Chapter 1

May, 1988. Blue Earth, Minnesota

The wild garden was still in the early morning light, dew sparkling on long grass and beaded like diamonds along the cobwebs that filled the little-travelled gaps between the trees and shrubs.

Overhead, a wide sky arched, pale robin's egg blue, empty and cloudless, foretelling another warm day. Standing together at the far end of the expanse of overgrown lawn, John and Dean looked at the line of bottles set along the remains of the drystone wall, their expressions identically thoughtful.

"You ready?" John asked his son, stepping back slightly, watching Dean's brows draw together in a concentrated frown.

"Yeah."

He watched closely as the boy resettled the stock of the .22 against his shoulder, and wondered uneasily what Mary would've said if she'd seen what they were doing.

The flat crack of the rifle was punctuated by Dean working the bolt, loading, moving the barrel sight to the next target and shooting, the faint tinkle of smashed glass barely audible.

Ten for ten, John noted, glancing at his watch. And smooth and fast.

"Good job," he said when the last bottle exploded into fragments and Dean lowered the gun. "Get the cartridge casings. We need to clean these before you go to school."

Dean nodded and checked that the chamber was empty, dropping to his knees and picking up the spent brass casings and putting them in his pocket. The drill was well-known now, though his father reminded him every single time.

Walking back together through the wet grass, John looked up at the tall house. It was home now, as much as any place could be. The only home his youngest knew, he realised with a small spurt of surprise. As Millie was the only mother Sammy could remember.

He looked down at the boy hurrying along beside him. Dean had adapted to the place easily, he thought, and to the discipline of the life into which he and the boys had been thrust. He hadn't told either boy the reasons for leaving Lawrence, and he thought that even for Dean, the memories of the town had faded, dissolved beneath the day-to-day living here. Both had already absorbed the broad outlines of what he was doing here, Dean more practically, learning weaponry and about the creatures that he and Jim and Abely periodically left to hunt, Sam still somewhat protected from the hands-on applications of the hunter's life as yet.

Millie had been a god-send, her cheerful and constant presence in the house, even when he was away, stabilising the boys' life and giving them as much of normal as was possible.

"Wash up before breakfast," Millie's voice drifted out of the kitchen into the mud-room as they came in through the back door, and Dean's face lifted to John's with a knowing smile.

Smiling back, John nodded. "Breakfast first, then do the guns, Dean," he said, setting the lever-action down on the cupboard by the sink.

"Yes, sir," Dean responded quickly, putting his .22 beside the bigger rifle and kicking the footstool over. They washed their hands and dried them, and walked quickly into the kitchen as Millie set the loaded plates on the table.

"Eat fast, John," Abely said as he walked into the kitchen and kissed Millie in passing. "Got a heads-up 'bout a haunting in Iowa and we can head out as soon as you're ready."

"A haunting?" Dean's head snapped up to look at the older man. "What kind?"

John gave his partner a slightly rueful glance as he met Abely's eyes above his son's head.

"Not sure yet, kid," Abely said, sitting down at the end of the table and picking up his knife and fork. "Four people dead, reports are kind of thin."

"Who's the tip from?" John asked through a mouthful of bacon.

"Peggie Coulson." Abely gestured vaguely with his fork. "Runs a bar in Humboldt, we'll stop there first. Time you got to know some other folks in this business."

"Can I come?" Dean swivelled around in his chair to look at his father. "I'll be able to help."

John shook his head, hiding a smile as he looked down at his plate. "Nope, you've got school."

"School!"

"Yeah, school," Millie said, walking over to stand behind him and ruffling the short-cut dark hair. "When you get a report card that's nothing but 'A's' then you can talk about going hunting with your dad."

Dean ducked his head away from her hand, scowling at his plate. "Like that's gonna happen."

Millie looked at John and grimaced. "You got the brain for it, Dean, you just don't put in the work."

Dean looked at Abely mulishly. "Do I need to know what the capital of Guatemala is to do what you and Dad do?"

"Well," Abely said, tucking his food into one cheek as he looked back at the boy thoughtfully. "You might, lotta monsters down south, you'd look like an idiot if you couldn't find your way there 'cos you didn't know where it was, wouldn't you?"

"When can I go with you?" Dean ignored the unsatisfactory answer and looked at his father.

"We'll see," John hedged, wiping his plate with the remains of his bread. "Millie's right about school, Dean. You pick up your game there and we'll talk about it."

Sam wandered into the room, pyjamas drooping and hair sticking out in every direction. "Did I sleep too late again?"

Watching Abely's hybrid vehicle pull out of the long drive with a belch of black smoke, Dean leaned his head against the cool glass of the window and sighed. He could break down the weapons as fast as his father, could shoot whatever he aimed at, had helped on two salt'n'burns now, holding the light mostly, but still … he'd been there, seen the wind rise as the men had dug up the grave and thrown in the salt, had warned them and dropped the match into the alcohol-soaked grave himself … he wasn't a baby, he could do the job.

"Dean, you're gonna be late!"

Millie's voice rose up the stairs and he pushed himself off the window seat, looking around for the battered leather satchel he used for a book bag. Sammy would be starting school next year, and he just knew he was gonna be lumped with his little brother's care on the walk there and back and at the small, clapboard building. The last couple of years he'd been able to stop at Uncle Jim's on the way home, and the priest had been teaching him about the different types of things that were out there, in the dark. He was sure that would stop once he had to baby-sit Sammy again.

"Dean!"

"Coming!" he yelled over the banister, thumping down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor.

"No stopping at Jim's today," Millie said as he used the newel post to sling-shot himself into the hallway.

"Why not?"

"Because it's your brother's birthday today and with your dad gone, we need to make it special for him."

Damn. He'd forgotten the date. He nodded his agreement, only a little reluctantly, and opened the front door, turning to look back at the woman standing behind him.

"See you later."

"Be safe," she responded, the same way as she always did, every, single day. He didn't like to admit it, not even to himself, but the words, the regular ritual, satisfied something in him, a craving for something to remain the same, perhaps. He nodded and walked onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind him.

Sammy's birthday. He hadn't gotten him anything, he realised as he ran down the steps and hurried along the gravelled road toward the tiny town, the leather bag bouncing against his side.

"Hey!"

The voice was unfortunately familiar, and Dean slowed down, reminding himself that he wasn't allowed to fight, except in self-defence. He wondered if he could get the retards following him to take the first swing.

"Hey, rookie's kid!"

Stanley Belthorpe. Number one pain in the butt in the otherwise fairly ordinary little school. Son of one of the other hunters in town.

Stopping at the side of the road, Dean looked around, seeing the little gang of three walking toward him.

"Your dad's gonna buy it if he keeps hanging out with that loser, Thompson," Ricky Morton called out, swaggering beside his friends.

"Isn't your dad laid up with a broken leg right now, Ricky?" Dean asked, one eyebrow lifting.

"Everyone gets injured on hunts," Stan retorted. "Thompson is a nutbag. He's gotten three partners killed and that's just so far."

Dean studied the boys thoughtfully. "Now I know why you three hang out together," he said, a faint smirk playing around his mouth. "None of you are smart enough to figure out how to get your clothes on by yourselves."

Stan's face turned a bright shade of brick-red and he took a step closer. "You're going to be laughing out the other side of your mouth when you got no mom and no dad!"

Dean looked at him steadily. "You worry about your own family, Stan," he said, gesturing broadly at the road that led to the school, watching as they sidled past him. "Abely's a better hunter than your dad'll ever be."

"That's what you think!" Terence yelled back at him, hurrying after his friends.

"Wow, have to remember that one," Dean called out derisively after him.

He walked slowly after them, brows drawn together and eyes on the ground. He'd asked Millie about it, when the kids had first started making comments. It was true, she'd told him. Abely had lost three partners but it hadn't been because of his skills and knowledge, she'd been quick to tell him. Hunting was hard, and people who didn't pay attention, to everything, could get hurt or killed. He'd asked her why the boys' fathers were so against Abely and she'd turned away at that, ruffling his hair and changing the subject. He had the distinct impression that she'd known why, and that it'd had something to do with her. He also got the impression that she wasn't ever going to tell him.

It didn't matter. None of the kids could fight worth a damn and while he'd gotten into trouble for the first few fights, they weren't prepared to tackle him again. That left them with their dumb insults and those he didn't give a rat's ass about.

The school was in between the last building on the main street and the fork in the road where Jim Murphy's church sat, and he walked into the building with a bunch of other kids. The town was mostly civilians, people making a living however they could, protected by the hunters who lived there, and catering to them wherever possible. Catching sight of Hum, he walked over to the tall, broad-shouldered boy, dropping his bag on the ground and crouching down as Hum lifted a hand, showing off the two perfect milk-white shooters.

"What you'd do to the vermin?" Hum asked him as he passed him one of the marbles.

"Not much," Dean said, looking at the line up and calculating the distance, angle, ground imperfections and power required. "Where'd you get these?"

"Mason's uncle had a whole bagful in his basement," Hum replied, brows lifting as he watched Dean's strike. "Only found 'em last weekend and it took me three games to win 'em."

"Take me one to get 'em off you," Dean said, sliding a sideways glance at his friend.

"Not a hope," Hum said, shaking his head. "You're too full of fizz to make a clean shot now."

"Sez you. Watch me!"

Humboldt, Iowa

John looked at the deserted street uneasily, his fingers curled around the grip of the gun in his pocket.

"Not much of a town for nightlife," he commented as Abely walked up to him.

"No, most folks here keep themselves indoors from nightfall," Abely agreed. "Come on, it's down the next alley."

John walked beside him, aware that he was straining to see what was in the black shadows between the corners of the misshapen buildings, under the elevated rail lines and pedestrian bridges that criss-crossed the dark streets like spider's webs, straining to hear any sound he couldn't identify immediately. Every one of the ground-level doors he could see was thick, sheet iron, bolted and welded and painted over with a variety of symbols. It wasn't a reassuring sight.

Abely gestured to a narrow opening between two leaning buildings and he wheeled into the alley after him, looking warily around as they stopped in front of a heavy, iron door. Knocking once, Abely smiled when a small panel in the door slammed open, a pair of bright blue eyes peering out at them.

"Password?"

"Two rabbits fucking," the big hunter said, and John blinked at the harsh creak of the bolts being drawn back on the inside, the raw screak of unoiled metal hinges complaining as the door swung open.

He followed Abely inside, glancing back at the door-keeper. The viewing slot had been at their own eye-level, but the man who'd opened the door for them was a good foot shorter than either of them, and looking down, John saw the heavy timber footstool as the man replaced it beside the closed door. Taped to the inside of the door next to the slot, a thick card showed two rabbits energetically engaged in copulation and he looked a question at the hunter beside him.

"Just a simple psychic trick," Abely said, waving a hand dismissively. "I'll show you later. It's only necessary to prove we're human – monsters can't get it, not even shifters."

He turned away and walked down the dark hallway, and John followed him, looking at the half-seen shapes and drawings on the walls to either side, guards and wards and sigils of protection. Half of them he couldn't recognise, others he knew well. He hesitated as Abely started down a flight of stairs, then started down after him, wondering what the hell he was getting himself into.

"What the hell –?" he breathed out loud as they came through the archway at the bottom of the stairs and stepped into a long, wide room, cheerfully lit by gas-lamp sconces along the walls and glowing, golden candle-lit chandeliers over the main floor.

"Welcome to Peg's," Abely said from the corner of his mouth as he walked into the room.

Along the long walls, polished timber and velvet-upholstered booths provided quiet and private seating, while the centre of the room held tables, small and large, and a long, gleaming bar of ebony ran the width of the room. Behind it, a wide variety of coloured bottles held the bootleg alcohol that was one of the uses for the larger crops of corn, potatoes, barley and the ancient orchards that were spread around the rich farmland. The bottles were reflected in a long mirror, running the full length of the bar, the metal backing giving the reflection a flat silver tint.

John followed Abely across the room, watching the older hunter as he nodded to the people seated at the tables, smiling or throwing a comment as they passed, more relaxed in the crowd than John had ever seen him.

In Blue Earth, Abely was something of a pariah in the small hunting community. Both Millie and Jim had told him the various stories of how that'd come to be, and he'd seen for himself that most of the trouble coming from the other hunting families in the town was due to a combination of jealousy and ignorance. Even so, he found himself surprised by Abely's easy affability in this place.

"Peggie, sweetheart," the hunter said as he stood by the bar, talking to a tall, black woman, whose arresting features were made more dramatic by the short, bone-white cap of curls that covered her finely-shaped skull. "Want you to meet John Winchester."

Peg Coulson looked at him from across the width of the black wood, smiling slightly. Her dark eyes were speculative, he thought, smiling back and offering his hand. Understandably. Her grip was a lot firmer than he'd expected and his surprise must have shown on his face because the smile widened, touching her eyes and crinkling them up a little.

"A pleasure to meet you, John," she said, her voice a deep, husky contralto. "Name your poison."

"Whiskey, if you have it," he said, leaning against the bar, flicking a glance at Abely.

"If we have it," she repeated mockingly. "Finest malt in the entire land. Water? Ice?"

"Neat."

She set the glass on the bar and he picked it up, inhaling the acrid scent and swallowing a mouthful, the smoothness shocking him. That must've shown as well, he thought deprecatingly as she nodded at him.

"Only the good stuff for friend's of Abely's."

"Peggie," Abely said, turning back to her and taking the glass she'd poured. "You seen Zekiel around tonight?"

"He was in the back room," she said, gesturing to the other end of the bar. "You doing a job with him?"

"Maybe," Abely allowed, tossing the rest of the drink and setting the empty glass on the bar. "Look after John for me."

"My pleasure," she said, pouring another shot into John's glass.

"Wait a minute," John swivelled on the bar stool. "Why the –?"

"Won't be long," Abely said with a shrug. "Have a little faith, John."

"Keep me company, John," Peg said from behind him. "I don't like to drink alone."

Turning back slowly, he picked up his glass. "What do we drink to?"

"How about making new friends?"

"Yeah," John muttered under his breath, lifting his glass. "I can drink to that."

John's hand slid under the pillow, closing around the cool ivory grips of the automatic there as the lock clicked open in the door to the room.

"Relax, just me," Abley's voice came out of the darkness.

Leaving his hand on the gun, John reached across to the nightstand, turning up the small gas flame until the room had brightened enough to see the other man's expression.

Abely closed the door and turned around, a one-sided grin on his face. "You feeling a little less tense now?"

John scowled at him. "You wanna tell me why you decided I was a ditchable date tonight?"

"Two reasons," Abely said casually, walking to the other bed and dropping his jacket and weapons on the end. "The first, you had to meet Peg, and convince her you were one of us."

"And a three-way conversation at the bar couldn't have done that?"

"No, Peggie, she likes to get hands-on," Abely said blithely. "Which was reason number two, you've been needing to let off some steam lately, wound up too tight to work properly –"

"Dammit, Abely, I'll make the decisions about my goddamned tension levels and what to do about them!"

"Don't get your panties in a twist," Abely admonished him mildly. "You gonna lie there and tell me you don't feel a lot more centred now?"

John looked away stubbornly. He wasn't going to tell the man any such thing. Wasn't going to lie barefacedly about it either.

"Heh, yeah, that's what I thought," Abely said with a knowing smile.

"So was the hunt all a ruse?"

"Nope, four dead in Jefferson," Abely said, pulling off his boots. "We'll head down there in the morning."

"And aside from Peg and the need to reduce my 'tension', why wasn't I included in that meeting?"

"Ah, well, Zeke and Frank aren't really all that sociable," Abely said as he pulled the covers back and settled himself on the bed. "Don't like strangers and take a while to get to know them."

"You gonna explain how they'll ever get to know me if I can't even meet 'em?" John asked sarcastically.

"In time, son," Abely said through a yawn. "All in good time. Turn the light off, wouldja?"

Looking at the man lying on the other bed, John resisted the impulse to throw something at him, turning over and turning down the flame until it was extinguished. He knew Abely now, pretty well. Knew he had reasons that he didn't often share, not at the time and sometimes not at all. He'd accepted that, for the most part.

And he wasn't going to lie to himself about the evening. He'd needed it, Abely'd had that right. Needed the release and the comfort and the connection to someone else, at once a simpler connection and yet a deeper one than friendship could give a man.

He lay back, stretching out a little with a self-satisfied exhale, feeling the heavy looseness of his muscles, not a single sore point of tension anywhere in him, and let his eyes close again.