A/N: This is a new series I've been working on. It's been in my head for months and it was starting to interrupt with my other projects so I decided to just write it down now and see how it goes. I'd love to hear what you guys think of it, and we'll see if I have much spare time to continue it while I'm still working on The Missing Memory. So stay awesome!

Disclaimer: Sheesh. I really hate this part. I own nothing and gain nothing from this. The idea and the plot are the only things I own.

PROLOGUE: Taken

John Winchester took another swig of the cheap beer he bought on his way to the tiny apartment he got booked for the rest of the weekend. His eldest son, Dean, had gotten back to bed with his one-year-old baby brother after his little boy had tended to the wounds his father had sustained from his latest hunt. The hunter shook his head, doing his best to dispel the tears that had suddenly gathered accumulated in his eyes glazed over with grief.

It has already been more or less six months since his wife Mary had died, but he still couldn't wrap his head around it. He could still smell her lovely perfume from time to time, he could still see her smiling face every time he closed his eyes. And it certainly didn't help that Dean looked like the male version of his dead wife with his hazel eyes and dirty blonde hair. Every time he looked at his son, really looked at him, he could almost see Mary, and that hurt him really bad.

And so, he directed all his vent up frustration and anger and grief into his new job: killing as many evil sons of bitches along the way as he sought out that thing that had taken his beautiful wife away from him. A hunter. That's what he is now.

The monster of this week had been a wendigo. It caught his attention from a news report back from the town they had just left about a week ago. His eyebrows met in the middle as he tried to remember the name of the town, but he came up blank. Hell, he couldn't even remember what it is he had killed wherever that was. This is the purpose of this journal, he told himself mentally. This will be my sons' guide once I'm not here to protect them anymore.

With that still on his mind, he got up from his perch on the couch and snagged his leather jacket from the back of a wooden chair. Dean had fixed him a new set of clothes, along with his lockpick and the keys to the Impala, but he ignored the fresh clothes and instead took the keys. He needed something harder than cheap beer.

Walking on the dark parking lot, he let his mind wander, something he rarely ever does. His brain took him to the hunt he had just finished along with a few other hunters. They killed the thing that's been nabbing campers, but not without injuries. The wendigo had thrown him to a large tree and munched on another hunter named Rogers before they finally set it on fire. It was nobody's fault, but John still felt slightly guilty over the hunter's death. If only he hadn't let that monster get the better of him, the guy might still be alive…

There's no use thinking about the what-ifs, he chided himself. It won't bring the dead back to life. He cringed a little as he realized that that thought encompassed more than just this particular hunt. It told volumes about his own life before that fire. Blaming it on the cold, he instead got into the Impala and drove beyond speed limits to the bar he noticed a mile from the apartment.

Dean Winchester knew all about his dad's job. He knew that something had killed his mom. He knew that he had to take care of Sammy. He knew a lot of things that kids his age shouldn't even think about. But it didn't bother him that he knew all that. He didn't bother that he was given the big responsibility of taking care of his baby brother and making sure he was safe. It made him feel like a big boy, made him feel like someone needed him. But that didn't stop the five-year-old boy from missing his mom.

He still cried about it at night, after he put his brother to bed or when he was eating dinner of Lucky Charms all alone. He wanted to stop crying and stop being such a wimp, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted things to just go back the way they were before the fire. He prayed everyday for the last eight months, one week, and three days. He prayed to the angels that they bring his mom back to them and he promised that he will be a good boy and follow everything his parents told him. But no one ever answered. So he stopped praying. He felt anger at his mom for making him believe that angels existed, but he loved her and he missed her so much to really hate her. He hated believing instead. Obviously, since his mom had been taken so abruptly from them, angels weren't real and they weren't watching over her. Believing in them just made him feel complacent and safe when really, he wasn't. There were monsters out there, and believing in angels wasn't going to keep him safe. His dad would.

Later on, in the middle of his silent weeping, he heard his dad open the door and close it again. Dean knew that he would probably go to the bar and drink more alcohol so he wouldn't feel sad, and his little heart constricted more painfully. He wanted to take his father's sadness and make it his own so badly so that his daddy wouldn't hurt so much and he wouldn't miss mommy so much. But this is the real world and such things weren't possible. So the little boy settled on crying his eyes out until mercifully, he fell asleep cuddling baby Sammy.

~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~

Dean sat upright in bed, his eyes wide open and his little body trembling slightly. "Just a nightmare," he murmured blinking away the images of fire from his mind. To reassure himself, he lay back down on bed and hugged his baby brother closer to him. He felt the sudden urge to cry again, but then he heard the door to their room opening slowly.

He jumped down from bed and made his way to the door that separated their bedroom from the living room. Opening it by a crack, he gasped as he saw that it wasn't his dad who was inside the room. Closing the door again, hoping the door didn't creak, he went back to get Sammy from the bed. He embraced his little brother fiercely as unadulterated fear tore at his body, mind and soul before setting him down on the floor and pushing him under the bed. It would make the little guy cranky once he wakes up under there and he might even have allergies, but Dean was willing to do anything to keep the man outside from hurting his baby brother.

Done with that, his troubled hazel eyes darted quickly all over the room trying to find at least a decent weapon. He was not going to go down without a fight. Spotting just what he needed, he hastily grabbed his dad's iron pen knife from the side table. His dad must've left it there. Lucky me, Dean thought gravely.

He went back to bed and covered himself with blankets up to his chin, concealing the weapon clutched in his hand. His tiny heart hammered onto his chest as he waited for the man to enter their room and as he did, Dean very nearly died of shock. But no, he wasn't about to let his baby brother down, so he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.

The man was now halfway across the room, his huge frame blocking the light that was now turned on in the living room. Dean didn't even dare to peek through his eyelids as the man crept closer. Only when the man's face was inches from Dean's and he got a whiff of the rotten smell of this man's breath that Dean pulled his thin arms from under the blanket and plunged his pen knife deep on the man's right shoulder. It only made a flesh wound, but it was all the distraction he needed.

Bleeding Guy, as Dean decided to call him, screamed horribly and made a move to strangle Dean but the boy already shot out of the bed and wriggled out of his grasp. He ran away from the man on the bed and smacked into another one. It still wasn't his dad.

By this time, he was ready to cry. He didn't know what else he could do to protect Sammy from these men, but he held the tears at bay. It would do no good to show these men how little and scared and helpless he was.

That's when Sammy started to cry himself. He must've woken when Dean stabbed the first man and he screamed. The two guys cornered him and exchanged looks.

Bleeding Guy asked, "Should we take the other one too?"

"Nah, it will be enough trouble handling this toddler without another baby crying and pooping all over my car," the other taller one answered. Squinting at his partner, he asked, "What happened to your shoulder?"

"Kid stabbed me with a pen knife," Bleeding Guy grumbled, pointing an accusing finger at Dean.

His partner looked at Dean, amused, a very evil glint in his eyes, "He got the better of you?"

"Screw you!"

"Where'd you hide your brother, kid?" Tall Man asked.

Dean just glared at him.

"I said, where's your brother!?" he thundered, looking like he might hit Dean if he didn't answer, but the six-year-old stood his ground. "Search the room," he ordered Bleeding Guy instead.

That got a response from Dean. "Just take me and leave my brother alone!" he screamed, terrified at what these guys might do to his one-year-old brother.

Both men stared at him, unsure on how to take Dean's words. Tall Man narrowed his eyes at Dean, studying him. Upon seeing the determined look on the child's face, he decided to take his words. "Yeah, we should do that," he said, directing his words to Bleeding Guy. "John might come home anytime."

With a steel grip, Tall Man led the five-year-old to his car, waiting long enough for Bleeding Guy to sit beside the boy in the passenger seat and took Dean Winchester away.

~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~

John was thoroughly wasted when he stumbled out of the bar. He'd had too many shots of whiskey and was in no shape to drive. But being the stubborn man that he was, he still did. He was back to their apartment in a matter of fifteen minutes, longer that it would've took him if he was sober.

The alcohol, however, was driven away from his system at the sight that greeted him as he approached their humble abode. The front door was flapping along with the breeze.

He ran the rest of the way and staggered inside, the hairs on the back of his neck on end. There was a pool of blood by the door to his sons' bedroom and that's where he lurched into next. His bloodshot eyes scanned the dark room, searching for a sign that either of his sons were still here. Panic was wreaking havoc in his chest, making breathing a laborious task.

Suddenly, he heard faint sniffling from somewhere inside the room. He recognized it immediately as his youngest, knowing full well that Dean would never in any circumstance make that kind of noise after what happened last November.

Finally, he found his little baby under the bed, his face tear-streaked and blotchy. Snot was running freely from his nose as John pulled him to his chest and wrapped his arms around the boy. He had a moment of respite as he did so, but then he remembered his other son.

He looked for him all over the small apartment but he was not to be found. Ultimately, he was forced to admit to himself that Dean wasn't anywhere in the apartment. Hell, maybe he wasn't even in this state! Maybe whatever came in here just— No, he wasn't going anywhere near there. His son was alive, and that's the only way John would see it.