I screamed as the blade sliced into the skin on my upper arm. It didn't really hurt that much. He'd certainly done worse but maybe if I could fool myself into thinking it was bad he wouldn't do any worse today.

The hand gripping my forearm released me, and with a disdainful sniff my father walked away, shutting the door and leaving me in the darkness.

My father is a prangeni, a creature that feeds off the energy of pain. My mother was human, meaning that I am only half-prangeni, and it seems that I have more control over myself than my father does, even though I am only 24 years of age. The need to feed on the pain and suffering of others can become almost unbearable, though feeding often does help. The purest form of pain is physical, that's why my daddy is mean to me, if he cannot find a suffering human to feed on.

He talks often of the old days; before pain relieving drugs were commonplace, and how the prangeni were once numerous and prosperous. Those days are long gone though, now we hide, capture and feed until the prey can bear it no longer and surrenders to death. Humans make good meals, but they are fast, hard to catch, it's why so many prangeni have taken to feeding off each other, as my father does to me. Though pain relief doesn't work on Prangeni, the pain can be fed upon, but the suffering prangeni will still feel the pain, unlike a human. It makes us pretty much an unlimited food supply.

I felt my way in the dark to the other corner of the closet my father keeps me in, where a few ratty old blankets serve me as a bed and curled up, clutching at my arm to try and stop the bleeding. The blankets are too dirty to try and use them as bandages, but hopefully my blood would start to dry soon and seal the cut that way.

There was a time, long before I was born when my father was young, when humans prayed to prangeni, when we were worshiped and adored for what we could do for humans; for our ability to take pain and suffering away. Prangeni used to receive the prayers of the suffering, they knew that we could help them, but with the arrival of pain-killers came the fall of my kind. We are not the kind and benevolent creatures we once were; food is too scarce for that. The humans have forgotten us react to our abilities with fear and mistrust instead of gratitude.

I'm startled from my reflections by the sound of shouting, my father's voice is raised in shock, anger, fear and alarm, the echoes of his distress reaching me where I huddled in my closet and causing the hunger in my gut to stab sharply. Then a shot rang out, loud and close and I screamed. My father's distress was gone, and my breathing was loud in the silence that followed. Heavy boots moved through the house, approaching my closet, I pulled the least holey blanket over myself and shrank back into the furthest corner, hoping to remain undiscovered by this unknown intruder, though I knew my scream had given me away.

The lock on the door clicked quietly, and light streamed into my closet. Through the threadbare blanket over my face I squinted upwards as the outline of a tall man reached towards me.

"It's okay, you're safe now."

The gruff voice was gentle, as was the hand that pulled my blanket away from my face. The man had dark hair, scruffy and untidy, and greying stubble covered his chin and upper lip. He looked to be somewhere in his thirties and the dark eyes in his handsome face reflected the deep and unhealed wounds of loss and grief which were calling to me, making my stomach rumble in displeasure. His brow creased in confusion he spoke again, "It's okay, Little One, the bad man won't ever hurt you again."

He took my hand and pulled me to my feet, leading me away from the closet. I was limping, my leg still badly bruised after my father had kicked me last week. The hunger was gnawing at me, begging me to feed from this man and his grief, but I resisted; doing so would alert him to who and what I was, this man had just shot my father, I wasn't safe yet, I had to get away.

"What's your name, Little One?"

He led me around the body laying at the foot of the stairs, keeping himself between it and me. I stared, my eyes wide and my blood rushing is my ears as the adrenalin raised my heart rate.

"A-Alison" I replied, my voice shaking from cold, hunger and fear. There was a pool of blood spreading slowly across the floor from my father's corpse.

"Well, Alison, it's all over now, I'm going to take you back to your parents. Can you tell me where you live?"

The voice was still gentle and reassuring as we left the house and he picked me up, sparing my bare feet from the cold hard ground. What could I tell him? This man must surely be a hunter! He still held the shotgun in his hand! I had heard my father muttering about hunters, about how they would kill any non-human, how they made it so much harder to feed. Now a hunter had caught and killed my father in our home, and seemed to think I was a victim, rather than a daughter. My life depended on him not discovering the truth.

I looked up at this indiscriminate killer, who was carrying me away from everything I knew and deliberately widened my eyes before bursting into tears.

The hunter took me to a motel. He'd mentioned taking me to a hospital and telling the police about me and I'd panicked, screaming that I didn't want to go. That he couldn't take me there. Fortunately he hadn't asked why, he'd just quickly agreed that I didn't have to go if I didn't want to and yes, of course I could stay with him.

The real reason I couldn't go is that a doctor would very quickly be able to tell him that I wasn't quite right. That I wasn't human; my heart rate too slow, my rate of healing too slow.

So, now we sat in the car, parked outside one of the motel rooms, this hunter and I. I was still crying quietly, staring into space, pretending to be in shock, while the hunter who had shot my father wrapped me in his jacket and pulled a first aid kit from under a seat. Wrapping a clean bandage around my arm and using a damp piece of cloth that came from a foil packet to wipe away at the blood that covered various parts of me, it stung as he ran it over any open wounds and I flinched. It took several cloths before he seemed to deem me clean. Then he wrapped an arm around me, rocking and murmuring reassurances in my ear.

My tears were not from grief, my father had been a monster and I was glad to be free of him, but I was afraid. Alone and in the company of a man who clearly knew how to kill a prangeni, I kept up my act of traumatised human child while desperately trying to think of how I would escape. I didn't know what I would do after that, where could a creature who feeds off pain and appears to be around 8 years old go that I wouldn't end up caught again?

A new flood of tears ran down my face at the thought and I shuddered in the hold of the hunter.

"Hush now, it's all gonna be alright, Ali. The monsters can't get you while I'm here."

We sat like that until I cried myself to sleep.

I awoke on a bed. The mattress giving way beneath my body in a way that blankets and floorboards just don't.

It was heavenly and I floated for a few minutes between sleep and wakefulness, drifting on this luxurious lumpy cloud. Soon noises started to permeate my sleepy state and I became increasingly aware of the spring poking into my shoulder blade.

"Daddy, who's that?" a quiet childish voice asked.

"Quiet, De, let her rest." The voice of the hunter replied softly, "She was held captive by the asura, he was feeding on her, we're gonna get her back to her family."

"The asura was bad." The little voice intoned solemnly. "Is he gone now, Daddy?"

"Yes, De, he's gone."

"Is she gonna be okay?" De asked, his little voice full of childish concern.

"I'm sure Alison's going to be just fine, De. We'll get her back to her parents, her Mommy must be very worried about her."

"My mother's dead." I muttered, rolling towards the voices and blinking my eyes open.

The little boy hopped down from where he was sat on the other bed and took my hand gently. "I'm sorry. My Mommy's dead too."

His green eyes were filled with a pain I knew far too well, and I gripped his hand as tightly as I dared, I didn't want to hurt him after all, and I know that I am much stronger than a human child would be.

"Well then, we'll make sure you get safely back to your Daddy." The hunter said, coming to kneel beside my bed.

I shook my head, "He's dead too. There's no one looking for me. Can't I just stay with you?"

This man clearly cared for his pretty blond son, with the rounded cheeks and the life in his eyes that couldn't be dulled even by grief. Maybe, if I could hide the fact that I wasn't human, maybe this would be the safest place for me? Hiding in plain sight?

It wasn't a long term solution, obviously, it would become clear fairly quickly that I wouldn't age the same as a human child would. The little angel currently holding my hand appeared to be about six years of age, but in three years time, he'd be nine, and I would appear to be nine too. It wouldn't take a genius to work out that if I'm older than him now, I ought to stay that way.

But maybe I'd get a couple of years of safety, and hunter's must travel quite a lot, certainly this one is staying in a motel at the moment, so he must travel to find his kills, and he takes his son with him. Maybe I'd find somewhere in his travels that would be safe for a prangeni child.

The hunter frowned at me, "No one? What about grandparents? Or an orphanage?"

I shook my head and decided to stay as close to the truth as was safe. "My father died in the house where you found me. And I have no other family."

I knew no one was looking for me. My father had told me many times that he was all I had, the only person in the world who gave a damn about me.

"Please, Daddy, can't she stay with us?" De had turned to his father with wide eyes, and was biting anxiously on his lower lip.

I tried my best to mimic his pleading look.

The hunter looked between the two of us, before he closed his eyes and sighed. "Okay, you can stay with us for now."

De jumped a little in place, clapping his hand in celebration before hugging me. I hissed at the sudden movement and the constriction around my ribcage. It had only recently stopped hurting to breathe after my father had kicked me in the chest a while ago.

The hunter reached out to us, "Careful, Dean! She'd badly hurt. She needs to see a doctor."

I shook my head back and forth, my dirty hair flapping around my face."No! You can't!" His eyes widened in shock at my vehemence and I thought quickly to come up with a reason. Other than not being human. "They'd take me away from you!" I sat up reaching with both hands for him and throwing myself forwards to cling around his neck.

He patted my back awkwardly, "There, there, it's okay. No one's going to take you away. I promised you're safe and I meant it, Ali."

The weeks that followed reminded me of the days before my mother had passed; they were happy weeks, filled with play and laughter. For the first time since my mother passed I was well cared for, my long hair brushed and clean, my tummy full and my clothes well-fitting and warm. The name of the hunter was John Winchester, and he was a good man. He had two son's; Dean, whom I'd met when I woke up, and Sam, who I'd met when he woke up not long after. John Winchester loved his children with all of his broken heart.

It was this more than anything that made me believe in the goodness of John Winchester; when my father had lost his wife, I had lost my father, but John held on, loving his boys and trying his best to be a good father to them.

We traveled from motel to motel, from town to town; always there was a monster dead before we left. I began to look up to John the same way Dean did, Sammy was too young to know, but Dean knew what his father did, what he fought, the sacrifices he made for complete strangers without them ever knowing. Dean and I bonded over our hero worship of his father, and our combined efforts to look after little Sammy. The two year old was cute as a button, but quite a handful when he wanted to be.

At twenty-four, I may have the physical and emotional maturity of an eight year old, but I was able to handle situations as an adult might. I could cook, and I knew far more of the world than any human child could possibly, even Dean, who knew things no human child should ever have to.

I cooked dinner most nights and helped Dean with his homework when I wasn't searching the Lore to help John on his latest hunt. He started to leave us alone more and more, trusting me and Dean to look after ourselves and little Sammy, always leaving us with the words "Look after Sammy."

Eventually, I got comfortable. I stopped looking for places to go. Where is there anyway? I started to feed more frequently from the boys scrapped knees and on John's pain whenever he returned from a hunt that hadn't been as simple as he'd hoped.I was still afraid that John would get rid of me, if he were to discover what I am. So I learnt first aid, learning how to patch up all sorts of injury. I managed to sneak into parts of the public libraries that the librarians would have been horrified to discover me in, taking notes from medical tomes on the kinds of things I may need to know in future. Things about broken bones, cuts, burns, even poisons. Things that made my stomach turn. But I wanted to be useful, to prove that I am useful, so that when my secret was discovered, maybe John wouldn't take me out back and shoot me.

It was still a concern, however much John may treat me like I was his own daughter, he was still a hunter, and sooner or later he'd work out that I wasn't human. He might consider me to be a threat to his sons, especially with me having kept the truth from him for so long. He may feel it necessary to dispose of me the same way he did my father, to rid the world, and his family, of something not human.

At first my fear had faded as I lived in safety and comfort with this little family, but then my guilt started to grow. I disliked keeping a secret from these people, who I loved almost as much as I loved the memory of my mother. I was still scared though, of what John would do when he found out and the thought weighed ever heavier on my mind. I let things be for almost a whole year before I worked up the courage to tell him.

He'd stumbled in from a hunt gone wrong, his face pale from blood loss and blood dripping from his finger tips, leaving bright red dots on the cheap motel carpet. I'd pulled myself out of the bed where Sam and Dean were curled up sleeping peacefully, careful not to wake them, Dean in particular was a light sleeper. I helped John to a chair, peeled the ruined plaid away from his arm and given him a belt to bite down on while I poured whiskey over the deep scratches.

I was drawing the pain out myself as well, but he'd still be able to feel the alcohol stinging as it washed blood and goodness knows what else away from his arm. I left him the bottle while I fetched the suture kit and angled a reading light at his arm.

"Dad? I have to tell you something." I carefully threaded the needle and then pinched together the first of the claw marks I was going to sew shut. "That night, when you rescued me? The man you shot wasn't an asura, he was a prangeni."

"What makes you think that?" He grunted, before taking another swig.

I took a deep breath, trying to focus on stopping my hands from shaking. "Asura cause pain, prangeni take pain away. They feed on the energy of pain. In humans, it depletes the pain that the human experiences. Prangeni are meant to be good," I assured him, "they're meant to help humans, a mutually beneficial relationship."

"That man was causing pain," John insisted, staring at me with narrowed eyes, "he was hurting you."

"He was," I agreed, finishing the first claw mark and reaching for the scissors to cut the thread without looking up, "but only so he could feed on the energy."

I started on the second cut, carefully avoiding eye contact with the hunter whose arm I was repeatedly stabbing with a needle. Not that he could feel it, a combination of my talents with the whiskey he was drinking at a steady rate was numbing his senses. This was it; I had to tell him, and face the consequences whether they be abandonment or death. "I told you my father died in that house? You shot him, I'm a prangeni too. I'm feeding on you right now, dulling your pain like prangeni are meant to."

I stopped stitching, resting my trembling hands against his arm and dropping my head as tears dropped into my lap.

"Please don't hurt me, Daddy. I didn't ask for him to be my father, I didn't want to be like him. He was a monster, Daddy, I don't want to be like him." My voice was small, the pitch raising without my control. My breaths were coming as gasps, and I screwed my eyes shut as I heard the gentle clink of the whiskey bottle being placed on the table. "I love you, Daddy! And I love Dean, and Sammy! I'd never hurt you, I've never hurt anyone! I swear! Please don't hurt me..."

I stopped my babbling as he laid a hand, heavy on my shoulder. "Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because you'll find out sooner or later; I don't age as quickly as humans do, and I've been feeding on your pain all this time." I hiccuped slightly and took a few breaths to try to steady myself, still looking down at my lap. "I want you to hear it from me, I don't want to hide any more. I don't want to keep a secret from you."

There was silence for a while, aside from my shuddering breaths as I tried to gather control of myself and stop my hands from shaking so I could finish sewing John's wounds.

"Why was your father hurting you?" Came John's voice, low and steady, despite the half empty bottle at his elbow.

"He was hungry, he could not find a food source, and he didn't love me anymore after Mummy died."

"Are you hungry?"

I shook my head, "You're always getting hurt anyway, I feed on your pain, try and make it easier for you. It helps you to heal quicker too." I mumbled at my lap, the fear and adrenaline hadn't faded any. I was tense, tight as a bowstring. Part of me wished he'd just get it over with.

He was silent for a long time, just sat still. Still gripping my shoulder tightly.

This was it. Everything was going to change. Maybe he wouldn't kill me, but surely he wouldn't let me stay, wouldn't risk having a creature sleep in the same bed as his sons like I had done earlier that very same night. He'd send me away, drop me off at the nearest orphanage with the bag that contained the clothes he'd bought from a charity shop for me. The same clothes that were starting to wear out because I'd had them so long; Sam and Dean had each had several new sets of clothes in that time. They kept out growing theirs.

"Thank you for telling me." The hand on my shoulder let go, returning to pick up the bottle from the table. I glanced up at him, surprised and slightly chilled by how calm his voice was.

"You... aren't mad at me?"

He watched me carefully, his gaze calculating. "No," he said finally, "I'm very angry, but you aren't any different than you were yesterday, except that now you're honest. Which is an improvement. You've been here almost a year and my gut instincts have never told me that you're evil, or dangerous." He leant in close, the whiskey on his breath fanning across my face. "But let me make it very clear. If that ever changes, if I ever even suspect that you might be a danger to my boys, I will kill you the same as I did your father."

I was terrified, staring into his eyes. They were so cold and empty, I had no doubts he meant every word. He leant back, taking another swig from the bottle and said no more.

It took me a while to be able to move again, but eventually I wordlessly finished sewing up his arm. I returned to bed, shivering slightly, despite the two warm bodies already occupying the bed. I felt John's eyes on me in the dark and I huddled down under the blankets, wondering if I'd done the right thing.

Wondering if anything would ever be the same again in this safe little haven I had found.