At twelve years old, Sam Winchester was one smart kid. He had the highest grade point average in his sixth grade class, which endlessly annoyed him because he should have been in the seventh grade by his age. As a very smart kid, he was placed in all the honors classes with the other smarter kids. And while he had never had a conventional childhood he was very aware of social norms.

Even though in his family canned soup was considered a rare home cooked meal, he knew that normal families gathered after school and work around a kitchen table and ate a real home cooked meal. Even though Sam was trained in martial arts and could use any number of weapons better than most adults, he knew that normal kids did things like boy scouts and joined soccer teams. Even though he had yet to kiss a girl, Sam knew what his brother older brother was doing with various girls on the high school cheer-leading squad without having to be told. And even though his brother and father showed absolutely no interest in academics past helping him with his homework when absolutely necessary; Sam knew that smart kids like himself grew up to become one of two things, either a doctor or a lawyer. However at twelve years old he wasn't sure which one he wanted to be just yet, until half way through the school year when a series of events made the choice for him highly obvious.

John Winchester stumbled through the coarse screen door of the apartment he had rented two months before with his 12 and 16 year old sons. He groaned loudly, clutching his left arm above the elbow where blood was pouring out liberally. He was disgusting, covered in dirt from head to toe, or blood from various other smaller injuries he'd received. He gritted his teeth and grabbed the salt can off the table to his right and pouring a line in front of the now closed door knowing that the windows and other entrances to the house would already be secure.

He gasped as he peeled his now soiled jacket off, nearly blacking out from the pain as it scraped against his bloody arm. He staggered over to the liquor cabinet and fell to his knees in front of it, which was only somewhat intentional. He threw the doors open and hastily grabbed two things; a bottle of vodka and a small first aid kit he'd stored there. In a brief moment of vertigo it occurred to him how surreal his life was; he highly doubted anyone else would keep a first aid kit in a liquor cabinet but he'd learned early on that easy access made things like this slightly easier. However this thought was wiped clean from his mind as he stood up and nearly fell back down again in agony.

He clawed the cap off the bottle and downed at least three shots worth of alcohol at once, relishing in the distracting sting in his throat. Then he managed to haul himself into the surprisingly well lit bathroom with the large mirror, steeling himself for what he was about to do.

He checked the time before he began, relieved that it was only around 11 a.m. and his sons wouldn't be home from school to witness this anytime soon.

The small house resounded with yelps, gasps, and even a quickly restrained sob or two as John set to work. His relief at his sons' absences was soon replaced by a longing for his oldest, Dean's, help. After all, his hands were shaking, his eyesight was constantly clouded in pain and the bullet lodged in his arm was not easy to get to with only his right hand to find it. He found himself a clean pair of socks that he stuffed in his mouth, cleaned the blade with the vodka and was soon in a self induced hell, the socks being the only thing stifling his cries. He could barely persuade himself to pour the vodka over his excruciating injury, only being able to with pure determination and knowledge of necessity.

Four hours later John lay on top of his bed, shaking violently and sweating profusely. His breathing was ragged, and he terribly needed to bathe. His eyes were closed and the room was thankfully spinning, the empty bottle was on the bedside table. But he was done, the bullet was in a glass of water on the bathroom counter, and his arm was wrapped tightly in white gauze.

"Hey Dean, do you think maybe we could watch that monster movie tonight; the old Godzilla one you rented?"

Dean ruffled his brother's hair as he walked in front of him, his backpack practically bigger than he was as the two of them walked home from Sam's middle school. He smirked at his little brother. He would never understand Sammy's eagerness to do well in school, but he sure was glad his intellectual side took a break long enough for the two of them to sit down and watch cheesy horror movies together and be unbelievably stupid. At sixteen, Dean's image was everything, and in all aspects the kids in this new school viewed him as a badass, just like he wanted. However the only exception to this persona was the fact that he loved hanging out with his little geeky middle school brother. But that didn't bother him. It wasn't his fault that his little brother was really weird, nor did that really bother him at all. He also happened to be the best and funniest person to watch a really cheesy horror movie with. He was the only other one who could laugh so hard (or make such good jokes about) at a corny rip-off of their hidden lifestyle.

"I don't know about tonight, squirt. We have to train for a bit and then I think I'm going out on a date with Clara… Clare? Clara? No, I think it was Clara, definitely Clara…"

He trailed off while Sam rolled his eyes.

"You might want to double check before you have a repeat of the Lauren incident."

"Oh come on, her twin sister's name was Lesley, it was a perfectly innocent mistake to make!"

"Yup, keep telling yourself that Dean." Sam laughed and scuttled away as Dean pretended to drop kick him. "So, how about tomorrow for the movie?" Sam continued a minute or so later.

"Yea sure, whatever you say." Dean grinned.

By this point the brothers had reached the house and Dean had thrust open the screen door holding it open as Sam went in under his arm.

"Dean?" the tone of Sam's voice had changed from light-hearted to apprehensive, putting Dean immediately in protection mode.

"What?" He said turning away from locking up the door and to his brother in haste.

"Salt" Sam said, pointing to the floor where the door had smeared the obvious salt line that had been there. Dean's gaze followed his brother's gesture and in the same beat he called out urgently, "Dad?"

The reason for the sudden tension was because both brothers knew that if their father was home, was not coming to meet them in the den, and had put up a salt barrier for precaution; something was probably wrong.

"In here." They heard John's voice from his bedroom. Both brothers exchanged a worried glance. He didn't sound so great.

"Sammy, put up another salt line and check all the doors and windows."

Sam nodded curtly; Dean was at his father's door in three strides.

"Dad!" Dean exclaimed, rushing over to the bed where he took in his father's state. "What happened?!"

"I'm fine." John muttered weakly, clearly lying. Dean knelt down so he was at eye level with the very low mattress that his father was sprawled out on.

"The person who'd been protecting the banshee, they had a –ah! –a shotgun." He said gritting his teeth for a moment. Dean's stomach dropped, but his expression remained stoic.

"I'll be fine by tomorrow, but this thing needs to go down by tonight, or it could hurt someone else. Take Sam, but only let him drive the car – I don't want him in the action. It's up to you to finish the job."

"Yes sir." Dean said instantly and he stood up. His father said he would be fine by tomorrow so he'd be fine by tomorrow. He said that he had a job to do, so he had a job to do – he wouldn't waste any time mulling around.

"Sam!" Dean called. The twelve year old had his scrawny head poking in the doorway. His expression was distraught.

"Dad! Oh man, are you all right???" Sam exclaimed in fear.

John actually made a slight effort to raise his head, but didn't succeed much.

"Sammy, I'm fine. Listen to your brother; you've got a job to do."

Sam gazed up at Dean with those big sappy eyes that made his heart melt a bit at the amount of raw juvenile concern pooling there.

"C'mon Squirt." Dean said, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder and leading him out of the room.

"Dean?"

"What bud?"

"Will Dad really be alright, or is he just saying that?"

For a second Dean was doubtful, but then he thought it through. This wasn't the first time, and probably wouldn't be the last time his father had been shot. It might hurt like a bitch, but he'd be fine eventually.

"Nah, he'll be okay. Really Sam, don't worry so much. Now tonight we have to go kill this thing, which means one thing. You get to drive the car."

Despite the existing worried expression on Sam's face, a slight grin did light up as can only be expected when any twelve year old boy is handed the keys to '67 vehicle. Dean grinned proudly back.

"Dean!" His dad shouted before groaning. Both brothers turned their heads.

"Sammy, go start the car I'll be right there."

Sam nodded then scurried out the front door.

"Yes sir?" Dean said walking back in. John's eyes were closed, his good hand over his face, tiredly.

"At some point soon we really gotta teach Sammy how to stitch."

Dean grimaced, that was one of the most traumatic skills they had to learn in this lifestyle. He didn't want to subject little innocent Sammy to learn that. Regardless he nodded anyway.

"Yes sir."

Then he was off, going out the door after his little brother.