolf. It sounds-"
"Stop talking."
"But—"
"Listen!"
The boy stops to listen. Another sniffle and whimper.
The father and son, still holding their guns close to their bodies, creep closer to the source of the noises.
A bush stands in their way and they drop to their knees and hide behind it. They look through it.
A small girl that looks about nine years old, wearing tattered and ripped and dirtied clothes, sits on a rock, cleansing a bloody, deep cut on her thigh, tears rolling down her cheeks.
"Dad…" whispers the son. "She's… a little girl. Is- is she… a—"
"Who's there?" a very small but authoritative voice demands. "Where are you? I know you're out there! Show yourself!"
The man stands up, gun still in hand.
"Dad!" whispers the son, disbelievingly. "She's-"
"I know there are two of you. I can feel it."
The younger boy stands up hesitantly, his arms going up as if he were being arrested.
"Now, drop the guns." she orders. She had stopped crying.
Normally, both males wouldn't, probably keep them in hand and make snarky comments, but they felt compelled to do it this time.
Their guns drop in the dirt.
"Who are you? Why were you spying on me?" she demands, her voice angry.
"We're hunters."
"We're looking for the werewolf that's killing everyone in these woods."
They say this simultaneously.
"What are you?" asks the father, curiosity getting the best of him.
The girl fiddles with a strip of fabric that hangs from the sleeve of her dirty (oversized Guns 'N Roses) t-shirt.
"I dunno." She says, looking down at her feet. "He never told me.
"What's your name?"
"He didn't tell me, I told you. He never told me anything about myself."
"Who's he?" the man asks gently, stepping out from behind the bushes. He kneels down in front of her, so he's eye-level with her.
The girl's turquoise eyes water. "The man with the yellow eyes."
The man's eyes harden and he hears his son mutter "Son of a bitch." He ignores it. "How did you get away?"
"I –I broke the chains." She sniffs.
"Did he tell you anything about what he was gonna do with you?" the son asks, walking to kneel next to his father.
She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. "Something about a war… and a… Winchester… would be its front men."
"Which Winchester?" the father and son ask at the same time.
She opens her eyes and her head is still. Her hair covers her face. "Sam. I think. Sam Winchester."
The son's eyes go dark.
The father puts his hand on the girl's shoulder. She flinches.
"C'mon," says the son. "Let's go back to the motel. We'll hunt it tomorrow."
The girl's face falls as they get up and wipe the damp dirt off their legs. She sits back down on the rock and pushes a few strands of her dirty hair behind her ear, proceeding to finish tending to her wound.
The younger boy turns around on his heel and walks back to her. She isn't aware of what he would do until he picks her up and throws her over his shoulder.
"What are you doing?" the girl asks, he voice worried and surprised.
The older boy chuckles. "You didn't think we'd just leave you here, did you?"
And that is the first time Cassandra Mary Winchester first met her father and brother.