The first day at any new school was always the hardest. That's what Dean said, anyway, and Dean would know. Except it was Thursday now, and Sam was still finding it as hard as the first day.

The kids here had all grown up together, were already a tightly-knit unit. Sam didn't fit, had no place here.

It was lunch time, and Sam sat by himself at a picnic table, watching as some kids from his class kicked a soccer ball around on the concrete.

It was freezing, snow drifting lightly down in little flurries. Sam was wearing his jacket and his scarf and his woollen beanie and Dean's gloves, but he was still feeling the sharp bite of the cold wind as it whipped between the school buildings.

Sam had grown out of his gloves, and Dean said he would ask Dad to buy a new pair, but either Dean hadn't asked or Dad hadn't got around to it, because Sam hadn't seen any new gloves yet. Dean had given him his pair instead, because he said he didn't use the stupid things anyway. Sam knew that was probably a lie, but it was hard to argue with Dean when he grinned like that. He'd tried to protest, but Dean had just shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, and refused to take no for an answer.

Any charitable feelings Sam might have had towards Dean were gone when he felt a sharp thwack to the side of his head. He jerked around and saw Dean standing behind him, smirking.

"Look at you, all by yourself," said Dean, shaking his head. "Shouldn't you be down there playing soccer?"

Sam shrugged. "Soccer's stupid," he said.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You love soccer," he said, slowly. "You begged for weeks to join the team."

Sam shrugged again, hunching back further into the bench. "That was different," he hedged. He didn't want to explain – because he had never really loved soccer – not the way Dean thought he did. He enjoyed the game, sure, but it was the idea of it that he loved more than anything. Soccer was noisy games with cheering families, a coach who shouted instructions, orders, but also praised you after a good game, and sometimes said "son" in a tone that sounded nothing like Dad. Soccer was Sam and the ball and the field and the team and there were rules – and everyone knew the rules, and everyone followed them, and it was just easy and Sam could play along, same as everyone else – better than everyone else, thanks to all the drills Dad always made him run after school.

But here in this new school, he didn't belong. Not yet. Maybe he would in a few weeks, but right now he was just that weird new kid, sitting alone by himself at the picnic table.

Not alone, he corrected himself. Dean was there.

Speaking of which: "Why are you here, Dean?"

Dean settled down on the bench next to him, leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head. His nose was red from the cold.

"Had a free period," Dean said, lightly. Which was probably true, but Sam heard the message behind the words – and wanted to check on you.

"Don't you have any friends to hang out with?" Sam said. It came out harsher than he intended, but he didn't need Dean constantly watching out for him, he was nearly eleven now, old enough to look out for himself.

Dean just tousled his hair with a bit more force than usual, and walked away – but he paused, and without turning around threw an apple at Sam. Sam wasn't expecting it, and it hit him squarely on the cheek. He glanced around quickly to see if anyone had noticed, but all he could see was a bored teacher on duty. She wasn't even looking in his direction, eyes fixed wistfully on the door to the teacher's lounge.

Then he heard a snigger behind him, and he whipped around.

There was a boy standing there, about Sam's age. He had red hair, which was sticking out from under one of those hunting caps – with the ear-flaps and everything. It looked ridiculous. Dean would love a hat like that.

"I think you dropped your apple," said the boy, reaching down to pick it up and handed it to Sam.

Sam took the apple. It was already starting to bruise from where it had bounced off the concrete.

"Thanks," he said.

"Don't mention it," said the boy, dropping down onto the seat and sprawling out. His actions unconsciously mirrored the exact position Dean had sat in a few minutes before.

"My name's Nate, by the way. Nate Myers," said the boy, Nate, and he smiled brightly at Sam. He was wearing braces, Sam realised – giant silver bands across his teeth that sparkled in the winter sun.

"Sam," Sam said.

"Sam Jones, I know," said Nate. "You're in my class."

"How come I haven't met you before?" said Sam, curious, because he was good at remembering faces; Dad was always stressing the importance of a good memory.

Nate grinned. "I've been away," he said. "Just got back last night. We were visiting my grandparents in Connecticut."

"Oh," said Sam. "I have a grandma in Wisconsin." He didn't, but for a few moments it felt like he did, he could picture her, with her cats and a rocking chair and the ugly woollen sweater that she would knit him every year for his birthday; and that Dean would tease him about but that he would wear even if Dean was right and it did sort of look like her cat had thrown up on it. And the sleeves would always be too long for his arms, because she was horrible at guessing sizes, but it would keep him warm, and he would wear it until it was ragged and thin, and then he'd keep it in his closet.

Sam wondered if he did have a grandma – somewhere. He'd have to ask Dean. Dean would know.

"Do you like soccer?" asked Nate, as they watched some boys from their class chasing after the ball, laughing as they unearthed it from the bank of snow it had rolled into.

Sam thought of afternoons practising in the park with Danny, Dean standing on the sidelines making ridiculous whistling noises – as if he could make up for Dad's absence in sheer volume - the coach taking the whole team out to the sundae parlour after they won their first game for the season. Sam wondered who had taken his place on the team, now he wasn't there anymore.

He supposed it didn't matter, really.

"No," he said. "I don't like soccer."

"Me neither," said Nate, face breaking into a wide grin. "You know, Sam, I think we're going to get along just fine."

Looking at him, with his red hair and braces and that stupid hat, Sam thought so too.

*

Dean knows that Sam's been craving normal since he knew what normal was, ever since he realised that their family wasn't.

When Sam was eight, he used to race home from school, tearing ahead of Dean. That was the year they lived in Colorado, and Sam and Dean's school was only three blocks from their apartment, and Dad let them go by themselves after the first day, although the first day he walked to school right alongside them, making sure Dean was paying attention and could remember the way home.

Dean did, of course, and Sam learnt it too – although he was never supposed to walk home without Dean, which was why Dean used to have to hurry to keep up with him when Sam went streaking ahead. Dean didn't want to be seen to be running after his little brother, but most afternoons, he had to jog to keep up with him.

Sam would burst through the door, and fling himself onto the faded couch as the theme song for Leave it to Beaver burst from their crappy black and white television set. And then after that came The Brady Bunch, which Sam watched with such intensity that it was actually a little creepy. And yeah, Dean thought Marsha was kind of hot – but he knew that wasn't why Sam obsessed over those sitcoms.

Dad would sit at the kitchen table, poring over his notes, occasionally looking up if there was a particularly loud burst of canned laughter from the television set. Dean would potter around the kitchen, making a peanut butter sandwich for Sammy, and then he'd wander out and sit next to Sam on the couch.

One day, Dad had been especially irritable, tired and recovering from a hunt gone wrong. He had been staring at the same page for the last twenty minutes. Beav must have said something funny, because everyone was laughing and suddenly Dad slammed his fist down so loud that even Sam turned around and stared at him, wide-eyed. "Sam, would you turn that damn thing off?" he'd barked, and Sam had reached for the remote – but instead of turning it off, he just hit the mute button. See, in Sam's mind, that wasn't disobeying Dad – Dad wanted the sound gone, so Sam made the sound go away.

In Dad's mind, though, that was Sam directly defying his orders, so he had walked over and pulled the plug out from the wall. The television had made a fizzing sound and faded to grey.

Sam didn't say anything, just got up and walked to the room he shared with Dean. He'd sat down on the narrow cot bed and stared at his hands.

Dean had followed him to the room, but just ended up standing in the doorway, watching. Part of Dean wanted to go over there, because Sam just looked so small and unhappy – and for crying out loud, it was just a television show – but Sam was eight now, starting to shrug out of Dean's careless embraces.

Besides, Sam shouldn't be watching those stupid shows anyway. Those celluloid families weren't real. Nobody was that happy all the damn time – pearly-white teeth and glossy hair. No mom would ever be that apple-pie perfect.

Dean remembered how he had felt, standing there. He had wanted to shake Sam – to say: look around, me and Dad, we're your family and we're right here. This is what we've got and it's better than anything you've seen on television because it's real and it's ours but I need you to make it work, I can't do this without you.

The next afternoon, Sam turned the television back on. John didn't say a word.

Every afternoon after that, Dean would look at Sam and want to say something, explain it to him, but he never quite knew what words to use to show Sam – because this was important, and Dean didn't want to screw it up. Every afternoon, he still felt like he should say something, because if Sam didn't understand this now, he never would.

Of course, it wasn't long before they moved again, to some Podunk country town in the middle of Hicksville where they didn't get running water, let alone television reception.

There was a sentence that Dean's teacher back in Ohio had read them once, from a book by some old Russian guy – Tolstoy – his name was. Dean didn't remember the name of the book, but he did remember the opening sentence. "Happy families are all alike, every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." Dean thought that was probably true, but he also knew that it wasn't as simple as that – and his family was messed up in ways most people couldn't begin to imagine. But 'messed up' was relative – and at least his Dad wasn't a drunk, or a deadbeat. He never hit his kids, or skipped out on them. They always had enough food, and a place to sleep. And most of all, they always had each other.

Sure, his family would never be the family it was before they lost mom. But that didn't mean they were stuck being unhappy forever. You had to make your own happiness, carpe the damn diem. He didn't tell Sam that, felt awkward putting it in words, so he tried to do what he always did – lead by example.

*

John watched as Sam and Dean ran laps around the house. They'd already done their usual drills – sit-ups, push-ups, chin-ups –every sort of 'up' John could remember from basic training, and a few others he'd invented over the years just for the hell of it, and also because basic training was just that – basic – it wasn't exactly poltergeist hunting 101.

They ended with sparring – Sam against Dean. Dean had him pinned in a few minutes – although to Sam's credit, he made Dean work for it. In fairness, no matter how fit Sam was, Dean still had a good four years over him, with all the height, weight and experience advantages that implied, so although defeat was inevitable, the delay was admirable.

John didn't say that, though. Sam was a smart kid, he could do the math – should know that John wouldn't keep making him fight Dean if he didn't think that one day Sam would win.

The rules were always the same – Sam versus Dean, then winner versus John. Which meant, of course, that it always ended up Dean sparring with John.

Not that he never got to fight with Sam – however, those fights were unplanned; wielding words instead of blows, which always wound up hurting more, because Sam and John had never got the hang of pulling their punches when they were fighting one another.

Fighting with Dean was always easier – because the fights were always on the field rather than off it, rabbit punches and upper-cuts and Dean's fists packed more of a punch but they only bruised his skin. When he and Dean fought, they weren't fighting to hurt, they were fighting to win – as pure and simple as that.

"Can't keep up with your old man, huh?" John said, pumping his arms in the air and crowing with victory.

Dean just grinned. "I was holding back," he teased – which warranted a snort from Sam, who was collapsed on the grass a few feet away. John snorted too, but part of him wondered if Dean was telling the truth, whether Dean would always pull his punches, let him win - whether Dean was purposefully holding out on him.

He didn't think so, though. John knew Dean respected him enough to give him his best.

*

Dean still wasn't sure exactly what Dad was hunting – although that wasn't because his Dad didn't trust him. It was because even Dad wasn't sure what it was – just that there was something going on.

Dad had been home when they'd got back from school this afternoon, but then he'd got a phone call and had left shortly after.

It must have been an important phone call, because he'd abandoned all his research – stacks of newspapers and diagrams, piles of musty old books. Dad had left them all sprawled out on the dining room table, in plain sight, so Dean didn't really think it was snooping if he read through some of them while Dad was out.

Still, half an hour later and Dean still had no idea what his Dad was after. It wasn't a ghost, that was for sure – or at least, not your average ghost. There were definitely some weird things going on, but the connections weren't clear.

Dad had highlighted one of the more recent articles – a cop who had got mauled by some kind of wild animal. There was a coroner's report clipped to it as well – which Dean was pretty sure Dad hadn't obtained legally – and he didn't understand much of the medical jargon, but he got enough to know the gist of it. The cop's heart had literally been ripped out of his chest. Which, if it had been a movie, would have actually been pretty cool. But this wasn't a movie, and the starkly coloured photographs didn't leave much to the imagination. Dean hurriedly shoved them underneath a newspaper. No need for Sam to see those- they'd give the kid nightmares for a week.

There were teeth marks and everything, which would fit with the whole wild animal theory – except it hadn't happened in the forest or anything, though – had happened in the guy's office – and there was no sign of any disturbance or a break-in. So Dean could see why Dad would be interested. This was definitely their kind of weird.

The attack had happened two days before they'd moved to Indiana. Dean supposed that was probably why they moved, that Dad was on the trail of this thing. It made sense.

He didn't know what the weather reports had to do with anything though – Dad had printed out pages and pages of climate reports, charts of weather changes for the region for the last fifty years.

This year was off the charts cold, with the coldest winter on record.

Dean wondered what that meant, but he knew Dad would figure it out, eventually. Dean just had to keep Sammy off his back while he did.

*