AN: I do not own Supernatural, its characters or the Impala. I do not make money off my stories about the Winchesters. The only supernatural thing I own is a 23 lb cat named Ozzie.

This whole story was conceived by muffinroo; I'm just the one who's putting it to page.

Rated T for violence and language.

Preseries: Dean is 20, Sam is 16. For the most part, the places mentioned are completely fictional. Texas is real, though.

This chapter is short, just to establish location.

* * *

Valle Rojo isn't on any maps, and not just because there are no roads to lead you there. Nor because it's so small it's barely a hamlet. There's no post office or school or even a McDonald's. Because, of course, those are human things.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Dean froze in the act of pulling his bag out of the trunk, every sense alert to the unexpected sound that had snared his attention. His 16-year-old brother was laughing. Not chuckling or faking it either. Full on, out loud laughing.

It was a good sound. A rare one.

Sam was petting a skinny yellow dog. which was squirming around on its back in ecstasy. The dog was almost as dirty as it was skinny, but Sam didn't seem to notice, grinning the way they hardly ever saw any more. The dog, tongue hanging out farther than seemed possible, looked like it was smiling too.

The dog suddenly rolled over and sat up, pushing itself against Sam's chest and almost over balancing the crouching teen -- something that wasn't easy to do. Sam laughed aloud again, his face looking so young and carefree. The mutt's tail wasn't just wagging, it was wriggling its entire body as Sam used both hands to vigorously rub its sides.

Dean stood still for a moment, drinking in the sights and sounds of his brother's happiness the way the hard earth around them would have absorbed a rare rain shower.

Dad had stopped what he was doing to watch Sam, too. Dean sent him a silent plea to not interrupt the kid's moment of joy.

Dad was negotiating rent with "just call me Howie" who could have been the Marlboro Man's stunt double. He was thin and as weathered as the neverending dirt and rock here in the ass end of nowhere a la west Texas. His permanent squint and leathery skin spoke to a hardscrabble life spent mostly outdoors.

Now why Howie (or whomever) had decided to drag an old single wide down the narrow, rutted excuse for a road that was the only egress to plunk it miles away from neighbors, not to mention civilization, escaped Dean entirely. Not to mention, who other than Winchesters would ever rent a tin box sitting alone in the middle of the desert, especially at the beginning of the summer.

The landscape had a stark beauty, emphasis on stark. And the closest chance of any kind on entertainment was a two hour drive away. Dean had seen the generator that provided all power and was doubtful they'd be able to run the air conditioner long enough to make much difference, much less if there was a TV inside. Luckily there was a well and the generator did run a pump, so there would be running water.

Honestly, Dean shared Sam's dismay upon seeing the place. "Cousin Eddie wouldn't stay here," Dean had stated to his brother the first time the old trailer had come into view. Come to think of it, Sam had laughed then, too, even as he had to brace a hand on the ceiling to keep from hitting his head as Dean's poor baby maneuvered through the bumps and ruts.

Then Sam had grinned and responded, "Don't knock it. It has a certain Unabomber chic."

Dean had been unable to hold back a chortle "Sure. With a little work, it'll be ready for a spread in Better Homes and Gardens. Maybe a truck up on blocks, a few chickens running around."

"A great big bug zapper and a wind chime made of used beer cans," Sam offered, playing along. "It could be paradise if you find the right little woman --"

"Probably named Beulah," Dean interjected.

"-- Beulah, who wears a tube top 10 months out of the year and only has four teeth left."

"My dream home!" declared Dean. He caught Sam's eye and they both burst out laughing, barely sobering as they pulled to a stop behind Dad's and Howie's trucks.

God, Dean loved that kid. And he'd have been willing to stay far worse places if Sam were happy again, something all too rare the last couple of years.

Three laughs in one day. That was almost worth the fleas the kid was probably getting. Dean deliberately didn't look back at the metal death trap they'd be staying in. He'd whimsically imagined a giant hand shoving it back twenty feet or so to dump it down the closest of the many canyons in the area. Actually, that might improve it. Dean hefted his bag onto his shoulder and grabbed Sam's too.

With any luck, they wouldn't stay here long.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

John had just about finished getting the lay of the land from Howie when an unexpected sound made him pause. Sam was laughing, and it was a sweet, sweet sound. Dean could coax smiles and chuckles out of his younger brother, but they were too rare and almost never directed at John.

Sam was a hunter. He was only an inch shorter than Dean, and a good fighter, excellent shot, and near genius at research. But he utterly lacked focus. Some day, the distractions Sam loved so much -- school, reading, civilian friends -- were going to cost him, maybe even his life.

John had already been worried about Sam's commitment to the hunt when Jim Murphy had heard a disturbing bit of news: there was a demon out there with a vested interest in the youngest Winchester. Maybe had been his entire life.

All this flitted through John's mind as he watched the man -- no, still boy -- pet a stray dog and laugh at its returned affection.

The smile would fall soon enough. When the boys learned that they were going to be stuck in this godforsaken place while John hunted without them, it wasn't going to be pretty. John couldn't blame them, but it was hard to imagine a more remote, and thus safe location to park them. As for John, he, Bobby Singer, and Jim Murphy were going to track down the bastard demon that had killed Mary.

If they did find it and manage to kill it, the Winchester's lives would look very different. And then he could explain, and they'd forgive him. Sam would forgive him. Dean wouldn't need to. He trusted that John's motivations were good even when he didn't understand them.

"Look at that." Howie spit a brown stream. "Thought ol' Stumpy'd be dead by now. Last guy just lef' him behind."

Stumpy? John looked closer and discovered that the dog only had three legs. His heart twisted in reluctant sympathy for a pet abandoned to the desert.

"Sam, come get your shit," John called, hardening his heart and handing Howie the agreed upon cash. They were set for six weeks now, just needing to keep gas in the generator, plus food for the three of them.

Howie was a peripheral member of the hunting community and wouldn't mention their presence to anybody. And John would do a big supply run before he met up with the other hunters. A 53-year-old in a dusty pickup would attract far less interest than a 20-year-old and 16-year-old in a muscle car.

Howie took off in a cloud of dust and John carried his own bag inside.

"Riggs had a trailer and a dog," Sam was saying.

"On the beach. With women in bikinis just outside," grumped Dean.

"Boys, I'm going for a supply run," John announced. He held up a hand as both hurried to offer to go for or with him. He couldn't blame them for wanting out of the stifling, dirty trailer. "Sam, try to make this place clean enough that we don't all get Tetanus. Dean, walk a perimeter and figure out at least two different bug out plans. Sam, did you do an inventory of what ammo we need?"

"Yes, sir," one voice even, the other resigned. Sam handed over the list he'd completed while they drove. John missed the laughter, so he added, "I have to be the one to get supplies because I didn't even pack my bikini."

The laughter buoyed him out the door. It wouldn't last, but he'd savor it while he could, more than his boys would ever guess.

Dean's voice drifted out to John as he climbed into his truck. "Dude, I think these curtains are made out of fly paper!"

* * *

AN: A few references. Cousin Eddie is a character from The National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.

The Unabomber is Ted Kaczynski, a super loner and domestic terrorist.

Riggs refers to Martin Riggs, one of the main characters in the Lethal Weapon movies.

Oh, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY to two fabulous readers: Wildfire's Flame and JaniceC678!!! May this year be filled with joy, love, and laughter!