Prologue
It was a dark and stormy night. The windows raddled in their frames and the trees shook violently against the houses scattered around the landscape like a game of dice that had landed where gravity had chosen them to land.
There was a boy of around ten, ten and a half if you were to ask him yourself, who sat by the window, waiting for his father to return.
It had been three weeks since young Sam Winchester had seen his father. He had since been in the care of his older brother, who was out on some errand that Sam had no knowledge about. It had been a boring couple of weeks that revolved around school and homework and whatever crappy program was on the television.
Sam was no stranger to staying in motel rooms for weeks on end, but he really wished his father would come pick him and his brother, Dean, up soon.
The motel room door banged open, making Sam turn his head in hopes it was his dad.
It was Dean, a paper bag balancing in his arms.
"What's that?" Sam asked, his head cocking slightly like a cat.
"Mind your damn business," replied Dean, shoving the door closed with his foot.
Sam sighed. His brother had been getting cabin fever ever since their father had left and when Dean was angry he took it out on other people. Unfortunately for Sam, he was the only one ever around Dean fir an extended period of time.
"Sorry I asked," Sam replied, rolling his eyes as he did so and grabbing the latest book he was reading, The Hobbit.
"Don't fucking start, Sam," Dean cursed, his eyes drilling viscous holes into the youngest Winchester's skull.
Sam said nothing, he just stole glances from his book to his brother, who was unpacking groceries.
After a few minutes had passed, Sam spoke.
"What's for dinner?"
Before he could react, there was a knife in his shoulder.
WwWwWw
When John Winchester came back from his werewolf hunt, wet and tired, he was met with his youngest son struggling against his oldest, who had him pinned to the floor.
Sam had a pocket knife with the initials D.W. carved into the handle lodged in his right shoulder. He struggled against Dean, who was punching him.
John quickly sprung to action, leaving his duffel bag by the door as he ripped Dean off of Sam, who was now a mess of red, his eye beginning to blacken.
"Dean, what the hell is wrong with you?" John shouted, throwing him aside to tend to Sam.
The eldest Winchester child said nothing, just watched from the corner with a twisted look in his green eyes, his mouth in a grin that made John uncomfortable.
Something was wrong with Dean Winchester.