A/N: Though I am a veteran, my account was lost. This is my first Supernatural fanfic. Reviews are most appreciated. But above all, just enjoy!

Chapter 1: Meeting the Winchesters

It was cold, damp, and dark in the basement. I lost feeling in my hands hours ago as a result of them being shackled and chained to a hook in the wall. There was blood running down the side of my face from a gash in my forehead, more blood running down my arm from the deep laceration in my shoulder, and I was feeling a little faint.

I was in the middle of the story of my life, and I wasn't even going to survive it. How was I supposed to write my award winning story if I got killed first? It wasn't likely to happen if I was turned into nothing but a bloodstain on the floor.

But damn it, they were out there, and they were looking for me. I knew they were. I may have been a pain in the ass, but they wouldn't let me die. Unless they were already dead.

Way to focus, Aislin. I shifted my position on the floor, leaned against the wall. The chain was long enough to keep my arms in front of me, and I lifted them to press my hands against the gash in my shoulder, trying to staunch the flow of blood. It was going to take a serious amount of stitches to sew that puppy up.

Deciding I needed to occupy my mind with something other than my impending death, I thought back.

Back to the day I met Dean and Sam Winchester, and my life changed with one rakish smile.

I'd been struggling to find a decent story, one that would really kick-start my career in investigative reporting. I'd done other, boring stories, but I wanted that one. That one that just said, "hey, I'm a great reporter, hire me." I'm not sure exactly why I decided to search the country for two brothers who were quite possibly insane, and most assuredly dangerous. But come on, it's not every day you hear about men wanted for murder that insist it wasn't murder when the victim was already dead. And demons, ghosts? My interest was definitely piqued.

Of course, finding the two was easier said than done. It wasn't until I stumbled into some bar out in the middle of nowhere called the Roadhouse that I got my first real lead. All I wanted was a shot of whiskey. What I got was priceless information.

It was a great little bar. Dusty from the dirt road that lead to it, ancient jukebox belting out '70s and '80s music. The woman behind the bar looked like mom. Not my mom, of course, but just a mom. I moved to the bar, sat down on a stool.

"Can I get you something, honey?" she asked me.

"Shot of whiskey, if you don't mind," I told her.

"Whiskey?" It was just after 3:00 in the afternoon. A little early for whiskey, perhaps.

I nodded. "It's been one of those days."

"I hear that." She poured the shot, and I slammed it back, feeling the soothing burn trickle down my throat and warm my belly. "Anything you want to talk about?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I'm looking for two guys, and I'm not having any luck."

"Two guys?" she echoed. "One's not enough?"

I looked at her, caught the joke in the twinkle of her eyes. She smiled when I let out a bark of laughter.

"They're brothers," I explained. "The problem is they're on the run from the law, hence not easy to find."

She looked me over, taking in my worn blue jeans, boots that had seen much better days, olive drab tank top, and backpack slung over my shoulder. "These brothers got names?" she asked.

"Dean and Sam Winchester." The look on her face was enough to tell me that if she didn't know them, she certainly knew something about them.

"What do you want with Sam and Dean?" she demanded, suspicion written all over her face.

"You know them?"

"Damn right I know them. And I'll protect them boys with my life if I have to. What do you want with them?"

She was angry. Mother's indignation, I thought. So I pushed my glass forward for another shot. "I'm not looking to get them into any trouble," I began.

She snorted before I could continue. "They don't need anyone's help for that. They do a damn good job of getting themselves into trouble. Do you need help?"

"Not exactly." I took a deep breath, drank the whiskey, and explained to her that I was looking to write a story on them.

When I was finished, she was silent for a full minute before she burst into laughter. "Oh, that's rich!" She leaned against the counter, face turning bright red.

"So," I said, smiling with her laughter, "do you think you could give me a hint as to where I could find them?"

"Yeah, they're at Bobby's."

Enter Bobby Singer. An aging hunter with connections to the Winchester brothers through their father, John. Since John's death, Bobby had pretty much taken the boys under his wing, ready to lend a helping hand or a swift kick in the ass when the occasion called for it.

The bartender, who I learned was named Ellen, gave me directions to Bobby's place, a scrap yard.

When I got there, all I could see at first was piles of junked cars. But then, sitting near the beat-up house in the center of all the mess, was a '67 Chevy Impala. I neared the car, saw the gleaming paint, the spotless interior. This car was well loved. And if it wasn't, well, I'd happily take it off the owner's hands and show them how to love a car.

The screen door of the house slammed, made me jump. I looked up, saw an older gentleman with a trucker hat on come out onto the porch, grinning from ear to ear.

"You Aislin?" he asked.

"Yes. Bobby Singer?"

He nodded, held out a hand. "Ellen called me and told me you were coming." He tried, but it seemed he couldn't keep the laughter out of his voice.

I shook his hand, mounted the steps to the porch. "Are Sam and Dean here?"

He chuckled. "Yeah. They had a rough night, so they're in bed."

"Are they hurt?"

"Only Dean, but he'll be fine. Doesn't like anyone fussing over him."

Mental note; Dean Winchester was a hardass. Bobby opened the door and I preceded him into the house. He directed me to the rooms where the men were staying. I thanked him and went up.

It had taken me three months to stumble across the Roadhouse, and less than a day to find two people they knew, and be directed right to them. I chalked it up to beginner's luck.

The first room was Dean's. If he was the hardass Bobby's tone of voice made him out to be, he wouldn't mind being disturbed. I knocked once on the door.

"What? Bobby, I swear to God, if you're coming to check on me again, I'll kill ya."

I grinned at the closed door. Dean Winchester sounded like fun. I pushed the door open, stuck my head through. "Dean?"

He sat up straighter in his bed, eyes going wide. "Uh, yeah?"

I stepped into the room, and halted. Hold the phone, Dean Winchester was a hottie! Green eyes glittered behind long eyelashes, brown hair was short and spiky. He was bare-chested, and what a nice chest it was. He smiled at me, and I felt my knees go wobbly. This man was dangerous in more ways than one.

"I'm Aislin O'Connell," I told him, walking fully into the room to offer my hand. Instead of shaking it, he grinned at me rakishly and kissed my knuckles.

"What can I do for you, Aislin?" he asked.

I refused to be swayed by those amazing good looks. Well, I tried to refuse. "You can start by giving me my hand back."

His grin only grew wider, but he released my hand. Then his eyes narrowed. "You're not a cop, are you?"

I laughed, pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down. "Do I look like a cop to you?"

He studied me, shrewd eyes taking in my appearance. "No."

"I'm a reporter," I told him.

"A reporter?"

I nodded. "Yep. I've been looking for you and Sam for three months."

He seemed speechless. He just stared at me, no doubt seeing the clothes, my flaming red hair cut short in the back and angled to the front so it framed my face, my crystalline blue eyes and easy smile and wondering just what the hell was going on.

"Uh, what do you want?"

"I want to spend a few days with you and your brother and write a story on you."

"Are you insane?"

Whatever reaction he could have had, I wasn't expecting anger. "Why would I be insane? You and your brother are topping the FBI's most wanted list, said to be delusional, psychotic, and dangerous. How about the real story?"

But Dean was glowering at me. I could practically feel the waves of fury coming off him. "Get out," he said.

I hadn't expected this. I should have, probably, but I didn't. I forced my mind back, realized that I probably should have left out the delusional, psychotic, and dangerous comment. Stupid me. "Dean, please."

"Out," he repeated.

"I just want the truth."

"The truth is I don't want you here. Now go."

I sighed, stood. "Thanks anyway," I grumbled.

Once back out in the hall, I moved on to the other brother's room. I really hoped the brothers weren't alike and I could get Sam on my side.

I knocked on his door.

"Dean, that you?"

I opened the door. "No."

"Uh, hello," he greeted. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, laptop in front of him. His eyebrows rose as he peered at me over the top of the computer. "Can I help you?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

I sighed, entered the room and closed the door. "On whether or not you're like your brother."

A grin split across his face. "Dean and I are polar opposites."

"Well, then." I plopped myself down on the end of the bed and looked at Sam. He was slighter than Dean, all long-limbed, probably taller than him, too. His hair was longer, and a shade warmer, as were his brown, puppy-dog eyes. The smile was the same, though. These Winchesters were potent men. "My name is Aislin O'Connell."

"I know."

Was it a habit of these guys to completely blindside me? It took me at least thirty seconds to make words come out of my mouth. "You… what?"

"Yeah, you were at Stanford a couple years ago doing a story on law school and alcoholism."

I had completely forgotten about that. "You went to Stanford?"

"For a short time," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"I want to ride with you and your brother for a few days and do a story on you."

"On us?"

I nodded.

Sam seemed to consider this. "Why us?"

"Well, like I told your brother, you and he are kind of on the top of the FBI's most wanted list."

He snickered. "You mean, you actually sought out two men who are considered out of their minds and murderers?"

Well, when he put it like that… "Yup."

"I think you're the crazy one."

I leaned toward him a little, dropped my voice. "Just between you and me, Sam, you and Dean seem pretty normal. Well, except for Dean's grouchiness."

He laughed. "You told all this to Dean? What did he do?"

"Kicked me out."

"Of course he did." Sam considered me for a moment. "So you want to ride with us and see what we do?"

I waited.

"You'll write the truth?"

"I always do," I said.

"Because what the FBI has on us isn't anywhere near what the truth is."

I opened my mouth to reply, but the door banged open and Dean limped into the room wild-eyed. He put me in mind of the Tazmanian Devil. "Sam!"

The ire in his voice had me nearly shrinking back.

"What?" Sam asked.

"It's not happening."

"What's not happening?"

Dean gestured to me. "This… reporter. It's not happening."

"Dean, she just wants to ride with us for a few days."

"Yeah, long enough to tell Hendrickson where we're at or get herself killed."

I stood up, and marched right up to Dean. It was hard to appear imposing, as he towered over my five-foot-five height. But I leaned in and poked him hard in the chest. "Dean Winchester, if I wanted to tell Hendrickson where you were, I could have called him the minute I found out you were here. And as for me getting myself killed, I'm quite capable of taking care of myself."

Dean outweighed me by at least 50 pounds, but I was counting on that limp. I'd kick him right in his injured leg if I had to and run like hell before Sam could get to me.

"You're pretty brave for being in a room with two murderers," he drawled.

"One murderer," I corrected. "Sam's just accessory." Not quite true, but hell, it certainly gave him pause.

Dean's eyes looked ready to bug out of his head. "You…"

"Dean…" came the warning from Sam.

I probably should have been scared, I know. But Dean was turning purple in anger and his jaw was clenched so tightly it was probably aching, and it just amused me. He wanted to blow, but just one word from Sam had him holding it all in. We stared at each other, me in curiosity (I wanted to see if his head would explode like a zit), and he just pissed off.

When I stuck my tongue out at him (mature, I know), he choked and let out the breath he'd been holding on a cough.

The anger and tension in the room seemed to dissolve just like that. Dean got his breath back and just stared at me. "I think you're the crazy one."

Well, they were definitely brothers. "Maybe. Come on, Dean. Just a few days."

Dean looked over my shoulder at his brother. Sam shrugged. "We tell her first. No surprises."

"You're no fun," the older brother complained.

"Tell me what?"

Sam gestured back to the end of the bed. "Have a seat."

I did, sitting on the end of the bed cross-legged like Sam had been. Dean eased onto the mattress, lifting his injured leg up first, and Sam sat beside him.

It was a united front, I realized. The two brothers sitting side-by-side at the head of the bed. It was then I saw that they were truly brothers. They didn't really look alike, except for that killer smile, but the way they unconsciously leaned toward each other, supportive, anyone could see they were close.

"What exactly do you know about us?" Sam asked me.

"Just what I read in the file," I told him.

"You saw the file?"

I turned to Dean. "You think I went into this completely blind? God, Dean, I'm a little nuts but I'm not stupid."

"How?"

"Hendrickson was staying in a Holiday Inn in D.C. I have contacts. I broke in, copied the file and left before anyone knew."

The two men looked at each other, then turned back to me. "You have our file?" they asked simultaneously. I laughed, reached into my backpack and pulled out a thick manila envelope. I handed it over to them.

"Your mug shots from Arkansas are in there, all the reports from Hendrickson. You guys definitely have been staying a step ahead of him."

Dean grinned in glee as he paged through the papers. "Dude, he has no idea that we have the Impala."

"That's yours?"

He glanced up at me, saw what must have been a soft, melty glaze in my eyes (at least, that's how I felt about that car) and nodded. "You like that?"

"How could anyone not like a '67 Impala in that great of condition?"

"I rebuilt her myself."

"V6 or V8?"

"V6, but man, she purrs."

I laughed. "I think a car like that growls rather than purrs."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, but it's such a sweet sound."

Sam caught my eye, shook his head. "He'll never shut up about that car now."

"It's a sexy car," I admitted. "Most guys talk about sexy things if they own them."

"Ha!" Dean said to Sam.

"Anyway." I drug their attention back to me. "What are we supposed to be talking about here?"

"Dean!" Sam sounded indignant.

"Hm?"

Sam stared at him. "They did psych profiles on us both."

"Psych profiles? Let me see that." Dean tore the folder from Sam's hands, opened it. "Older brother fiercely protective of younger brother, manipulates to the point of sharing hallucinations. No conscience, extremely dangerous, pathological liar, kills without remorse or guilt, going so far as to say victims are demons or ghosts. Obsession with grave desecration. No religious ideals known." He sneered. "Jesus Christ!"

Sam grinned. "No religious ideals, eh? Let's see mine. Younger brother terrified of older brother, will not defy. Idolizes older brother, but lacks backbone? That's not even close!"

"That's bullshit," Dean said. "If you idolized me, we'd be in some serious trouble."

"Dean, they have you as the mastermind behind it all!"

"So?" Dean closed the file, handed it back to me. "At least they got something right."

Sam seemed to want to say something else, but turned to me, instead. "You want to hang out with us for a few days, this is something you'll have to put up with. We drive, we fight each other, we fight the bad stuff, we fight each other more."

"So what you're telling me is that you're brothers," I said.

Dean grinned. "Exactly. See, Sammy, she's got it figured out."

"Okay, guys. Why don't you just tell me what it is you have to tell me so we can get it out of the way." I was getting nervous. It was apparent to me that they were stalling. Considering all I'd read in that file, I really didn't think there was anything worse they could tell me.

But I have been known to be wrong on occasion.

Dean's smile faded and he suddenly looked mysterious, brooding. It was even sexier than the grin. "Sam."

Sam nodded, took the lead. "All that stuff in the file about demons and ghosts? It's not hallucinations. It's what we do. We're hunters. You see, when I was just baby, and Dean was four, a demon killed our mom. Our dad spent the rest of his life hunting that demon down. He raised us on the road, in motel rooms, teaching us everything he could about the life. Eventually, I decided I didn't want to spend my life hunting ghosts and demons, and I went to Stanford. The problem is that not too long after I started there, Dad went missing and Dean came after me to help him find him." Sam fell silent, glanced at Dean.

"It's in our blood," Dean said quietly. "We can't outrun it."

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean's lack of input. "I had a girlfriend, a great girl named Jessica. The demon, the same one that took our mother, got her, too. We finally caught up with the demon not too long ago. We were in a car accident and all three of us landed in the hospital. Dean was in a coma. Our dad gave his soul to the demon to bring him back. Since then, it's just been the two of us searching for that son of a bitch."

When I listened to their story, all theories that I'd had about the Winchester brothers went straight down the toilet. Because it didn't matter how crazy it sounded, there was real heartbreak there, real sorrow, real grief. Above and beyond that, though, there was love, loyalty and a sense of what was right.

I listened to them, and I believed them.

And perhaps I fell a little in love with both of them right then.

I mean, come on, what girl wouldn't, right?