Monday morning is back to school. Dean wakes up late, forcing him and Sam to run to the bus stop, managing to arrive just in time.

"Do you boys even know how to stay out of trouble?" Miss Margie asks upon seeing Sam's new cast.

They take their usual seats, Dean plopping down near the aisle, letting his head fall back against the bus's high-backed seats only to regret it the moment a dull pain reminds him of the tender knot from the fall. "You're not riding the bus home are you?" Sam asks, remembering the week's worth of detention his brother had been rewarded.

"No, I'm not. Remember, you're to go straight home after getting off the bus," Dean reminds him, earning an over exaggerated eye-roll.

"Dude, you do realize I'm not four, right? You don't have to keep reminding me every five minutes."

"Then quit asking the same questions over and over, because all it does is give me the impression that you have a crappy memory," Dean bites back. Another eye-roll, he really has to teach Sammy a better comeback.

The first two classes of the day go by without too much trouble. Dean struggles through the pop quiz in math, almost certainly failing after missing the better part of a week's worth of lessons. He even manages to stay awake the entire time during history. So far, so good.

Third period is the first sign that this week might not be any better than the last. He takes his usual seat next to Eric, the only reason Dean has a passing grade. Eric is a cool enough kid, just a little too eager to please. Normally, Dean would try to avoid kids like Eric, but seeing how Eric has the highest GPA in the eighth grade and is more than eager to share his homework with Dean, Dean's more than willing to make an exception.

"You're back," Eric says unnecessarily as Dean takes his seat at the lab table. Dean pulls out his notebook and looks at the blackboard for the opening assignment, answering Eric with a curt nod.

List and identify the stages of photosynthesis, then explain why it is significant to us as humans. Dean pulls a card from Sammy's book and rolls his eyes. Mr. Finnegan is always asking crap like that. Why is it significant to know this stuff? Dean thinks to himself as he looks up photosynthesis in his book.

Two paragraphs in and he realizes he's in trouble. He hasn't absorbed anything he's just read. He doesn't care about how plants get their food, how they grow, or whatever it is he's supposed to be looking up. Looking at Eric, Dean sees that the guy's already got half a page of teeny-tiny writing. All Dean has is two lines and that's the definition of photosynthesis he had gotten from the back of the book.

A few minutes later, when Mr. Finnegan takes it up, he's less than impressed, showing his contempt by pointing out that being suspended is not an excuse for falling behind. Dean leaves science and head's to lunch with three times as much homework as the rest of the class. Mr. Finnegan had felt he needed it in order to catch up.

Dean doesn't even know what it is they're serving in the cafeteria, and he's actually content with the fact that he doesn't have enough money for a full lunch, having given two dollars worth of quarters to Sam. He buys a banana and a carton of milk and begins looking for a place to sit.

Becky Thompson is sitting at her usual spot, already digging into her purple lunchbox. Dean's sat at her table once before, it's how he learned her name. She had been nice, and he had instantly taken a liking to her.

This time though, she's a little less receptive. As soon as he sits down at the end of the table, two seats down, her and her friend immediately stop talking, both looking at him with the same look of disgust the now deceased cashier had leveled him with.

Dean immediately takes offense, not liking the way their stares cause his stomach to twist. "What?" he asks, generally curious as to why they would change their opinion of him since last talking to him.

"I thought you got expelled." Blonde friend asks, looking to Becky for confirmation.

"Just suspended," Dean corrects, shaking his milk before opening it.

"I didn't think they let druggies come back," Becky adds as she peels the crust off her sandwich.

Dean looks up from his milk carton, giving up on trying to push the two arrows together in order to get it open. "They probably don't," he says. "but I don't know what that has to do with me. I'm not a druggie."

"That's not what we heard," Blonde friend chimes in, and Dean really wishes she'd shut the hell up.

"You heard wrong." He says, fully aware his voice is betraying his growing anger.

Becky looks at him, offended that he would talk like that to her friend. "Well, it's not like you're gonna admit it," she says, squinting her eyes, perfecting the stuck up bitch glare.

"Whatever," Dean shakes his head and turns back to his stubborn milk carton, contemplating finding a pair of scissors and cutting the thing open. It's not like he's going to be able to change her mind anyway, so why bother trying.

"You're all the same," Becky whispers loud enough for him to hear. "All attitude and tough talk, not caring about anything that matters."

Dean slams the milk carton down, hating the fact that he had chosen to sit at her table. "You don't know anything about me." He says it through gritted teeth, the only way to keep his voice from rising.

Becky smirks and, picking up the remainder of her lunch, stands to leave, offering a quick, "Sure, I don't" before leaving him behind. Dean wants to scream out of frustration. He had liked Becky, like liked her. He doesn't know if he's angrier at everything she had said or the fact that he almost, almost feels like crying because she even said it.

He's torn from having to decide when Isaac, Mr. Enigma, Hardwicke plops down in front of him. "I wouldn't bother messing with Becky and Tabitha. They're just a couple of prudes anyway." Isaac reaches into a brown paper bag and casually tosses Dean a bag of Frito chips.

Dean looks at him and then the Fritos, quirking an eyebrow questioningly. "I don't like that kind," Isaac says, pulling out what looks like a peanut butter sandwich with some white, fluffy stuff instead of jelly. "My mom makes my lunch and she tends to forget that."

Dean leaves the bag lying between them as he continues to work on his milk carton, having to turn it around to try the other side. "What are you eating?" he asks, seeing Isaac lick a trace of the fluffy stuff from his finger.

"Peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich," Isaac says, taking another bite.

"Marshmallow?" Dean looks at the sandwich again, trying to imagine how someone came up with that.

"Yep, they sell the stuff in jars. It's awesome."

"I'll take your word for it," Dean says, smiling as he finally gets his milk open.

"So, do you start your detention today?" Isaac asks, determined to strike up a conversation.

"Uh-huh," Dean tells him, breaking off the bruised part of his banana. "Me, too," Isaac says, pulling out another peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich.

Dean slowly eats his meager lunch, occasionally glancing at the bag of chips in the center of the table. "You can seriously have those, man. If you don't eat 'em, I'm just gonna throw 'em away." Isaac pushes the bag towards Dean.

Dean takes the bag and opens it, pulling out two chips and putting them in his mouth. "Why do you even buy them if you don't like them?"

"My mom does the shopping, not me. My sister likes to snack on them," Isaac says as he takes a sip from his own milk carton.

Dean taps his finger on the table, slowly chewing the chips, trying to work up the nerve to ask what he's been wanting to know for a full week. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Why'd I get involved with David and his goons?" Isaac guesses, earning a quick nod from Dean. "I don't know. I guess I didn't like the idea of three guys teaming up against one."

"You don't even know me," Dean points out. "For all you know, I could have deserved to get my ass kicked."

Isaac purses his lips and nods, considering the truth to Dean's statement. "I've known David since Kindergarten. It's been my experience that no one deserves what David gives them. And for the record, after seeing what you did to Reggie and David, I don't think you would have gotten your ass kicked."

Dean can't help smiling as he remembers the bloody look of confusion on David's face as he tried to figure out what went wrong while he was being dragged back to the school.

"I probably would have if you hadn't handled the big guy," Dean tells him, taking another handful of chips.

"Yeah, probably," Isaac laughs, and Dean laughs with him.

The rest of the lunch period is spent talking about their week off during their suspension, Dean altering his a bit in order to leave off the parts about researching possible possessions a county over. He's a little surprised to find himself disappointed when the bell rings. He actually enjoyed talking to Isaac, finding the guy easy to get along with.

His good mood immediately dissipates the moment he walks into English class and sees Becky sitting in her front row seat. She doesn't even look at him as he walks by, and Dean's determined not to let her get to him.

The class drags by, Dean wanting to break something every time Becky raises her hand, or laughs, or moves, or freaking breathes.

He shouldn't have sat at that stupid table.

Three o'clock doesn't come fast enough, and when it finally does, Dean's joy is short lived. He's got detention. Another hour of school. He's directed to the life sciences and home economics classroom by a teacher that looks like she's trying to relive the glory days of Woodstock.

The room is large, split into two sections. One looks like a kitchen, with several stoves on one wall, while the other section is like a traditional classroom, surrounded by many shelves holding enough arts supplies to suffice the entire elementary school.

The teacher walks in and points to one of the desks in the back of the classroom, telling Dean that that's his new assigned seat for the week. Dean looks up and finds a reason to smile. Screw Becky Thompson and her dumbass opinions. Forget Mr. Finnegan's extra homework. His new favorite person is whatever Miss Hippie-Chick's real name is. He should really buy her an apple or whatever it is students get teachers for presents, because really, the woman and her stupid arts and crafts inspired classroom just made his day.

Dean smiles and makes sure to do his homework, not even looking at the other kids. Throughout the detention, he casually reaches behind him and grabs one of the items off the shelf that had first caught his attention when he walked into the room. By the time the clock strikes four o'clock, he's managed to nab four brightly colored bottles of fabric paint, all tucked away safely in his backpack.

Screw Sammy and his black cast.

Dean follows the other kids outside, all of them immediately going to cars lined up in front of the steps. Dean looks around, but doesn't see any sign of his dad. Normally, they tried to find a place close to the schools, but New Hope doesn't exactly have a convenient layout.

The trailer park is about eight miles from Dean's school, eleven from Sammy's, meaning that if their dad doesn't pick them up, they have to ride the bus home. Dean hadn't reminded John about the detention, he just kind of assumed he would remember or at least figured it out when he saw that Sam was all by himself. That's if he's even home at all.

Dean walks a couple of steps down and takes a seat, deciding to wait a while before he starts walking, give his dad a chance just in case he remembers.

"Hey, Dean!" Isaac rolls down the window to a red minivan, waving his arm in order to get Dean's attention. "Do you need a lift?" Dean sees a woman, presumably Isaac's mom, looking at him from the driver's seat. She's young, a lot younger than his dad and a lot prettier than Isaac. She's smiling, waiting on an answer.

"Nah, I'm good." Dean waves them off, smiling to show his appreciation for them asking. "My dad's just late," he lies while hoping it's the truth. Eight miles is a long way.

"Alright, see ya," Isaac yells back as the minivan starts to drive off.

Ten minutes goes by and Dean doesn't think anything of it, at least not until he sees the storm clouds in the distance. "Why the hell is it always raining here?" he says out loud, as he starts walking east, towards the trailer park.

He's making good time, all that training coming in handy. Maneuvers and morning runs have helped build up his endurance and speed, letting him walk two miles in just under twenty-five minutes. He's keeping a steady pace, knowing better then to wear himself out when he's not even halfway yet.

As he gets closer to home, the clouds start to get darker, and he starts to pick up his pace, fearing that he won't make it before the rain comes.

Cars steadily pass by, none of them concerned with a teenager walking on the side of the street. He makes sure to walk on the left hand side of the road, into the oncoming traffic—the last thing he wants is to get hit from behind. One close call with death by car is enough for one week, thank you very much.

Each time a pair of headlights meets him, he steps into the grass, getting out of the car's way. It's a steady pattern, him alternating between the asphalt and the ditch as he nears the three mile mark.

When a pair of the headlights slows down considerably, he tenses, readying himself for a possible confrontation. Only two types of people are going to stop and offer a complete stranger help. One type is the Good Samaritan, and the other is the Perverted Psycho. Dean knows which one there are more of.

The headlights slowly morph into a red minivan, the pretty raven-haired woman from before smiling as she pulls to a stop.

"Dean, right?" she asks, and Dean thinks her voice matches her looks, soft and nice.

"Uh, yeah. Isaac's mom, right?"

"That's right. Do you want a ride?" she asks, already leaning over to unlock the passenger side door.

"That's alright, really. It's not that much farther," Dean assures her.

"Where are you going?" she asks, and Dean realizes where Isaac gets his determination.

"The trailer park near Euclid." If Dean had a gun, he could shoot himself. He should have lied.

"Sweetie, that's like ten miles away," she says, and Dean sees the maternal look in her eyes, only this time it looks different from the other women, the waitresses and hotel cleaning ladies, but Dean doesn't know why. Maybe it's because she's an actual mom.

"More like six," Dean corrects, knowing it doesn't sound any better. Six, ten—either one, it's still a long way.

When a flash of lightening flashes in the distance, shortly followed by a loud thunderclap, Isaac's mom doesn't wait for Dean to change his mind. She changes it for him. "Get in. I'm not gonna be responsible for you getting struck by lightening."

As the first drops of rain start to fall, Dean accepts defeat and climbs in the front of the van. "Buckle up," she says as she turns the van in the opposite direction, heading towards the Winchester's current residence.

"How was your first day back?" Mrs. Hardwicke asks in an attempt to keep them from falling into an awkward silence. Dean feels a little uncomfortable, not having been near a woman outside of the usual roles of student, teacher or waitress, patron. He doesn't know how to act.

"It was okay," he says tentatively, not really knowing if she really cares. Do moms care about other people's kids? "It's school, you know?"

"That sounds about right. Isaac's not to fond of it either." She smiles that smile again, and Dean feels his chest tighten. "I use to have to bribe him to go to kindergarten." She laughs this time, and Dean likes the way it sounds. Comforting and happy.

"Do your parents work late?" she asks as they wait on a stoplight to change.

"My dad does sometimes. It's just him, me, and my brother." Dean says, relieved when she doesn't ask about his mother.

They pull up to the trailer park and Dean unbuckles his seatbelt. "Thanks, Mrs. Hardwicke."

"It's no problem, which one's yours?" She turns into the park, slowing down as she looks at him expectantly.

"That's okay, I can walk from here." His hand's on the door, waiting for her to stop the van.

"But it's still raining." When Dean looks at her, he doesn't know how to respond. He usually uses sarcasm or some other form of wit when people disagree with him, but for reasons he's too afraid to admit, he doesn't want to be disrespectful to her.

"It's really not a problem." He has no idea why he even bothers saying it, it didn't work the first time, why would it a second?

"Come on, which one?" she smiles again.

"It's down at the end, last one on this side." He points in the general direction and leans back in the seat, content to let her drive him all the way.

When the trailer comes into view, he feels his stomach drop. The Impala's parked right out front. Either his dad just got home and hasn't realized that Dean isn't there, or he really just forgot about him. He doubts it's the latter seeing as how his father's been watching him like a hawk, keeping close tabs on him the last few weeks. There's no way he'd just forget about it all in one day.

"Thanks, Mrs. Hardwicke." Dean cringes when he hears the unwelcomed sadness in his voice. He can tell himself he doesn't care all he wants, but his stupid emotions keep trying to prove him wrong.

"Like I said Sweetie, it's not a problem."

Dean kind of panics when she cuts of the van, undoing her own seatbelt and opens her door. "Um…"

She looks at him, and smiles. "I just want to talk to your dad a moment." When she sees the look of panic her words evoke, she quickly adds, "It's nothing bad, I promise. I just think I can help out a little, that's all." She closes the van door and starts walking towards the front door, not giving Dean a chance protest.

Dean walks up just as she's knocking. He leans by her and pushes the front door open, revealing a very worried looking Sam. "Dude, where've you been?" Sam asks, not even looking at the woman standing in the rain.

Dean pushes his brother aside, praying there aren't any weapons within view. He highly doubts Mrs. Hardwicke is the guns as a centerpiece kinda woman. "Where's Dad? Isaac's mom wants to talk to him," Dean tells his brother, as he closes the door against the rain. He watches as Isaac's mom looks around the small living space, taking in the sparse furnishings and lack of personal touches. Dean likes her even more when he doesn't see judgment in her eyes.

Sam runs into their dad's bedroom, not even bothering to knock before bursting through the door, whispering in a none-to-quite voice, "Dad there's a lady with Dean who wants to talk to you!"

Dean rolls his eyes as Mrs. Hardwicke laughs lightly. It doesn't take long before Dean's dad walks out of the bedroom, pulling his shirt down over his head. He looks at Dean, realization dawning on his face as though he just remembered something important. Something like picking his son up from school. Dean feels his stomach drop. Again.

"Sorry to bother you. I'm Trish Hardwicke." Mrs. Hardwicke extends her small hand towards John. He takes her hand, still looking a little uncertain as to who she is and why she's standing in his living room. "I'm Isaac's mom, he's a friend of Dean's," she says as way of clarification. Dean doesn't say anything about her calling Isaac his friend. She's nice, there's no reason to correct her.

"John Winchester," he says, looking to Dean, hoping he'll explain why she's here. Sensing his father's confusion, Dean clears his throat and points towards the door. "Mrs. Hardwicke drove me home. I guess since you had to work late."

Dean sees the silent 'oh, crap' flash across his father's face. So, his dad had forgotten about him. Guess he should be happy. It means his father isn't worried to leave him alone anymore.

"Thank you. I got off work late and forgot all about Dean's detention." John runs a hand through his hair, scratching at the back of his neck.

"Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I already have to go to the school to pick up Isaac, and we pass by here on the way home. It would be no problem for me to drop him off before I go to work."

When she sees the look of uncertainty pass across John's face, she smiles that mom-smile. "I work the night shift in town," she says. "I don't have to be there until five thirty so I have plenty of time. I really don't mind."

"Well, thank you. We'd appreciate it." John smiles, once again extending is hand for her to shake. "If there's ever anything we can do for you…" Dean knows his dad's only saying it to be nice. Short of cleaning out any ghosts the Hardwicke's might have in their attic, there isn't much they can do.

"Thanks," she says, jingling her keys in one hand as she reaches for the doorknob with the other. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow, Dean."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hardwicke," he says, moving to hold the door for her. She smiles at him before running into the rain to her van. Dean shuts and locks the door slowly, turning to find both his father and his brother staring at him.

"I tried to tell her she didn't have to drive me, but she's kind of persistent." Dean drops his book bag by the door.

"Dean, I really did just get home. I completely forgot you wouldn't be on the bus." John sits down at one of the foldout chairs near the table. "How long were you waiting?"

"Not long," Dean tells him as he removes his jacket. "I started walking when I noticed the storm clouds."

"I'm sorry, dude." John shrugs, not really knowing anything else to say.

"It's fine, Dad. She's the only one that's really making a big deal out of it," Dean says, hoping his dad will let it drop. He really doesn't feel like getting into it and knows his dad's 'I'm sorry, dude' is about as deep as John's apologies go.

"You eat yet?" Dean turns to Sam, asking to see whether or not his brother had fed himself. When Sam shakes his head no, Dean starts looking through the cabinets. He settles for a can of Spam and decides to fry it, silently daring his brother to complain. Today has sucked and the last thing he needs is another reason to hate Mondays.

Sam seems to understand his brother's body language, keeping quiet as Dean grabs a frying pan and starts slicing the Spam.

"They're saying the man that almost hit you was suffering from an aneurism. His brain was bleeding," John says, clarifying when Sam looks like he doesn't understand. "So far, there's been twenty-six accidents within three months. The asshole from the other day makes twenty-seven." John continues giving the boys information about the job. Seeing how this is the most he's shared since first discovering the accidents, Dean assumes its out of guilt for leaving him at the school.

"My theory is we're looking at possessions. Probably the same thing possessing different drivers." John watches his boys to see if they're taking it in. Sam's sitting at the table, an unfinished worksheet lying in front of him, while his eyes dart between his father and brother. Dean's eyes are focused on the frying pan, occasionally flipping a piece of the Spam.

"Dean. You listening?" John snaps, not really meaning to. He guesses it's out of habit.

"Same demon, different victims. Yes, sir, I'm listening."

"Watch the attitude."

"Sorry, sir," Dean apologizes as he reaches for the loaf of bread.

"How do you stop it?" Sam asks, and John doesn't know if it's out of curiosity or in order to divert attention from his brother, saving him from getting in trouble. John's noticed both boys do that, Dean more than Sam does, but Sam will do it occasionally. He's done it a lot in the last month or so.

"Exorcism," Dean answers sitting a fried Spam sandwich down in front of his brother. "You want one?" Dean looks at his father as he points to the sandwich.

John nods while Sam asks, "How do you know?" in a tone Dean suspects is reserved for annoying little brothers.

"Because I pay attention, that's how," Dean answers in the appropriate, big brother tone. All the response is missing is for Dean to stick out his tongue, something he outgrew when he was ten.

"So you'll do the exorcism and then it'll be gone, right? Like the movie?" Sam asks around a mouthful of Spam and mayo.

John looks at Dean, who shrugs and says, "It was on TV and you said not to leave the motel."

"So you let him watch 'The Exorcist'?" John asks, accepting his own sandwich.

"Dad, you're talking about doing the real thing. How is a movie any worse?" Dean counters. John takes a bite of his sandwich, choosing to ignore Dean's point when he realizes he doesn't have a decent argument.

"We can't do the exorcism until we know who it's possessing," John explains, "That's why it's taking so long to finish the job. I have no idea who it's possessing until after the accidents have already happened. By then, it's done moved on."

"So the only way to gank it, is to find out how it's choosing people to possess?" Dean asks.

"Exactly. But so far, it appears to be random."

Dean looks at his father, not liking the picture he's painting. "So we're screwed?"

"Not unless we get lucky," John says, shoving the rest of his sandwich into his mouth before standing to fix him another.

We're so screwed, Dean thinks as he considers the fact that Winchester Luck could be synonymous with Bad Luck. "Dude, hurry and eat so you can finish your homework. You still gotta take a bath," Dean says when he sees the half-finished worksheet.

"I'm almost done," Sam points out indignantly, obviously not liking having to be told. Dean just ignores him and continues working on his sandwich, counting down the minutes until he can say that Monday is over.

When John gets up later that night for a glass of water, he's surprised to see a light shining from beneath the boys' bedroom door. He doesn't knock, choosing to peak his head in to see what they're up to.

He's met with a surprised looking Dean, holding what looks like a hot pink tube of paint over a brightly decorated black cast. Taking a step closer, John identifies yellow flowers, purple hearts, and what looks like multi-colored fairies.

When John shakes his head and says, "Can you draw a unicorn?" Dean's smile threatens to split his face in two.

"I'm willing to try," he whispers, not wanting to wake his oblivious little brother.

Payback's awesome, especially when it's three years in the making.

Tuesday through Friday go by a lot smoother than Monday. Dean avoids Becky Thompson and her blonde friend at all costs, choosing to pretend as though they don't even exist. He takes Eric up on his offer to borrow his notes from the week before, catching him up in science. He uses detention to complete all of his homework, including the extra given to him by Mr. Finnegan, and each day he eats lunch with Isaac.

Dean doesn't admit it out loud, and when he starts to think about it, he quickly pushes the thought aside, but no matter whether he's willing to admit it to himself or not, he's starting to become friends with Isaac. The kind you invite over to play video games, something that becomes apparent when Isaac asks Dean whether or not he'd like to spend the night on the way home from detention on Friday.

Dean almost says yes without even considering it, but the ever-present thought of Sam keeps him from agreeing. "I can't. I've got to watch my brother while my dad's gone." Dean doesn't even know what to think when Mrs. Hardwicke chimes in from the front seat. "I've already talked to your dad about it. He said it'd be okay."

Dean looks at her for any sign that she might be lying. He spent two days buttering his dad up before asking him if Sam could stay with a friend. Even then, it took another two days before John had said yes. The idea that he would be willing to stay home and watch Sam by himself while Dean went and stayed at a friend's house just doesn't sound like the John Winchester Dean's spent the last nine years with.

"Are you sure you clarified that I'd be spending the night, as in sleeping at your house?" Dean asks, thinking maybe there had been some miscommunication.

"Yep, I thought I'd better ask him first since you told me you had been grounded after the fight. I didn't want for Isaac to invite you and you get your hopes up only to have your father say no."

"And he didn't say 'no'? He said 'yes'?" Mrs. Hardwicke laughs, making Dean blush, "Yes, sweetie, he said you could spend the night. You can ask him when we stop by and you get your clothes."

Isaac follows Dean inside when they pull up to the trailer. Dean guesses the Hardwicke's aren't big on waiting in the car. He unlocks the front door and walks in, finding his dad sitting at the table, several papers spread out in front of him.

"Hey boys," he greets them, not even looking up from the table.

"Hi, Mr. Winchester. Dean doesn't believe you gave him permission to stay with us." Dean elbows Isaac in the side, giving him a patented What the Hell glare.

"What? You don't," Isaac says, rubbing his ribcage.

"If you want to, you can," John says, watching the exchange between the two boys.

"What about Sam?" Dean asks, still not convinced he's actually going to get to spend the night with Isaac.

"I can watch him. I am capable you know?" John says in a way that suggests he may be insulted by Dean insinuating that he can't.

"What about your job? Don't you have to work tonight?" Dean's double and triple checking. He doesn't want his father to up and leave Sam all alone in the middle of the night. It's a valid fear, after all he started leaving Dean in charge when he was only seven.

"I thought I'd take tonight off, get some reading done." John casually gestures to the stack of papers, his journal resting closed on top.

"So, I can go?" Dean clarifies.

"You can go." John confirms.

Dean doesn't waste any time darting to his room in order to grab some clothes. He finds Sam resting on the bed, one of his many books propped up on his lap. He glares at Dean, still angry about the cast he now has wrapped in an old t-shirt.

He had been on the verge of tears when he woke up Tuesday morning to find that his black cast was no longer black. In his opinion, a purple unicorn with a flower growing out of it's butt is way worse than Snow White and Cinderella.

"Hey, Little Man," Isaac says, plopping down next to Sam on the bed. Dean and Sam both still as Isaac gets dangerously close to Dean's pillow and the gun that's hidden underneath.

"Hey," Sam closes his book and lays it on top of the pillow as a deterrent for Isaac not to touch it. "Dean spending the night with you?" He asks Isaac even though his eyes are on his brother, hurriedly stuffing a pair of clothes into the duffle.

"Yep, but it's just for one night. You guys share this room?" He starts looking around, finding it odd that there isn't anything that looks like two boys live there. There's a soccer ball on the floor, and a stack of books on the dresser. But there aren't any posters on the walls or toys spread out everywhere.

"Yeah, there's only two bedrooms," Dean explains, suddenly feeling embarrassed about the drab looking bedroom.

"You guys share a bed, too?" Dean shrugs a shoulder, wishing Isaac had stayed in the car while he got his clothes.

"The trailer was furnished when we moved in," he explains, not bothering to mention the fact that he and Sam akmost always share a bed.

"You're lucky, Little Man. I used to have to wait for my big bro to fall asleep before I'd crawl into bed with him. I was a big scaredy cat when I was little, but Isaiah never wanted me sleeping in his bed," Isaac says to Sam, reminding Dean why he considers the guy a friend.

"I'm not too lucky. Dean hogs all the covers." Sam scoots closer to Dean's pillow when Isaac stands.

"How can I hog the covers if you're all over the bed, Runt? Half the time I wake up, you've got your foot in my face." Dean zips his bag and gestures to the door for Isaac to leave. When he sees Sam flip him the middle finger, he stops long enough to return the favor.

Before the door's completely shut, he pushes it back open, whispering, "You gonna be okay?"

"Dean, I'm not a baby," Sam reminds him, reaching for his book and searching for his lost page.

"So you keep reminding me, but seriously if you want me to stay, I will," Dean keeps his voice low so Isaac won't hear him.

"I'm fine Dean. I promise. Have fun." Sam smiles, encouraging his brother to leave.

"I'll see you tomorrow then," Dean promises, pulling the door shut and following Isaac outside.

Isaac lives in a large, three-bedroom apartment about ten minutes from the trailer park. It's not anything fancy, but it's a whole lot nicer than anything Dean's ever stayed in, at least not since Lawrence.

As Isaac leads the grand tour, Dean counts four TVs and just as many VCR players. The living room as two whole shelves dedicated to movies and CDs. There's two bathrooms and a large kitchen, complete with a fully stocked fridge.

In Dean's opinion, the Hardwicke's have it made.

Dean sits on one of the two large beanbags situated in front of the TV in the second living room, or as Isaac calls it, the family room. They sit and play Donkey Kong and Mortal Kombat on a Super Nintendo, pausing only to go to the bathroom and refill their popcorn.

Dean tries to ignore the feelings of guilt he has as he drinks his third coke, knowing that Sam is most likely holed up in their room trying to entertain himself and looking forward to a meal of Vienna sausages. Isaac's mom had put a meatloaf in the oven before she left for work, and Dean can hear the older boy in the house, who he assumes is Isaiah, Isaac's older brother, banging pots around, indicating they might have sides to go with the meatloaf.

Dean is just finishing getting his butt kicked by Isaac for the third time in a row when Isaiah walks in holding a dark haired little girl that can't be older than two. She has big brown eyes, and a kool-aide stained tongue.

"Hey, if you want to eat anytime tonight, you and your boyfriend need to watch Izzie." The older version of Isaac sits the little girl down, handing her a sippy-cup.

"Yo, Dickweed, this is Dean, my not-boyfriend friend. Dean, this is Dickweed, my big brother, but my mom just calls him Isaiah." Isaac doesn't even look up from the TV screen.

"You can just call me Dean," Dean says by way of greeting, choosing to ignore the boyfriend comment. After all, he is a big brother, too so he gets it. "Do you need any help with dinner?"

"You know how to cook?" Isaiah asks with a slight air of disbelief.

"I know the basics," Dean tells him as the little girl sits on the side of his beanbag.

"Let me guess, you made an A plus in Home-Ec, right?" Dean decides just because he's a fellow big brother and the brother of his new and only friend, doesn't mean he has to like Isaiah.

"No, I learned from spending the last five years cooking for me and my brother." Dean bites back, helping the little girl fix her leaking sippy-cup before she stains the entire front of her shirt red.

Isaiah cools down a little, but not enough. Obviously, this seventeen year old isn't too thrilled with having to stay home on a Friday night in order to keep an eye on his younger siblings. "Your mom work nights at a strip club, too?"

"Isaiah!" Isaac's had enough, and he pauses the game, leveling his brother with a glare that tells the older boy he's crossed a line. Dean isn't sure if it's the part where he mentioned where their mother works, or the part where he brought up Dean's deceased mother. It could really be either, because Isaac's never mentioned what his mom does for a living, and ever since finding out about Dean's mom, he made sure to stay away from that topic, too.

"No, my mom's dead," Dean says in a carefully even voice, effectively draining all color from Isaiah's face.

"Sorry, man. I didn't know," Isaiah has enough sense to look ashamed at his earlier outburst. Rubbing his hand across the back of his neck. "Look, I've got dinner covered, can you two just watch the baby, please?"

"Yeah, we got her," Isaac snaps, as he continues to stare at his brother. "You can go now." Isaiah holds his hands up in defense and makes a show of backing out of the room.

The two boys sit in quiet for a few seconds, neither one knowing what to say. Izzie breaks the silence when she shoves her sippy-cup into Dean's face, staining his cheek with the spilled drink in an offer to share.

"I'm sorry about him. He thinks he's too good for the whole baby-sitting thing, and Mom doesn't exactly trust me to keep Isabelle out of trouble." Isaac still hasn't unpaused the game. "He was really pissed when Dad left, and he still hasn't gotten over it."

Dean doesn't tell Isaac that he doesn't blame his brother for still being upset, he has no idea what he would do if either Sam or his dad were to leave. "It's fine, dude. No harm done," Dean assures him, no longer in the mood for video games.

"She's a bartender, not a stripper," Isaac makes no move to get the climbing two year old out of Dean's lap. It's not a problem, Dean knows how to deal with a toddler, and he has to admit it's a lot easier when he isn't four feet tall.

"She only took the job so she could be home during the day with the baby. There's not a lot she could do in this town—"

"Isaac. Chill, man. I'm not about to go judging your mom. She's got a job and she's working to feed her family. That's enough. So, what if it's at a strip club? I, personally, see nothing wrong with 'em." Dean smiles in order to show Isaac his sincerity. His family puts food on the table by committing credit card fraud and doing questionable, and oftentimes illegal odd jobs. Sometimes they just out right steal it off the shelf. He's not going to judge a woman for working in a strip joint. You do what you can; Dean learned that a long, long time ago.

Dean reaches forward and unplugs the controller from the Nintendo before handing it to Izzie to play with.

"It's just kind of embarrassing, you know? All the guys at school talking about my mom being a stripper. People stopped inviting us over when she took the job. They all judge her, and it isn't fair." Isaac's breathing picks up as his temper starts to rise again.

"No, it's not fair," Dean agrees, knowing all too well how much it sucks to be judged for things people don't understand. It's a bad habit that the majority of society has picked up.

"I got potty," Izzie announces proudly, motivating Isaac into action. Diaper duty isn't something he enjoys.

"Come, on Isabelle. Let's go," Isaac picks the little girl up and rushes to the bathroom, leaving Dean alone. Picking up the abandoned sippy-cup, Dean walks into the kitchen, finding Isaiah putting a bowl with what looks like gravy into the microwave.

Dean quietly sits the sippy-cup on the counter, and tries to back out without drawing attention to his self. However, just as Dean makes it to the doorway, Isaiah turns around.

"Hey," he says, a little friendlier than before.

"Hey," Dean says uncomfortably, not really sure if he's welcome or not. "I was just dropping off the sippy-cup." He points towards the counter and the lone cup.

"Dinner's almost ready," Isaiah offers, grabbing an oven mitt and opening the oven. "You can go get the others." Dean just nods, knowing when he's being excused.

Along with multiple TVs and two living rooms, the Hardwicke's also have a large, wooden dining table, with a shiny lacquer finish and six matching chairs. As Dean fills his plate with a large slice of meatloaf, home made mashed potatoes, gravy, and creamed corn, he feels the guilt come back reminding him that Sam's probably trying to choke down a second can of sausages or trying to sneak an extra piece of bologna.

Dean tries to distract himself from the guilt by busying himself with cutting up Isabelle's meatloaf and making sure her potatoes aren't too hot. Isaiah didn't waste any time in fixing his plate and disappearing into his room. Isaac seems more than willing to let Dean tend to the baby.

"You're good with her," Isaac says mixing his corn and potatoes. "Usually she doesn't like strangers."

"I used to take care of Sammy," Dean explains. "She's pretty easy to make happy."

Dean helps Isaac clean up after dinner, putting away the leftovers and washing the dishes. Once the baby's put to bed, both boys resume their video game, only stopping when Mrs. Hardwicke comes in at three in the morning.

"Look, I get that you're teenagers now and you don't have a bedtime, but three o'clock is a bit much." She ushers them to bed, picking up the empty soda cans before Dean has a chance. Dean doesn't tell her he usually stays up later on the weekends, three o'clock being the perfect time to dig a grave or the average time his dad usually finds his way back to whatever motel/trailer/cabin they happen to be living in at the time.

For the first time in a really, really long time, Dean sleeps in a bed by his self. Isaac has bunk beds for when friends spend the night, and despite the late hour and long day, Dean has trouble going to sleep.

The room's too quiet and the bed feels empty. He knows if Sam is asleep right now, it's because he crawled into bed with their dad. Either that, or the kid's sitting up with the lamp on, waiting for the sun to come up. Sam's never actually gotten the chance to spend the night at someone else's house. Dean had always been willing to drop him off for a couple of hours, but he was always there before bedtime to pick him up and bring him home.

Goodsprings was the first time their father had agreed, and Dean managed to ruin that. He can't help feeling a little relieved that it didn't work out, because this whole thing's starting to suck.

Never again. Dean can come over and hang out, but he can't spend the night. Not the whole night away from Sam. As he tries to go back to sleep, he tells himself that it's for Sam's benefit, not his.

It's nine o'clock before Dean even begins to stir. He sits up, quickly looking for his missing brother before remembering where he is. He's suddenly wide-awake despite only having a few hours sleep. The need to call his brother and check on him drags him out of bed and into the kitchen.

"Morning, Dean." Mrs. Hardwicke is already up wiping down Isabelle's highchair tray. "I didn't think you'd be up this early."

"Kind of used to it." He shrugs as he looks around the kitchen for a phone. "Do you mind if I call my brother? You know, just to check and make sure he's okay?"

She puts the tray back on the highchair and stares at him, studying him. It makes Dean feel a little uncomfortable until she smiles and tosses the washcloth into the sink. "You really look after your brother don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am." He's careful to keep the well, duh, out of his voice.

"You're dad must be proud. Lord knows I can't get my boys to look after one another without anything short of a promise of punishment." She reaches into a cabinet and hands him a package of poptarts. "The phone's in the living room, by the couch."

Dean takes the poptarts, thanking her before searching for the phone.

It only rings twice before Sam's answering. His voice is tired and Dean can tell the kid didn't sleep well. "Hey, Sammy. Just callin' to check on you."

Dean silently mouths alongside Sam's predictable "I'm not a baby, Dean."

"I think I might have heard that before. You get on a sixth grade reading level, and bam! You're all grown up."

"You and Dad are the ones that keep telling me to be more independent," Sam points out, and Dean can hear the eye roll through the phone.

"I'm pretty sure I was referring to brushing your teeth and making your own breakfast. I'm not expecting you to rough it solo all the time."

"I know," Sam says around a yawn. "Did you have fun?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Where's Dad?" Dean wonders why his father hadn't answered the phone, and he's starting to panic that maybe the man did leave Sammy all alone.

"He's in the shower. He hasn't gone to sleep yet."

"What? Why not?"

"He was reading all night, he kept calling people talking 'bout the demon and stuff."

Dean looks to the kitchen, making sure Mrs. Hardwicke isn't listening. When he sees her stirring a cup of coffee, he whispers into the phone. "Did he find anything?"

"I don't know. He's got notes and stuff written everywhere but I can't read it." Sam may be on a sixth grade reading level, but it takes more than an impressive vocabulary to decipher John's cryptic shorthand.

"He didn't say anything to you?" Dean rolls his eyes at his own question. Of course he didn't say anything. Need to know.

"Nuh-uh. I woke up and he jumped in the shower."

"Alright. Well, I'll be there in a little while. I'll ask and see if he's still in the sharing kind of mood when I get there."

"I know he's supposed to meet with someone today. I heard him say it on the phone." Sam's whispering now, making sure his father doesn't hear about the late-night eavesdropping.

Dean doesn't have the opportunity to ask any more questions because a still half-asleep Isaac shuffles into the living room, followed by an exasperated looking Mrs. Hardwicke.

"We'll talk about it when I get home, Sammy. See you in a little bit." Dean frowns when his brother doesn't even say goodbye, but simply hangs up the phone.

"Everything okay?" Isaac's mom asks, tossing a bundle of yellow clothes at Isaac who grabs them and begins dressing his little sister.

"Yeah, it's just my dad has to work, and no one will be there to watch Sammy…" he slowly trails off when he sees recognition in her eyes.

"It's no problem sweetie. We can take you home on the way into town. I've got to drop Isaiah off at a friend's and then go grocery shopping. It won't be a problem."

"And I can go back to sleep?" Isaac asks hopefully as he struggles to get his sister's arms into the small dress.

"Only if you're planning on sleeping in the car. I'm not about to take her grocery shopping by myself, and I'm not leaving her here if you're gonna sleep all day." Dean forces himself not to laugh at his friend. The voice might have been softer, but the tone she had used could rival his dad's.

Dean's used to moving fast. When you wake up and decide to go somewhere, you move and get it done. The Hardwicke's like to take their time, choosing to eat breakfast slowly and get dressed even slower.

Sitting on the couch waiting for Isaiah to find his other shoe, Dean vows to never question his dad's insistency on organization and punctuality again. The guy's seventeen years old. How does he loose a shoe, just one shoe at that?

It takes them another twenty minutes before Isaac finally finds his brother's shoe stuck between the washer and the dryer. Dean climbs into the back of the minivan on the passenger side, a little upset to see that Isaiah is going to be driving.

"Buckle up, pipsqueaks," The older boy calls out as he cranks the van and starts to back out of the parking lot. "Where d'you live, kid?" Dean can't help noticing that Isaiah seems to be in a happier, albeit more obnoxious mood than the night before. At least he managed to get enough sleep, Dean thinks.

"In the trailer park where Casey used to live," Mrs. Hardwicke answers for Dean. They merge into the light Saturday morning traffic. There aren't many cars on the road, and the sun's actually out for a change, making the ride pleasant.

They continue down the road, Mrs. Hardwicke reminding her son's of the chores she noticed they hadn't done, the baby in the back row of the van pointing at the different cars and trucks they pass, asking questions in a mix of gibberish and English that Dean can barely make out.

Out of nowhere Isaiah leans forward and cuts off the radio, clears his throat and asks in a loud, taunting voice, "So, Dean. Do you think little Sammy's gonna grow up to follow in your dad's footsteps?"

Dean stares at the boy, at the smirk he can see even from his position in the back seat. Suddenly, he wants nothing but for Isaiah to pull over, and let him out, to let them all out.

"What are talking about?" Mrs. Hardwicke asks, turning to try and see Dean sitting behind her, to see his reaction to her son's odd question.

Dean doesn't say anything, he just grips the armrests, turning his knuckles white. "Dean, you okay?" Isaac asks, sensing that something's wrong.

"Are you going to answer me Dean?" Isaiah begins thrumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "Do you think Sammy will grow up to be a big bad hunter like Daddy Winchester?"

Any doubt that Dean may have had that things are messed up evaporates in that instance.

"I know what you are, Dean," Isaiah continues, ignoring his mother and brother's attempts to get him to shut up and explain himself. "I know why you're here."

Dean tightens his seat belt when he feels the van pick up speed. "Hang on!" he yells just as Isaiah turns the steering wheel, sending them off the road.

The van hits the ditch hard, the front end going down as the back comes up and over, landing the van on it's top. Dean takes a deep breath, thinking it's over, that he's still alive as the baby starts to scream.

He doesn't have time to exhale when he feels the van shift, the momentum from the initial impact sending the van down the slope. At first, it just starts to slide, but as the incline of the slope increases, the van picks up speed, eventually starting to roll, gravity and seatbelts working against one another as they push and pull at the passengers. Glass shatters and metal grinds with each roll. Every time the roof of the van comes in contact with the ground, it gets closer to Dean's head.

Seconds later, the van comes to a stop.

Dean doesn't realize it. His head's still moving, his stomach still turning. The baby's still screaming, but it sounds far away. There's pain. His head, his side, his legs, and his stomach. All of him hurts.

He opens his eyes and looks up, seeing the roof of the car inches from his face. "Isaac,…" He turns towards his friend, hoping to see if he's alright. Isaac's slumped in the seat next to Dean, his eyes opened, giving the impression that he's looking out what remains of the van's window. The odd angle of his neck, his too still chest, and the blood caking around his ear tell Dean otherwise.

"I know why you're here, Dean Winchester." Dean turns his head slowly, finding two black eyes staring at him from the broken driver's seat. Blood's running down Isaiah's head, trailing down his nose before pooling in his mouth. "But do you know why I'm here?"

Isaiah suddenly jerks his head back, his jaw opening wide as a large, black cloud erupts from his mouth, his screams amplified in the small space of the twisted van. Isaiah coughs, before blinking and crying out in pain.

"What happened?" He whimpers, looking at the steering wheel pushing against his chest. Dean watches as Isaiah looks towards the passenger seat, his eyes falling on the bloodied figure of his mother.

Dean lets his eyes follow Isaiah's, regretting it instantly. The front seat had broken, the back falling into Dean's lap, the headrest pushing into his stomach, pinning him in place. Mrs. Hardwicke is laid out on the seat, her dark hair glued to the leather by blood.

Dean could easily reach his hand out and touch her, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to be here. He wants his brother and his dad. He wants his mom, he doesn't want to be sitting here trapped next to his dead friend, and his dying family.

"MOM!" Isaiah screams when he finally realizes what it is he's looking at. The seventeen year old starts to sob, his one good hand coming out to shake his mother's shoulder. The movement causes her head to roll bonelessy from side to side, and Dean can't take it anymore.

He leans forward the best he can and throws up, the sounds of his retching blending with the cries of the baby and her big brother.

He knows how Isaiah feels. He lost his mom, too. A demon had taken her, just like a demon's now taken Isaac's mom.

A hand on his shoulder causes Dean to jerk, sending a sharp, stabbing pain through his body.

"Son, stay still. We're gonna get you out." Dean sees the man trying to lean into his window. He barely registers someone asking him his name, while someone else puts something around his neck. He doesn't know if he manages to answer them before the blackness takes over.