I don't own Supernatural or "Prayer of the Refuge" by Rise Against.

I

Prayer of the Refuge

*30 years in the future*

As James Winchester burst into flames, his body destroyed and soul ascending to heaven, two angels watched in disappointment as the last hope for salvation was struck down by evil.

"I don't understand" the brooding male lamented to his companion. "He was supposed to be the one, chosen to deliver us."

"And yet," the woman replied softly, "he has lost this battle. We could resurrect him a thousand times, and the outcome would not change."

"So what now? We have spent centuries perfecting this bloodline. Do we simply surrender? Or start from scratch?"

"Perhaps there is something we have overlooked" the man contemplated. "Some stone we have left unturned." The woman's eyes widened slightly, as she suggested, "You don't think..."

"Yes," her partner supplied. "Another Winchester?"

"It was forseen long ago. But it was denounced because of Azazel's neccesary role."

"That can be adjusted accordingly, he is a mere demon." The lady's voice euphoric as she assured, "I can see it. This is the path to take, I am certain. When all this is said and done, that unborn child will be the one to liberate us and restore balance."

The angel nodded his approval and spoke austerely, "Then you know what must be done."
Without disturbing so much as a single blade of grass, the angels vanished, taking that reality along with them.

Don't hold me up now, I can stand my own ground, I don't need your help now, you will let me down, down, down!

You stare mindlessly out the window at the dreary gray sky. The crows are gathering on barren branches. The sound of their cawing can be heard clearly through the open crack of the classroom window. They remind you of winters spent hunting in the forest. It gives you a chill because you hated those hunts with a passion. Yet, sitting in this classroom, with its graffitied desks and pealing lead paint, you can't help but miss the freedom of it all. One of the crows caws again, and you think about how crows are an omen of death.

Daniela nudges you, your eyes immediately focus on the teacher. She asked you a question. You have no idea what she said so you fall back on a smartass reply. It gains you a few laughs from the bored teenagers in the room and a detention from Miss-no-sense-of-humor. You don't care because suddenly, you have a feeling you won't be around to serve it.

Daniela asks if you're alright. Like always you nod your head and remain silent. The sharp January air pricks you skin like needles and for a moment you debate whether or not it would be rude to put you headphones in while she is walking with you. Before the decision is made, your silence is interrupted by some boys from school. They want to know if you and Daniela can hang out tonight. Daniela can't because of her curfew, but since you don't have one you say "Might as well."

"You can't go places alone like that." Daniela reprimands. "It's not safe."

You want to laugh at her idea of an unsafe time, but stop yourself. Not before a grin sneaks onto your face however. Daniela notices and, taking it as a sign you're in a good mood, begins to gab about the boys who asked you to hang out.

You mentally mute her bubbly little voice and allow your thoughts to wander. Daniela is actually a better friend than you give her credit for. She puts up with the mood swings, spacing out, and general disinterest that is basically the fine print for being your friend. It's not that you don't try to apply yourself to the whole 'high school' experience, but you can't seem to make yourself want any part of it no matter how hard you try. The word popular sounds cheesy and frilly in your head, so you try to think of a synonym. All you come up with is well-liked and accepted. The later seems to be the better choice in this situation. The student body of Henderson, Nevada has accepted you. Part of it amuses you because you doubt you could be more anti-social if you tried. But you'd be lying to yourself if you said there was nothing fun about it. Spending time with normal people your age is a good thing, but maybe you'd enjoy it better if it didn't feel so much like a waiting game.

"Ah shit", you say to yourself as you wait in Principal Clements' office. You don't know for sure why you're here, but you guess it has something to do with your not-so-legal living arrangements. As you begin to formulate some sort of escape plan the secretary interrupts and ushers you into Clements' office with a grim look on her blotchy face. You scan the room and notice it hasn't changed much since your last visit. The same cheap blinds hang from both of the stained windows, the desk looks like it's been there since the 19th century, and there is a veritable swamp of paper work littering the floor. You barely have time to wonder if you just stepped on someone's birth certificate before the social worker catches your eye.

You feel like blowing your brains out, but you settle for cursing out everybody and their mother's in your head. How do you know she's a social worker? You've got a 6th sense about those kinds of things. You can spot a social worker just as quick as you can spot an undercover or a nark. The game's up and you know it. There are only three exits on this floor and you not near any of them. You think about making a break for it when Principal Clements himself enters the cramped office. He remains standing in front of the door and gestures for you to sit in the worn out chair to you left. The defeat is really sinking in now as you lower yourself onto the stone-cold seat. Deciding to play it cool you wait for Clements to say something.

He clear's his throat and strokes his mustache. Glancing at the social worker he begins a not-so-well-rehearsed monologue. "Uh Miss Woodrow, it has come to my attention that-"

"Winchester"

"Uh, excuse me?" he asks looking confused.

"My name," you continue with a confidence you don't feel, "is Winchester."

"Oh, uh of course." He fumbles a bit more and you get the feeling you broke his stride. After a while he pulls himself together and continues his harangue.

"Yes Miss Winchester, it has come to my attention that you have been living on your own without the care of a legal guardian. As you know, this is neither safe nor legal as you are a minor." You can't help but role your eyes at that. If he knew the things you've seen and done…well he'd hardly be calling you a minor. I have brought with me Mrs. Pryce who is a trusted employee of the social services chapter of Henderson Nevada. She is here to find a suitable home for you until you turn eighteen years of age. Please remember, you are welcome to continue the semester here at Henderson High School and the school wishes you the best of luck in you endeavors."

You wanted to laugh at the way Clements made it seem as though you'd been diagnosed with a fatal disease but a crisp ahem from Mrs. Pryce grabs you attention.

She smiles a sickly sweet smile and opens the binder she has been carrying around. Pulling out several formal looking documents she starts talking to you as if you are a very slow eight year old.

"Now dear, I know it can be difficult to lose your family at such a young age-"

"They aren't dead." You feel the need to clarify that with her. Your family is alive, they just don't care all that much about where you are.

Mrs. Pryce doesn't seem to like your abrasive attitude. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows furrow slightly and she lets out another tiny cough.

"No child, I assure you they are dead. But it is perfectly normal to feel denial; it is part of the grieving process."

She pulls from her binder a death certificate for Mr. John Eric Winchester and Mr. Dean Winchester. You stare at them for a few seconds before deciding they are legitimate enough. Your face shows no emotion as you digest this new development. You don't ask how they died; you already know it wasn't pretty. Regardless of what you may be feeling inside you promise yourself you won't break in front of these people. Dad wouldn't have liked that. Dean might have got a kick from the tears, but you won't give him that either.

Silently you look up at Mrs. Pryce, her prissy face irritating you as an idea starts to form in the back of your mind. "Where am I supposed to go now?" you ask in what you hope is a nonchalant voice.

Seemingly annoyed that you didn't have much of a reaction to her dramatic display, she pulls out another document. This one has your information filled out and a picture of a family on their lawn. It screams suburbia with its quaint Caucasian mother and father, their smiling handicapped child, their smiling not-handicapped child, and friendly dog to top it all off.

You point to the picture and ask disgustedly, "Am I going to live with them?"

"Oh no dear, that's just a sample photograph. I have the paper work right here. You are going to stay with…" pausing to check her information she confirms, "the Douglas' in Lower Edgewood. They are a very nice family with a boy about your age. I am sure you will be very happy there."

You love how she makes it sound like you have a choice. Surprisingly however, you go with the social worker without a fight. As you slide into the back seat of her station wagon, you can't help but feel like a delinquent being taken to juvie. There's plexi-glass dividing the front seats from the back and you spend most of the car ride thinking about why a social worker would need that in her car.

Before we packed our bags and left all this behind us in the dust, We had a place that we could call home, and a life no one could touch.

When you finally arrive at the Douglas' it's six-thirty and your stomach is growling. Wishing you had the foresight to have a good lunch before coming here you follow Mrs. Pryce out of the car and up the walkway.

She checks for a reaction, but you remain stoic. It could be worse and you know it. Just because you've stumbled into the definition of a white-trash home doesn't mean you can freak out. Besides, the plan is coming to fruition and this will help speed it along. She opens the rickety screen door and waits for you to go inside. She thinks you're going to make a break for it, but she's wrong. Besides, you wouldn't get five miles in this desolate desert like town on the outskirts of Vegas. Inside isn't as bad as the outside. There is a fair amount of clutter in the one-story shack. You see a threadbare sofa, some lawn chairs and a busted TV set that seem to make up the living room. On your right's a tiny kitchen with yellow tiles and a hallway with what you assume are bedrooms.

"Mrs. Douglas! It's Mrs. Pryce from social services, we spoke on the phone."

One of the bedroom doors swings open, and Mrs. Douglas emerges. You would bet every penny you have she used to be a hooker. She has a much worn out look to her. She's probably in her early forties, but with all the wrinkles she could be fifty. Her bleached hair hasn't been treated in a while and its thinning in some places. She's definitely a smoker, which cheers you up some because there's a chance you'll be able to lift a few. Nevertheless, she greats Mrs. Pryce and they begin to discuss your living arrangements. You tune them out, it's not like you'll be here long.

You didn't realize how tired you were, but once your head hit the moth-eaten pillow there was no stopping it. It's 0700 hours and you're the only person up. Mrs. Pryce left last night, she all but ran out the door. She gave you her phone number with the instructions to call if anything goes wrong. You doubt you'll be using it; except maybe to charge a few dozen porn mags to.

After she left you got acquainted with the rest of the Douglas'. The retired hooker's name is Karen, but you suspect her street name was something like Bambi. The boy who lives there is a foster kid too, but you're making an effort to steer clear of him. He's got a psychopathic look about him and you've been around enough evil to know that it can come in all shapes and sizes. You're not sure what to make of Rob Wheeler. Mr. Douglas is called useless fucker by Mrs. Douglas and old fucker by Robby. You haven't met him yet and you're in no hurry to.

Deciding it's time to put the plan into action, you rise silently from your pullout bed. You creep down the hallway trying your damndest not to wake anyone. Picking up the receiver you offer up a silent prayer thanking God that they paid the telephone bill this month. Your fingers move swiftly as they dial the number you had memorized since four.

"Bring Bring…This is John Winchester", your breath hitches, "If this is an emergency call my son Dean."

You curse softly and begin the process a second time. When you reach Dean's voicemail you want to cry. Fingers shaking you begin to dial again. Suddenly a hand grabs your shoulder and spins you around. Your face to face with who you can only assume is Mr. Douglas himself. He's a gray-haired redneck with a beer belly and yellowing teeth; not exactly the fatherly type. You wonder why he wanted foster kids.

"Who are you?" he snarls, not letting go of you shoulder.

"I'm the new foster girl", you say boldly as you try not to let him rattle you. "Mrs. Pryce brought me here last night. Are you Mr. Douglas?"

"I guess that'd be me. It's sir to you girly. Now do me a favor and get me a beer from the fridge." He makes his way to the TV, an after a few blows to the sides, it turns itself on. He reclines on the couch and you hand him the beer.

"How old are you girly? Fifteen?"

"Seventeen" you growl.

He diverts his eyes from the screen and gives you a once over. Grunting he turns back to the TV. You take this as a sign for dismissal and promptly return to the safety of your room.

Keep quiet no longer, We'll sing through the day, Of the lives that we've lost, And the lives we've reclaimed.

It's only been a week but you hate the place already. This shit-hole of a town, Karen the ex-prostitute, creepy Rob, and bi-polar daddy are about as bad as it gets. You haven't had a chance to use the phone again, but you're thinking tonight's the night. You slip past the Douglas' bedroom and into the kitchen. You almost scream when something moves behind you. When you realize it's only a rat you take a breath and pinch your arm. You wince because you forgot about the bruises decorating your body, courtesy of Mr. Douglas. Slowly, you remove the phone from its hook and punch in the numbers that represent your last and final hope.

Ring Ring Ring…

A flood of childhood memories washes over you and at this moment you'd give just about anything for him to answer that phone.

Ring Ring Ring…

True, your childhood was not ideal, and you can't decide whether to love it or hate it. You recall the happy times like learning to shoot a gun, learning to hold a blade, learning about folklore and legends and it almost makes you smile, almost.

But then the bad recollections emerge, no matter how hard you try to suppress them. There's the constant fighting, the absence of a mother, your father, the moving, and the things that go bump in the night. All of them start to fill your head and you think you might collapse when something brings you back to the present.

"Hello?" a tired and hoarse voice asks. Your heart skips a beat as you take in that voice that you know so well.

"Sam?" You're surprised at how weak your voice sounds. You want the confident and slightly snarky attitude back, but you know that's not possible. You're just glad you're talking to Sam and not Dean.

"Who is this?"

"Sam, its Toni. I need your help."

Don't hold me up now, I can stand my own ground, I don't need your help now, you will let me down.

If it wasn't obvious, you've just read a SPN sister-fic! The horror, can you believe it? Well if you like it continue reading...or not. I'm a firm believer in doing whatever the fuck you want.

I've got a few more chapters written, let me know if you prefer a consistent update, or a random one.

Until next time

~Whatsername