CHAPTER 1-22 Years Later

Dean studied his latest bruise. At least his Dad hadn't broken any of his ribs this time and they were just bruised. Now that he was an adult his Dad didn't tend to get physical with him as much as he used too but in a way Dean wished he would. Blows could be defended against, injuries healed but words… Those wounds never closed. Words could strip you of everything you ever were and leave you bare for your attacker to see. Dean stared at the mirror and knew he looked like shit. His green eyes were dull, his skin pale and the bags under his eyes showed how little he had slept. Nightmares he couldn't stop frequently haunted his nights. And Dean remembered that once upon a time his Dad would have cared, would have asked him what was wrong. He remembered the exact date his father had stopped caring and he never found out why. Dean winced at the memory of his father's latest rant. No matter how many times the words were thrown at him they never hurt any less.

Weak, your fault, coward, destroyed, ashamed, pathetic, worthless, stupid, freak. He had heard them all before but the "you were never my son, just another bastard" well, that was a new one and that one stung.

Logically Dean knew that the death of his mother and his baby brother had not been his fault. He was just a baby himself. What was a four year old supposed to do against a powerful supernatural being? And he knew he was no coward. He had gone up against creatures alone that other hunters wouldn't tackle in pairs all in an attempt to make his father proud. He was a damn good hunter but it was never enough and ever since his Dad had struck that first blow to Dean's jaw when he was sixteen years old that seed of doubt had been planted. And like a weed it grew and was slowly suffocating him. He was good but he wasn't good enough. He knew it and his Dad knew it. If he had been good enough his mother and brother would have been avenged by now and they would be able to rest. If he hadn't hindered his father so much in his quest they would finally be at peace. If his Dad didn't have to spend so much time controlling his son, correcting his mistakes then he would have saved even more lives. Dean wondered if this was one of the few times his Dad would apologise but he doubted it. His father had stopped apologising to him a long time ago but Dean still clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe… Dean sighed then winced in pain as he pulled on his t-shirt. His Dad was right. He was pathetic. He knew he should leave, he was no use to anybody like this but he had nowhere else to go and no one to go to.

He paused a moment and muttered to himself "please let him be asleep" before he put his mask back in place knowing the cracks were starting to show. He just couldn't take anymore abuse tonight. Dean quietly pushed open the bathroom door allowing the steam from the scolding hot shower he had just taken to escape then inwardly he groaned.

"What the hell took you so long Dean?"

"I'm sorry Sir, I was just" but he never got to finish before he was brutally interrupted.

"I don't want to hear your excuses" John Winchester snapped at his son who tried not to react.

Dean took a moment to compose himself and take in the details before him. His Dad's words were slurred, there was an almost empty bottle of tequila on the floor at his feet and an empty glass in his hand. Tequila was always the worst.

"It should have been you who died. It was supposed to have been you. You know that don't you?"

Dean winced and answered in a voice almost too quiet to hear "Yeah Dad, I know."

Suddenly the drunken hunter spun around, anger twisting his features "Then how can you just stand there?! It should have been you damn you!"

Dean was forced to jump quickly out of the way as the bottle was thrown at his head. The bottle crashed against the wall where he had been just seconds before. Even drunk his father's aim was dead on. As it was, it was only his own quick reflexes that saved him from another concussion, and even so the pungent liquid and a few fragments of glass still splashed onto his short hair. The smell of tequila permeated the room as the fluid ran down the wall to settle amongst the broken glass on the filthy carpet.

Dean dropped his eyes filled with sorrow to the floor before nervously rubbing the back of his neck, a habit he had picked up years ago and couldn't seem to shake. His Dad had always said it was a sign of his weakness. Finally just to break the silence Dean spoke "Come on Dad, you need to sleep."

"I would have found it by now, if you were good enough, if you could keep up" the hunter mumbled drunkenly.

Dean slowly slid down the wall to sit on the floor as the man that he had once adored slumped over where he was sitting and finally passed out. Dean ran his hands through his short hair and just sat there, wishing he could remember how to cry.

Eventually he pushed himself to his feet and walked over to his Dad. He gently placed one of the blankets over his sleeping form before cleaning up the mess on the floor and placing a bottle of painkillers next to his Dad. He was going to need them when he woke up. Why wouldn't his Dad at least just stick to whisky? Tequila always gave him a bad hangover which just made things worse for Dean. Dean sighed. He hadn't managed to look after Sammy but at least he could do what he could for his Dad and right now they were short of funds. After all, you do what you have to do to take care of family and his Dad was all he had left. He pulled on his old, worn out leather jacket, grabbed his wallet and the motel key and gave a sigh of relief as he slipped out the door into the cool night air.

Night was falling over the city when the night dwellers and those that hunted them began to stir. In the twilight of New Orleans the Dark-Hunter Sam was silently getting ready for his patrol when it struck. He was arming himself with the tools of his trade when a flash of pain exploded behind his eyes as the vision slammed into him. He dropped the blade he had been holding and gripped his head. He groaned as images flashed through his brain too fast for him to process. The vision tore through him and he swore. He hadn't had a vision this painful or this intense in a long time. He lent against the wall silently panting as his head cleared slightly, trying to put the vision into a coherent order. He silently cursed Artemis but knew better than to mutter it out loud. He was the only dark hunter who had visions like this. He couldn't call them, they just randomly came to him, usually at highly inconvenient times and places and always accompanied by a hellish migraine. At least this time he hadn't been in the middle of a fight with a group of Daimons. And it was a lot of pain for nothing. Usually his cryptic visions weren't helpful in any way and often didn't make sense until after the event had occurred when he could do nothing to stop it.

As the pain dulled Sam pushed himself upright again as he rubbed his temples and tried to hold onto the images his mind had shown him and match them up with the other sensations that came with it. Over the years he had learnt that even the smells in a vision could be important. In this vision everything was blurry. There was a solitary man in the dark and he was so sad. Sad and lonely and tired. And everything smelt like sulphur and blood. Flames began to rise behind the man making him glow with an eerie light that didn't touch the surrounding darkness but still gave the impression of dripping blood. The blood was everywhere and slowly gathered around the man, coating him in a sticky, red layer. A secondary blast of pain forced him to stumble again as the images repeated this time accompanied by a strange rustling sound that he couldn't identify. Other images were there. Weapons, a black car, a blond haired woman, but there was nothing he could use to identify the guy. He searched his memory of the vision trying to pick up any more details but there was nothing. Just the blurry image of a tall man with short, cropped hair and the smell and the pain. Sam sighed and steadied himself before he bent down slowly and picked up his blade where it had embedded itself in the floor when he dropped it as the vision had struck and slid it into his arm sheath where it belonged. He leant against the wall for a moment until the dizziness had passed. He double checked his weaponry slowly so as not to jar his head too much. Instead of heading to the door he walked slowly and softly to his front room and over to the table where he kept his art supplies. Sam grabbed his sketch pad and began to sketch what he had seen. After several minuets he stopped and cast a critical eye over his work. It was a rough sketch but it contained enough detail so Sam wouldn't forget what he had seen. He added a few small details he had missed then placed it on the table to study later. Familiarity tugged at him but he dismissed it. Finally he left the room and stepped into the night to begin his patrol, the cool night air soothing his pain. He would just have to keep an eye out for the guy because right now he had a job to do.