I sat outside on the porch, practically dying in the Kansas summer heat. Waiting for anything. It was quiet, dull, boring. I did a quick search of the house and found a couple of things- there was no phone and no television. Nothing. I don't know what two old men did for fun, but this wasn't it.

There was a rumble of a car and sure enough, I saw a trail of dirt. Out came a salesman, making a pitch for something to sell. No big deal, until Sam and Dean pulled out a couple of shotguns and shot at him.

I take it back, this summer would be terrifying.

This went on for a few hours- a salesmen would drive up, make a pitch, and then get shot at. I don't know what made it more entertaining, the fact that they were shooting people, or that they were two old men in their sixties. It was so weird to see them shooting, but at the same time, it felt completely natural, like this is what they were meant to do.

"Nice evening," Sam said, "Quiet and peaceful."

Dean grunted.

I wonder if my mom knew what she had gotten me into.

"Now kid," Sam said, "You're going to sleep up in the tower."

I looked up the stairwell, seeing dark panel boards, leading up to my new bedroom. The lamp in my hand shook.

"Listen," Sam continued, "We don't know much about kids. So if you need something, find it yourself."

"Or better yet, learn to do without," Dean put in.

"We're both getting old-"

"-fixing to die anytime so... if we kick off during the night. Good luck."

My eyes widened. I was eleven. How did they expect me to handle myself? Instead of asking them unwanted questions I climbed upstairs to my room. The tower. That certainly wasn't ominous at all.

The room was small and dusty. It looked like he hadn't been used in years (which made sense when I thought about it). I plopped my suitcase on the bed, a cloud of dust rising, the bed springs squeaking.

This must be hell.

I opened my suitcase and felt around for my toothbrush, I didn't know what the point was, no water or toothpaste, why bother? I tossed it back into the suitcase and glanced around the room, nothing surprising about it. A small balcony, a dresser, and a trunk.

Wait.

A trunk with strange markings on it. Marks that looked both religious and satanic. Curiosity overwhelming me I fell to my knees in front of it, tugging on it. It was locked. Fruitlessly I tugged at the padlock. Nothing. But now that I was closer I recognized those marks for what they were. They were demons repelling sigils, and angel repelling symbols. Sam and Dean had more to hide than I thought. Giving up I stood, grabbing the frame of the bed. It jiggled and a key fell to the floor.

Well, it was worth a shot.

I picked up the key, old and rusted like the lock. Naturally, it was the key to the trunk. I tore the padlock off and opened it, expecting... what? Spirits or demons? Some kind of cursed object? What would you put in a trunk with all kinds of symbols on it?

At first glance it looked empty, but as I peeked into it I noticed that it was filled with salt. More demon repelling. I reached in, hoping that they didn't keep spiders in here (not like they would be alive even they were in it) and my fingers brushed against something hard and smooth. Glass. I gripped it tight and pulled it out. A picture frame. As I lifted it and the salt fell away I found a picture of a beautiful man. All dark hair and blue eyes, wearing a brown trench coat.

I heard a slam and dropped the picture back into the salt. I turned to the sound, picking up my propane lamp. I walked to my balcony and looked down. There, in the moonlight, walked Uncle Dean, wearing a long dressing gown, a plunger in his hand. What was he doing out there this late at night?

Not one to miss a good mystery, I ran down the stairs and out the door as quietly as I could, hoping to not wake Uncle Sam. He was heading towards the lake, so that's where I went. No sign of him. Huh. Maybe I was seeing things. Just as I turned to go back to the house there he was, charging the lake, plunger raised over his head.

I fell to the ground, the dogs and pig all sitting in a row, like the front row seats of a good show. I crawled to them.

"Is he sleep walking?" I asked them, feeling foolish. They all whined to me and looked back to Uncle Dean.

He pulled the plunger out like a sword, and before I could fully comprehend, he was using it as a sword, fighting invisible enemies only he could see. Even my untrained eyes could see that he was capable with a weapon. He swung and stabbed, moving into the lake and splashing the water, as if he was killing a fallen enemy.

I watched in awe.

What kind of life did my uncles lead if they knew how to fight like that?