Author's note: I finished this flashback piece and wanted to post it before I made it any longer. I swear these things will tie together and explain everything. I hope to have the next update on by Saturday. Thanks for the reviews, its good to know you are reading. Peace and Love! Oh, and yes, that is a real town name. Been there and laughed about it. Course, I have been to a real mystery hole and a gravity hill, so I don't know if that makes me a sad monkey. Or the men I date, since both time a boyfriend took me to those places. Man, my dating life really sucks!


Then… Big Ugly, West Virginia- July 1990.



The epileptic shaking of his hand, a quivering mad hatter flux, couldn't pry the odorous meat from the encasing metal tomb. Banging on the side, Dean stopped when he heard a sloppy plop and suction without a single budge to the contents. With a disgusted groan, he bumped the container again only to have the slippery bile ooze upon down his fingertips until it slid to the base of his wrist. Why must it always be something gooey or slimy? Dean shuttered and flicked the post-traumatic, surely radioactive waste, snot.

Glaring at his unearthly opponent, he found the ripples mesmerizing. For some unknown reason, to him and anyone else who ever faced this dilemma, he just had to stare at the substance that painstakingly remained and sloshed restrained in its coffin home. Enough was enough. He was a hunter- a good one, and today was not the day he would be bested, especially by the likes of a lunchmeat.

Upturning his nose, Dean shifted his head as if that act of turning away would change tonight's dinner selection. Finally, he bit the dinner bullet, grabbing a knife with an apprehensive swing, jabbing the Spam with a sudden jerk, dividing the kill with abandon, and tossing each slippery slice into the fry pan.

"Gawwkk."

As a last act of protest, he scooted the empty can off the end of the counter into the trash. Thankfully, that one well-aimed swoop saved him from another gob of afterbirth getting on him. He was sure the porkish product as a whole really shot right out of a dog's anal tube; the thought stifled a gag in his throat. Then again, he might prefer to eat a dog's ass. At least he knew where the dog had likely been. The meat's ingredients remained the ultimate mystery, not even his Dad would take on that puzzle. However, for some reason on earth, they had to eat it. Maybe that was a bigger mystery.

After a newly successful dinner kill, he watched the first of the fat granules melt and flee the heating pan, spilling blobs of oil on the stove and the crusty stack of dishes. Spam, the great nemesis, reminded him that he had other chores to do. Sometimes being the big brother sucked. Whom was he kidding! It always sucked!

"Clean up after dinner." Dean announced as he pushed a few more plates and bowels into the towering pile that layered in the sink. He hated dishes. In fact, he despised this job more than anything. One day if he found a genie, he'd wish never to do dishes again, but quickly questioned the likelihood of that. Given that he couldn't dream the chore away, he returned to grumbling in his mind, imagining other jobs he hoped to pawn off on Sam when the kid got older: , dishes, cutting the Spam, and laundry of raunchy underwear.

Then, as if he realized how irrational that idea seemed, he chuckled. After all, dirty drawers were cake after burning a corpse. Although, the encrusted dishes had started to resemble the pallor of a dead body. The thought of salt and burned crossed his mind, but he simply doused the pile with enough suds for ten loads, tossed in a few pots and pans, and turned the hot water all the way up until the sink filled. Long after the water had stopped, bubbles grew into squeaky foam popping silently alongside the crackle of the Spam grease. For a time, Dean imagined the sounds as part of a rock song intro until the makeshift rock band added crashing percussion by toppling a plate upon the floor. Shards flew in a mosaic across the floor.

"Sonva--!"

The combination of the shattering plate and Dean's bellow drew Sam's attention with a gasping start. Up until that point, he happily amused himself staying out of Dean's way in the Indian stronghold that Dean had created under the stairs from a piece of rope, two nails, an old table cloth, and a hole filled sheet. Angling his eye to one of the holes, he followed Dean's movements during the clean up and particular the way Dean's face crumpled tight.

Recently, his big brother had been distant. More and more, their Dad barked at Dean about everything. It just wasn't fair- not fair they had to move so much, that they had no mommy , and that Daddy left them all the time.

These thoughts enticed him to chance a peek from his homemade teepee with a frown drawn on his face before his entire head made it out the opening. The two Indian war stripes painted on his face mimicked the downturn of his mouth.

As if Dean felt Sam's inspection, he glanced down at the faux Indian warrior. The last thing he needed in the clean up was someone getting in the mix.

"Just a mess."

Much to Sam's relief, Dean nodded a 'don't worry' signal, all but ordering Sam to stay out of the way. The young boy relaxed and shifted back inside his fabric sanctuary. He waited patiently for a second until he knew with certainty that Dean was occupied. After a few deep breaths and listens to the scraping of a dustpan, he pulled out a new box of waterproof matches.

The tiny fingers graced over the sides, feeling the raised bumps. Carefully, he slid open the smooth cardboard case, plucked out a brightly hued matchstick, and eyed it in wonder. The magic of it all nearly made him giggle, but this had to be a secret- a place for him alone. Plopping a bit of glue on the match, he tossed it randomly onto a wooden model of his creation.

Renew by his inflated mission, his fingers dabbed the intoxicating glue on randomly placed matchsticks. Hands flew in blur that his project neared completion. A few more sticks and Sam had a winner on his hands. Surely, something of this worth would please be the envy of all who looked upon its majesty. His hand, still plump with baby fat, grubbed another stick and then another.

After adding a few more and a toothpick, he inspected the soundness of his masterpiece. Just to be sure, he tested the latest addition: a toothpick, a bright blue one from the Jolly Rodger Crab Shack. Altogether, he crushed on the inspiring and unsurpassable, in Sam's eyes any way, malformed model of a house.

The representation skewed to the right, the left side wobbled unlevel, and the roof peaked in a slant. The bottom portion glittered with a coat of pink nail polish, which Sam discovered in a motel room weeks ago. He had slathered on a thick coat until the bottle emptied, leaving a portion still in the natural state. In total, the small house contained enough matches for a lifetime of camping trips, several bent straws, a plastic toothpick sword, and two popsicles sticks. The latter saved from the time Bobby got them ice cream as a reward for lining up hubcaps in the junkyard. Sam found no better way to honor that day than to add it to his monument.

When he decided it was good, he rubbed the residue glue between his thumb and forefinger. Sam dug into the grooves of his fingertips, itching and scratching at the filmy glue covering until the adhesive and a layer of skin ripped off. Sam picked as his finger, pulling a strip of pink, hot skin from his index finger. He hissed as the last portion ripped at first joint. Running a fingernail inside the fresh groove, he twitched when he felt the sting of the angry flesh. No matter or no time to mourn the loss of flesh, skin would grow back and this was important. This time he did giggle, but only in the smallest of ways.

The joyous triumph ended when a flaying spatula whapped again the sheet side of his tent. He barely had time to pop his head out and spring back inside for cover before a cacophony of clattered dishes spiraled in a helix crash and splintered to the floor, tumbling Dean amid the mess.

Apparently, Dean had made the ill decision to try to catch the avalanche, which now rewarded him with a seeping, scarlet gash on his hand. Just when the situation appeared to reach barrel bottom, the sizzling meat silvers morphed into a charcoal substance black, spewing ebony smoke and flames.

Ignoring the gash, Dean reacted on the spot and smothered the pan fire before it had a real chance of developing into a fire. Danger averted, he glared at the mess and heaved his shoulder in a silent sob. Carefully, he held his reaction back. Winchesters don't cry-- Rule #1 in John's handbook and Dean remembered it well.

Instead, he slid down the length of the counter, avoided the glass shards, and toppled on the floor. Devoid of expression, he sank over in a collapsed hunch, pulling into a tight ball with his head on his knees. Rule #1. Rule #1. It felt like an eon passed as he repeated the mantra without words. He snapped back his head gazing at the pool of smoke that lingered near the ceiling.

"Dean?"

How and when Sam joined him, Dean couldn't say; however, Sam titled his head in wonderment with an innocence splattered about his little face. He was weak. Burnt dinner and broken dishes had him completely off guard and totally unaware of Sam's location. Rule #2: Watch Sam. Maybe Caleb had been right, he was getting weak.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Sam!" He barked, keeping the frustration in his voice and not his eyes. No matter how he tried, his fist clenched in tight balls and his breathing hitched.

"Why won't you look at me?"

"Go play!"

"Are you going to cry?"

"Get this straight. I'm a Winchester. We don't cry like a little girl. I'll never cry like a girl. Or scream like a little girl and nothing will ever make me do that! You got it!"

Sam pushed a caramel lock from his face and smiled at Dean, realizing for the first time his creation was in his hands. For several moments he stared at the matchstick house. He loved it, even the mismatch colors. It was a mess, but the most beautiful mess he had seen. He screwed his eyes shut, imagining what it would be like, what it once was like. It surprised Sam how not having a home hurt, and he wondered if Dean felt the same. Suddenly, he understood that maybe Dean needed it more.

"I—I want," Sam bleated the words, waiting for a whiplash reaction.

For Dean, the prospect of Sam whining served only to fuel the iron of his annoyance. "Just stop!"

If Sam heard the demand, he ignored it, jutting the matchstick house in Dean's face. The gobs of model cement, still wet, stung his inflamed nostrils. The mixture of the glue and burnt Spam nipped water from his eyes.

"Are you trying to gas me?"

"It does kinda smell," said the hopeful voice beside him.

For the first time, Dean glanced at it, commenting eyes critiquing the mess that his little brother offered. Instantly, he regretted his Draconian verbal snaps when he saw Sam's beam of pride.

"What is—"

"It's a house."

"Oh. I-- I can see that," Dean said cautiously taking a closer look at the slanted roof. "I see the square-ish, eh, kinda has that shape. It's a house, eh, yeah. Why would you build a house?"

"So we'll always have one. No matter where we go."

"Dude, you're weird."

The insult put a serious damper on the young boy's spirit. Instantly, Sam shamed for having such a stupid idea in the first place. Silence fell upon the kitchen for a moment as he waited for Dean to instruct him on where he went wrong.

No matter what else you could say about Sam Winchester, he had a stare that made Dean squirm. In a beat, Dean's shoulders felt sharply, relaxing. His face smoothed out as if a crinkled piece of paper flattened.

"But thanks. This is why you had all those matches!"

"Yeah."

"You could have just told me."

"Am I still weird?"

"Yeah, but in the 'my favorite brother' kind of way."

"Yes!" Sam blurted, excitedly.

"We can keep it in the car on the dash—"

"I think Dad wouldn't get it. How about I put this in a special place in, uh, a very special—"

"Really special."

"Yeah. Oh, in my duffel! When it dries, I'll put carry in my duffle so I always have it okay?"

"I did good?"

"You did great."

"Yes!" Sam screamed before he paused in deep ponder. "Dean, I'm the only brother, right?"

"After you, why would Dad want anymore?"

"Not funny!"