Chapter 1

John

John Winchester wiped sweat off his brow. He had had a long day. John had spent his morning talking to the locals of Hopedale, Illinois investigating the death of three teenagers. They'd all died in an apparently haunted eighteenth-century home, each of them with foam coming out of their mouth, their eyes jaundice, blood coming off of their blue lips. Autopsy had ruled out any type of overdose or toxic substances in their systems. It was like they had literally just dropped dead.

But they didn't just drop dead. After a couple hours talking with the locals, he was finally led to a man by the name of Benjamin Hawkings. He was a well-known historian of the town and spent much of his life studying what the town called the "Yates Estate Haunting". Legend had it that the woman who owned the house, Amelia Welsch, had died mysteriously of the same symptoms, but the police could never pin it as a murder, so the case was dismissed. Benjamin told John that ever since, the place was known to be haunted and anyone who stepped foot in the house was dancing with death. Benjamin said some lived to tell the tale, while others died just the same. After the first deaths, the police blocked off the house, stating there was a biohazard in the home that was lethal even though investigators could never pin point it. But Benjamin and John both knew better. Benjamin said he could never figure out the pattern, but that was for John to find out.

After speaking with Benjamin, John waited until the moon had risen before heading to investigate the estate himself. With him, he carried his Browning shotgun and his .22 pistol, both loaded with rock-salt. He carried his lighter and more Kosher salt in his cargo pockets, along with an EMF Ellen Harvelle had loaned him a few years back. He also carried a magazine of silver bullets in his pockets, just in case it wasn't just a vengeful spirit. Could never be too careful.

The spirit had showed herself to John before John had even cleared the first floor. His EMF started going wild and he turned to see a woman, her face looking the same as the teenagers. She roared in an outrage at him and reached for him, but John was faster and blasted her with a round of rock salt. She vanished into thin air and then John had started running. He knew he didn't have much time before the poison hit him. He ran and ran and ran until he found what he believed to be her bedroom.

John started tearing the room to shreds, looking for anything that could be keeping her here. The estate had been renovated not long after her death, and all her old furniture and belongings had been removed. She didn't even have surviving family, which made it a way harder job for John to find what was keeping her here. The room was empty, save for an old bed frame and vanity, neither of which had anything in them.

Amelia had showed up again then, but this time John had been too slow. She sent John flying into the wall with just a flick of her hand, which just happened to be John's lucky break. He broke through the walls with ease, his shotgun flying out of his hand. He had closed his eyes during the impact and when he opened them, he found that he was in a secret room, belonging to none other than the ghost herself. She tried to attack John once again, but this time John sent a round from his pistol into her chest.

While she disappeared again, John began searching for anything that could be important enough to her to keep her spirit here. He was starting to think he was never going to find anything until he removed a painted portrait of Amelia and found an old wooden box hidden behind it. He opened it and found a locket, containing what seemed to be a picture of her and a former lover.

John had finally hit the jackpot, but as he turned to salt and burn it, the woman was in front of him. She reached out and wrapped her hands around his throat as John gripped the locket as tightly as he could. John would never forget the pain he felt. His throat burned, and his eyes were on fire. He felt as if he was suffocating and burning alive at the same time. He could feel his face starting to swell, his head felt like it was going to explode. John was starting to lose his vision and could literally feel his heart rate starting to slow as death began to take over.

But John thought of his boys waiting back at the motel in Missouri for him, and that gave him the strength he needed to reach the salt in his pocket. He flicked his wrist holding the canister as hard as he could causing the salt to fly out and hit Amelia. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough to get her to vanish for just a moment. But that moment was all John needed. She reappeared before him, but it was too late for her. John salted and burned the locket and watched her burn and disappear into nothingness. Just as quickly as she had vanished, John felt the burning sensation and the swelling leaving his body. He felt perfectly normal. He'd done it. He had nearly lost his life, but John saved another town from more irreversible heart-break.

And now John wiped the sweat off his brow as he sat in his beloved 67' Chevy Impala, chugging a bottle of ice-cold water as he sat just a few blocks away from the estate. He didn't often do hunts in a day, but he was anxious to get back to his boys. Sam's seventeenth birthday was in just a couple days and John wanted to do something special for him, give him a weekend to do whatever he wanted, like a normal family. He and Sammy's relationship was starting to get rocky, enough to the point that he was afraid Sam hated him sometimes. Of course, John wouldn't blame him if he did; John had been a terrible father to the both of them and he deserved every ounce of hatred he got. But that didn't mean he wanted it. He loved his boys more than anything on this earth and everything he did was to protect them, but somewhere along the line John had begun treating the both of them as soldiers and not his sons, something he swore he'd never do.

As John thought of his boys, he heard his phone ring from his glovebox. John grabbed it, and when he looked at the caller ID his heart sank and his stomach began to churn. It was Dean. Dean never called, and he especially never called at two in the morning. John almost didn't want to answer, afraid of what his son was going to tell him, or afraid that it wasn't even Dean on the other line, but someone or something that had taken them.

"Dean?" John answered apprehensively.

"Dad, hey, sorry to bother you," Dean's voice said through the other line. John could hear the apprehensiveness in Dean's voice and could tell Dean was struggling to remain composed by the way his breath shook.

"What's going on Dean?" John asked. He didn't realize he was gripping the edge of his seat until his fingers started cramping. He was trying to keep himself calm, but part of him wanted to scream at Dean to just tell him. He had to know his boys were okay.

"It's Sam, Dad," Dean answered. "Something's wrong with him."

For a moment, John said nothing. He tried to process what that could mean. What could be wrong with Sam? He was fine when he left him. Was he sick? Dean wouldn't call him if Sam was just sick. He'd played doctor for Sam more than John ever had. Why was Dean's voice so sad? He sounded broken.

"Something like what Dean?" John finally responded. "What happened to your brother?" John knew his voice sounded accusing, like he was blaming Dean and he felt horrible for it; he always put so much pressure on Dean.

"I-I don't know Dad. He-he came home from his friend Justin's

and sat on the bed and hasn't said a word. I tried talking to him, but just nothing. He won't eat. Dad, he's hardly even moving," Dean stuttered. Dean never stuttered. He was always calm and confident. Dean was shaken to the core by whatever it was that was wrong with Sam, and that scared the life out of John.

"He hasn't said a word to you?"

"No," Dean answered. "Not a freakin' word. Every time I say something to him, he just continues to stare down at the damn floor. Sometimes he looks at me, and he looks angry, Dad. Like furious."

"Well, did you piss him off?" John asked. If Dean was scaring the life out of John just for some fight those two were having, he was going to kill him.

"I don't know, but if I did you and I both know this isn't how Sam would react," Dean said. "Sammy wouldn't act like that. He just seems…cold. It's like I'm staring at a stranger, Dad. He's Sam, but he's not my brother."

Dean's words set off alarm bells in John's head. He's Sam, but he's not my brother. John had spent the last seventeen years of his life hunting the thing that killed his wife, his Mary. He'd only recently found out that Sam could possibly be connected to it. Each death similar to his wife had kids involved, each around Sammy's age of six months at the time. He read articles on them and researched them for hours, but so far, he had had no luck finding anything out about those kids other than they had all suffered dramatic loss when they were an infant. It scared the hell out of John thinking that Sam could be wrapped up in this somehow, but he just couldn't figure out why or how. It killed John; it was nearly all he thought about.

"Dad, are you there?"

John was so lost in thought he hadn't realized he'd been quiet for more than a moment. "Yeah, I'm here," he told his son. "Where are you right now, Dean?"

"I'm outside of the motel room in the parking lot. Sam's inside."

John swallowed a huge lump in his throat. What he was about to say didn't sit well with him at all. "Dean, I need you to listen to me and do everything I say, okay?"

"Yes, sir." The answer came as soon as John finished his last word, like it was already on the tip of Dean's tongue.

John had already started the engine to Impala and had turned out of the driveway of the Estate onto one of the main roads. If something bad was going on with Sam, he needed to get back as quickly as possible. Both of his boys' lives could depend on it and he wouldn't risk that even for a second. "Okay, Dean. I know this is the last thing either of us want, but I need you to leave Sam."

"Leave Sam?" Dean's voice echoed through the phone. He sounded just as startled as John had felt saying those words. "Dad, are you joking?"

"No, Dean. If something is wrong with Sam, and something is in control of him or possessing him, I don't know what it is, and if you're around him you're in danger. You need to leave him and go to another motel room. Put salt lines along the room, do everything you can to barrier yourself off from anything supernatural. Sammy will be okay."

"Dad, I—"

"Dean, listen to me damn it!" John yelled, more irritated at the fact that he wasn't with his boys right now than he was at Dean. "If you're telling me something is wrong with Sam that's more than just a bad mood, then I believe you. You know Sam more than you know yourself. And if whatever is wrong with him causes him to become violent, I don't need you getting hurt. You would either be put in the position of letting yourself get hurt, or hurting Sam, and neither of those are acceptable. You need to get the hell out of there and—"

"Hold on, Dad," Dean said, his tone dropping about eight octaves. "I think Sam's coming."

John remained silent as he sped onto the interstate towards Missouri. He listened intently, trying to hear any indication of what could be going on.

"Sam, hey, you okay?" He heard Dean ask. "Sam? What're you— "And then a loud thud sounded from the other line and John knew it was some type of metal hitting flesh. He heard Dean shout in agony and then dreaded silence.

John's heart jumped out of his chest. "Dean?!" he shouted. There was no answer. The only things John could hear were the random sounds of the phone being tossed around and occasional heavy breathing. He didn't know if that was Sam, Dean, or someone else entirely.

"Sam?" He asked this time. "Sam are you there?"

Still, no answer. John glanced down at the speedometer on the Impala and noticed he was going ninety instead of the previous seventy-five. Somebody was hurt and it was one of his kids. John couldn't get the ache in his heart to go away. He hated himself for not being with them. They needed him and he couldn't be there. He was the worst father in the world and his boys were both paying for that right now. They deserved so much more.

"Sam," John said into the phone, trying desperately to hear one of his son's voices. "Sam, if you're there, if that's you, I need you talk to me son. Whatever is going on, I can help you. We can get through this. I just need you to talk to me, Sammy. I need you to tell me if Dean is okay, if you're okay."

This time John got an answer, but it was only the click of the phone hanging up. John swore, and threw his phone at the passenger side window. It slammed against it with a loud clank and fell against the seat, but John wouldn't have cared if the window would have shattered. He was focused on one thing and one thing only: his boys.