It was nearly total blackness in Colorado, the bluish tint to the slants in the sky suggesting the last of the sun was breaking just behind the taught line of the horizon. The house struggled out of the dark, the beaks of the birds huddled next to the chimneys catching the last specks of light. The trees were dense on either side, curling around to the back where they met in the centre to spill down into the valley beneath. The dramatic drop did little to stop the swelling growth of the trees as they tumbled down towards the rocks. They swept the cold air up from the lake pooled at the bottom, and the tide of wind hit the back of the house and broke over the crooked roof.

The house had once cost more than anyone in the nearby village could imagine affording. It's slate roof had once shone like the smooth back of a crow, the chimneys jutting out with their sandy coloured bricks catching the sun. Now the slates were crumbling and gaping holes had been torn through from bad weather, bumps and dips visible in any light.

The garden had once been immaculate, with separated banks of flowers and herbs, with a paddock standing around the back of the house for the horses. But now it was ragged and tired with weeds and decay. An old apple tree sat up to it's haunches in dead gutted apples, and an old rope slung around an uppermost branch hung crusted over with dried mud and age. The grass in the paddock was thigh length, home to tens of various creatures that had made dens in the untouched soil.

The local kids had once stood at the bottom of the lane to watch the visitors as they arrived in the earliest models of cars, but cars hadn't touched the driveway in a long time.

That was until a 1967 Chevy Impala swung smoothly through the gate, angling its way up the gravel to the front steps. It rolled to a stop, just halting in front of a tangled web of smashed glass. The birds on the roof didn't stir, but shifted sullenly in their places, disturbed by the interruption to their quiet. Somewhere in the trees a lonely owl screeched and another down by the lake replied.

"Man, this is place let the outside in,"

The occupants of the Chevy Impala hung out of the windows, peering into the dark at the house which stood solid and proud against the wind. After a moment or two, Sam Winchester retreated his head back into the warmth of the car, ran a hand through his hair and gave it an impatient tug, "Do we have to do this now, Dean?"
Dean furled himself back in the car and flashed Sam a cocky grin, "Why? You scared? Creepy abandoned house in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night-"

"I'm not scared, alright Dean? It's just that we've been driving for hours and I really want a shower and a bed,"

"Aw come on man, we were passing by. I mean this is part of the new gig. Might as well check it out now, rather than have you drag me out of bed way too early tomorrow morning to do it,"

Dean flung open the driver side door as an end to the argument, and stepped out into the bracing wind.

"How long did you say this place has been abandoned?"

"Good fifty, sixty years. The second to last tenant was Miss Mary Farmer. She was a young widow; her husband died in the second world war. She moved up here with her children to get away from everything. In the end, they were all brutally murdered in their beds,"

"By who?"

"Well no-body knows. There've been theories. Most say it was a mad man running amuck. But nothing conclusive. They buried their bodies at the edge of the woods. The very last tenant was an elderly lady who came to live here on her own. She died in her sleep one day; it was about six days before they found her,"

"Nasty," Dean mumbled, screwing up his nose as he popped open the trunk, "So then what happened? Why didn't they do something with the house?"

"It was in the lady's will. She was leaving this to her grandson, Sampson, a thirty-something year old guy. But he never came up to live here. So the house fell into disrepair. In the end it became more expensive to knock down than leave so the village just pretended it wasn't there,"

"And so the killings…they were local kids?"

"Two were. Two kids were trying to loot stuff from the west wing, they'd heard there were valuable paintings stored up in the house. The third, was a property developer. He was looking to buy the house. He had a massive heart attack in the master bedroom of the west wing,"

Dean hauled out the shotgun and a couple of other weapons, forcing them into pockets or tucking them into his jeans, "So…" he slammed the clip into a handgun, "You think there's something walking around in there?"

"Possibly. And I'm guessing whatever it is, it doesn't like being interfered with,"

Dean slanted his head and, once Sam has assembled appropriate weapons about his person also, forced the boot of the Impala shut, "Since when have we ever taken a warning though?"

"Exactly," Sam smiled, as they started on up the front steps.

Even in the dark, things were not looking good for Scardale House. If the front hall was anything to go by, the house was well beyond its cell-by-date. There were litterings of the ceiling of the once-grand hallway all over the floor. The carpet beneath it was indistinguishable, nevermind its colour. Two large gilded paintings lay forlornly over the wreckage of the main staircase. The landing at the top of it seemed to have shrunk dramatically away from the top step, creating a gaping cavern between the barely visible upstairs landing, and the cracked remains of the stairs. The brothers picked their way amongst the debris, and began to scale the bottom floor of the house. They came across a kitchen and a larder, with other indiscernible rooms in between; some whose walls had crumbled away to create large areas of nothing. Some rooms were actually, apart from the layers of dust, in good shape. Others were starting to grow similar to the shabby outside of the house. And there were rats.

Dead and alive.

And lots of them.

"Ugh, dude, that's disgusting," Dean grunted, flicking his shoe. The back end of a dismembered rat flung from the toe of his boot and hit the wall, "Something's been making a meal of these things,"

They treaded the corridors silently, carefully, not aware of where the west wing started. They were cautious with their guns on hand; no need walking into a spirit unarmed. They didn't register the soft, naked footsteps heading their way though, flitting through the hole in the larder wall and padding softly down the slope towards the main kitchen.

Sam and Dean stood and regarded the massive room, which seemed to be made predominantly out of sandy brick and concrete slab flooring. The actual appliances had been gutted out, so only the holes in the walls where once bread had been cooked, made the room recognisable as a kitchen. That, and the large preparation table made of solid oak jutting through the middle of the room. It was covered in pots and pans, still flecked with the remains of the last meal cooked in the old house.

"So…this place is officially creepy," Dean muttered, draping aside a cobweb with the butt of his gun to poke his head into an old bread oven.

A dark, slender figure cut through the entrance of the hallway and slid into the next room which bled through a crumbling wall into the kitchen. It crouched silently, and watched.

The Winchesters made their way through the side door of the kitchen, following the winding corridors that were the servants quarters. Occasionally a door would loom up on the side, but they could see the room beyond without opening them; the walls were broken and peppered with yawning gaps. The wall on the other side of the hall was equally patchy, and the silent figure followed them on that side; keeping a constant eye on the brother's backs.

They rounded a corner not far beyond the last room they had encountered, out into another open hallway. The scrape of wood against metal alerted Sam and Dean to something behind, and they swung around with their hands on their guns, only to be met with the barrel of one themselves. The shotgun was level and steady, an old issue of Dean's own. It was decidedly old-fashioned and had probably once been used as an ornament, but the person who held it had obviously cleaned it up to be able to use it effectively. And the way they held it suggested that they could.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

By the aggression in the gun, the boys had expected some surly groundskeeper. Maybe a deer hunter who had been scoping a deer the boys had scared off. But when the figure spoke, his voice was soft and young. Sam and Dean's eyes had adjusted by now to the dark, and they managed to pick out the features of a boy behind the barrel. He was tall, slight in frame, with dark coffee-brown hair angling down to cover the tops of big green eyes, set against pale skin. A cut or two adorned his neck and one at his hairline, and he had a bandage wrapped firmly around his hand to protect a wound between his forefinger and thumb. He was barefoot, wearing only a short sleeved grey top, and faded khakis with holes due to wear down the sides and at the knees. He could have only been fifteen or sixteen. Sam and Dean slowly raised their hands, keeping their eyes glued to the gun. They guessed this boy wasn't a groundskeeper, or a deer hunter.

"We're…we're just checking out the old house. We're park-rangers,"

"You don't look like park-rangers," the boy said, darkly.

"Why?" Sam asked, scoping out the exits and possible plans of action. The boy scoffed.

"I would have seen you around here before. And you've got a handgun. What kind of park rangers carry a handgun around?"

"We do," Dean said bluntly. He cast Sam a look before continuing, "What you got loaded in that gun?"

Dean figured he should know how serious this kid was about harming someone before he decided on a plan of action.

The boy's expression didn't change, "Rock salt. It won't kill you but it'll hurt like hell. And remind you not to set foot in my house again,"

"Your house?" Dean repeated, wondering what this boy was on.

"My house," he stated, a hint of a snarl in his voice.

"No offence kid," Dean said, shaking his head, "But this isn't a house. This is a dumping ground for dead rats and dust,"

"Think what you like. I still live here. And I don't appreciate people just walking in,"

"Well there wasn't really a door to knock on," Dean lamented, spreading his hands out further and shrugging.

"Look, what's your name?" Sam asked, his calmer voice bringing the situation a little more relief. The boy paused for a long second before replying, "Jed. Jed Reeves,"

"My name's Sam and this is my brother Dean. If-"

"What are you doing up here? It's midnight. Why are you skulking around the middle of nowhere in the dark?"

"We're just…tourists, passing through. Roadtrip. We've been behind the wheel for hours and we were sick of being in the car and we pulled over and saw…this place,"

"And you decided to bring your guns and knives along with you, did you?" Jed enquired, tilting his head to one side slowly, raising an eyebrow. There was a long silence and Dean and Sam exchanged a few quick glances. Dean was still gunning for physical force to allow them to get on with their job, but by intuition alone he realised he wasn't going to get away with knocking a kid over the head with Mr Ethics Committee to his right.

With a sudden burst of sound a bird, because it was scared by something or simply because it wanted to, launched into flight just a few feet away with wings and feathers flapping. Dean launched for Jed, grabbing him by the elbows and squeezing hard. Jed automatically dropped the gun but he wrenched an arm from Dean's grip and elbowed him neatly in the face. The two went down on the ground, scrapping in amongst the broken bookshelf and torn remains of the couch. Sam kicked the gun away, just as Dean got a punch to the boy's head which should probably have knocked him out. However Jed was wriggling under Dean's grip, and the blow merely glanced off his temple. With a violent kick Jed forced Dean off him, but he was still at a severe disadvantage. Sam and Dean both had him in height and weight, and they could take him down within seconds if they charged. He used the opportunity of Dean holding his stomach to bring himself up from the ground and brace himself for another onslaught. Sam just stood, watching, arms hanging at his sides. He was wondering what they were fighting about, now the kid had no gun.

Dean seemed adamant however. He took a step to launch for Jed, when suddenly the boy's shoulders barreled him out of the way.

"Don't tread on the cat!" Jed cried, giving Dean another shove.

"What?"

Dean looked down at his feet at where Jed was crouching, and suddenly came face to face with a grey haired kitten of moggy conventions. It was licking its lips, and had undoubtedly been enjoying a dead rat underneath the debris before it had almost been stood on.

"You nearly stepped on him!" Jed scowled, holding the cat up to show Dean the little ball of fluff he could have snuffed.

"Sorry," Dean found himself saying, alarm and surprise all over his face. Jed took a step back, looking hurt and wary, not sure how things were going to proceed. He held the little kitten to him and scratched the top of his head with his fingers.

Sam decided then and there the situation had got out of hand.

"Alright Jed, it's Ok, we're not going to do anything. We just…didn't really like the idea of the gun, alright?"

"My gun," Jed stated with a shrug.

"Right, but…we don't want a fight, Ok? We just came to take a look at the building and…we're sorry,"
It didn't seem as if Jed was going to accept their apology; probably because they had nearly squashed the cat rather than the fact they had tried to knock him out.

"What's his name?" Sam asked, after a tentative moment. Dean rolled his eyes extravagantly.

"Sorry Father Sam, but can we get out of here now?" Dean harrumphed, rolling his jacket into a better position on his strong shoulders, "That shower and bed sounds a lot better than this dump,"

Jed's eyes were darkened and he shrank the cat closer to him, "Disappear then," he growled. Dean opened his mouth to reply-

"Jed," Sam interrupted, a little loudly, "What's his name?"

"The cat?"

"Yeah,"

"Boo. He's only a kitten. Someone obviously didn't want him so they threw him out of their car at the end of the drive. I took him in since he'd probably get eaten by something out there,"

"Jed…" Sam started, unsure about what he was doing. He wanted to launch into a series of questions, starting with why the hell was the boy living in an abandoned old house. But he decided against it. Instead, he continued with, "I'm guessing since you've lived here you know about the deaths. In the west wing,"

"'Course. I got an earful of it when the police and the ambulance all arrived. They tried to arrest me,"

"Why didn't they?"

"I had the perfect alibi. At the time of death I was at the local police station already; they wanted to question me about some guy's dog being speared. They think I'm a savage,"

Sam frowned, confused, "So…the authorities know you live up here?"

"Sure they do. They've known for years,"

"And they haven't tried to do anything about it?"

"They've tried taking me into care, if that's what you mean. But I kept running away, so they stopped trying. They come up here occasionally to make some half-assed attempt at sedating me and taking me back, but I always end up getting out. Anyway, why are you interested in the people that died here?"

"We just…heard about them. We heard no-one had caught the murderer,"

Jed laughed loudly, very suddenly, making both Sam and Dean jump, "It's kind of hard to catch Miss Mary. It's not like they can bang cuffs on her,"

Sam brightened at the mention of he name, "So it was-"

"Look," Jed interrupted, suddenly not laughing, "You said you were leaving. So do it. I'm not hanging around here to watch you gawp like a couple of tourists. I don't know what you want but I want you to leave,"

Dean took the invitation without a second thought and marched away over the debris. Sam, however, lingered a little.

"How do you live in a place like this?"

"I've got a room and everything. It's not like I'm sleeping with the rats,"

Jed narrowed his eyes and scrutinised Sam for a while, "Did you say you and him are brothers?"

"Err, yeah,"

"And your names are Sam and Dean?"

"That's right," Sam stated, uncomfortably. He frowned.

"Why?"

Jed pursed his lips, "No reason,"

"I think that kids been on his own too long," Dean grumbled as he slammed his way into the car.

"Yeah," Sam sighed, as he landed heavily in the passenger seat, "He looked kind of lonely,"

"He looked kind of a nutcase," Dean corrected, cranking the engine over. "I tell you Sam if we have to investigate this with that boy hanging around, I'm seriously considering coming with duck-tape and rope next time to shut him up,"

Sam chuckled, "I thought he was alright actually,"

"Yeah well you would. You're good with strays and oddballs. I mean, what he was doing flinging a shotgun around like that?"

"He was just trying to protect himself Dean!"

"Then why doesn't he invest in a door or something? Or shoes. The kid's going to get tetanus running around barefoot,"

Sam cocked an eyebrow, "And you acted so unconcerned about him,"

"What?"

"Face it Dean, you're interested in this kid too. You want to know what he's doing up here,"

"I might be interested but I'm sure as hell not concerned. The kids asking for it if you ask me,"

"Well what I think is the most interesting thing is that he's not been murdered yet. Whatever it is in that house, it must like him,"

"Maybe he's conjuring the thing. You know, to protect his home,"

"Then why wouldn't he set it on us,"

Dean thought about it for a moment, before lunging to the cassette player and turning on Metallica.

"I need bed and a shower first," he conceded, cranking up the volume.

Tell me what you think people!