A/N: This chapter's a bit short, but it's fairly important. Things should be picking up soon. Thank you for the reviews! Your feedback is ALWAYS appreciated.

Ten Years Later

"He's lost his humanity; there's not an ounce of love left in him; his soul is as dark and twisted as the creatures you so rightly fear."

He raised his hand high into the air, knife flashing in the light from above, a cruel grin spread across his face.

"Say bye-bye to baby Benny!"

"NO!"

Ben sat up in his bed, a thin film of sweat coating his bare, heaving chest. He looked sickly pale in the thin moonlight, duller still as it filtered in through the yellow threadbare curtains at the dirty window. The hand that ran over his short hair was trembling as it often did when he woke in the night. As his eyes began to adjust to the dim room, he began to calm, the blood pounding in his ears slowly fading away.

He'd been having the same nightmare for the past ten years. Five years ago they had become less and less frequent, allowing months of semi-decent sleep before striking again without warning. Within the past few weeks, however, they'd increased; some nights he'd dreamt of killing his mother at least twice. He was unable to explain why the nightmares continued, and Bobby had little more to offer in way of an explanation. He'd have asked Sam, the man that seemed to be a walking encyclopedia of the supernatural, for advice, but that was impossible.

Sam had been missing for three years.

Ben pulled his hand back through his hair and over his face. There was no sense in going back to bed; he'd never be able to fall back asleep. He pushed away his sheets and stood, pausing a moment to stretch his long arms above his head before continuing to the kitchen. The bitter stench of yesterday's coffee wafted up from the pot and he wrinkled his nose as he poured it into the sink, attempting to make as little noise as possible as to not wake Bobby. As the kitchen filled with soft bubbles and the familiar smell of brewing coffee, Ben reached to the cupboard to retrieve a clean cup, and caught his reflection in the dark window above the sink.

As his green eyes stared back at him, his thoughts wandered to that of his father – or what would have been his father, had he not sold his soul. His brief memories of Dean Winchester were distant and dim, faded like a yellowed photograph lost in some junkyard desk. Lisa had offered few details, and Ben slowly gathered over the years that his mother and his father had been practically strangers; if he wanted details, he'd have to get them from someone else. Unfortunately, there were only two people still alive that could offer him any answers – one had vanished off the face of the earth, and refused to talk about it much to begin with, and the other wasn't exactly a pool of knowledge when it came to the eldest of the Winchester boys.

In the beginning, he had caught Sam staring at him more than once, and Bobby had slipped up and called him Dean several times. Ben had wondered for the longest time if he really looked that much like his father, but try as he might, he couldn't find a single photograph of the former Hunter. Bobby's house had never been Sam's home, he knew, but the two acted so much like family, Ben had assumed there would be something, anything in remembrance to the late Winchester. Yet it seemed that Sam hadn't run the risk of a vengeful spirit, for there was nothing of Dean, other than the long-abandoned Impala, that remained. Ben felt as if he were living in Dean's shadow, serving as nothing more than a clone made to fill the precious gap he had left behind.

"Boy, what are you doing up at the crack of dawn?" Bobby limped into the kitchen, lightly leaning against the battered cane in his right hand. He joined Ben at the sink and peered out the dark window with squinting eyes, trying to see what Ben saw. "Hell, the moon ain't even up yet."

Ben poured a cup of coffee and waited for Bobby to take it before pouring a second. It was all part of their morning ritual – or in this case, pre-morning – and had been for nearly the past ten years. There were days, sometimes weeks, when one would be on a mission, but whenever they were together, it was as natural as spreading salt on a window sill. Ben wasn't sure if it was their way of bonding, or just a habit, plain and simple. Quite honestly, he didn't care; it made him feel at home, as if he belonged here, rather than a replacement.

"What got you up, old man?"

Bobby sighed and took a long swig of his coffee, returning the mug to the table with a loud thunk. Ben couldn't decide if he was simply used to the scalding hot liquid sliding down his throat each morning, or if it was simply too early and he was too tired to care.

"Couldn't sleep. Been runnin' that case in Jamestown through my head all night. Hate it when things just don't add up."

"Maybe it isn't a case. Not all mysterious deaths land in our profession. Like Amelia Earhart."

Bobby snorted. "Next you're gonna be telling me the Bermuda Triangle's just a bunch of hokey. You've got a lot to learn, yet."

"Could be a banshee."

"They latch onto families, and these deaths were all over the place."

"Vengeful spirit?"

"Could be, but I couldn't dig up any stories on violent deaths dating before the first murder."

"No sulfur residue, so it wasn't demonic."

"Maybe I'm just getting paranoid with old age."

They sat in companionable silence until the grey light of early dawn shot through the branches of the trees. Ben stared at the coffee ring that stained the bottom of his mug, regretting his lack of words. He hated the quiet – it gave him too much time to think and dwell on topics he felt were best left at the back of his mind. But he had never been particularly adept at small talk, and Bobby rarely had much to say during the stiff, slow mornings that seemed to dominate their daily lives. It had been that way from the beginning, and was now one of the few constants in his life.

"Rock salt?"

"Check."

"Holy water?"

"Got it."

"EMF meter?"

"Bobby."

"Thermal scanner?"

"Bobby! I got it covered; this isn't my first gig, you know."

"It's your first gig alone. If it wasn't for this damn leg, I'd be going with you."

"I have to move on eventually, Bobby," Ben teased with a grin. "Besides, if I learned to depend on you, I wouldn't be true Hunter, would I?"

"Just get rid of the damn thing and come home."

"Yes, sir." Ben gave him a mock salute before jumping in his car, perhaps the one thing he knew he had in common with his father – Dean cherished the Impala, while Ben fawned over his Mercury Comet. He peeled down the gravel drive, leaving behind a trail of dirt and grime floating in the dirt. Bobby coughed and shook his head, watching the road until the sounds of a rumbling engine faded from the trees and the world dwindled back into its usual silence.

Ben tapped his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the music. It had taken some convincing, but he'd managed to persuade Bobby into allowing him to riffle through his father's old tapes, the box in which they were stored having been long abandoned in the garage, protected by a thick layer of dust. The collection was outdated, in that they were cassette tapes, but so was his car, and at least the music was decent.

It had been five years since his mother's death; five years of grueling training beneath Sam and Bobby, all to become a Hunter competent enough to track down the demonic scum that had forced him to murder his own mother. Bobby was finally willing to allow him to take a case on his own – no old guys with guns to slow him down, or burst in at the last minute and take all the credit. This was a trail he'd spotted for himself, pieced together with his own logic, and was finally going to shoot down with his own guns blazing.

As far as he was concerned, nothing paranormal was safe.