Supernatural 1. Chapter 1

Notes: This is Part 2 in the series. The first installment was the AU tale "In The Wind," and while this story can be read as a standalone, it will make more sense character- and arc-wise if you read that one first.

Warning: I don't use a Beta. Please excuse the typos. You get the raw/unedited story as FF writing is my stress reliever from novel writing.

* * *

**oOo **_**PRELUDE**_** oOo**

_Lawrence, KS_

_July 4, 1983_

John Winchester turned off the hose then surveyed the gleaming condition of his car. Sure, the sleek, 1967 black Impala was the oldest car in the neighborhood. All of his neighbors were transitioning from the big muscle cars of the '60s and '70s to the modern compacts churned out by Japan. Sure, those got better mileage, but they were made of plastic and crumpled at the first sign of a crash. There was no way he was letting his wife and kids climb into one of those.

Kids.

John shook his head and smiled at the notion. There were now two Winchester boys in the house. He could hear little Sammy howling through the open nursery window on the second floor as he woke from his mid-morning nap to let the world know he was hungry yet again. The crying ceased within moments signaling that Mary was with him to alleviate the hunger pains. In the ensuing silence, John quickly scanned the front yard, realizing his charge for the day was not by his side any longer. The momentary skip of his heart beat was soothed as he spied Dean on the other side of the front steps, tearing up fistfuls of grass from the lawn and collecting them in a large pile.

"What are you doing?" John asked the four-year-old with the large, owlish green eyes and spattering of freckles.

"Making fireworks," Dean replied in his tiny voice.

"Fireworks?" John questioned then shrugged. Sure, he figured, why not. He was supposed to take Dean to see the fireworks that night while Mary and the baby stayed home. If the kid thought he could make his own from a pile of dead grass, it would at least keep him out of trouble until lunchtime. "Alright, just don't blow up the house with them, okay?"

"Okay," Dean nodded eagerly. "Daddy, where does Bigfoot live?"

The question caught John off-guard, as most of Dean's questions did. The boy was not precisely a quiet child but in the last two months, the part of his brain that needed to know everything had switched on. Every other sentence out of the boy's mouth was question lately.

"Bigfoot?" John repeated and cast a curious look at his firstborn. "Where did you hear about Bigfoot?"

"Jeff," the child said naming their neighbor's high school aged son. "He was going camping. I said you and me were going camping. He said make sure I have a gun because Bigfoot lives in the woods and would eat me."

John sighed and made a mental note to tell their neighbor's pothead son to stop trying to scare his boy. While there was something fascinating and prideful in having a little boy who asked so many questions, there was also the problem that he asked them of everyone. Teaching Dean to be wary of adults was top on John's to-do list.

"First, no talking to Jeff unless Mommy or me is with you, got it?" John said with a frown. The little boy nodded eagerly. "In fact, you shouldn't even be outside unless Mommy or me is with you. Next, there's no such thing as Bigfoot. Jeff was just telling you a story. There are no monsters in the woods."

Dean grinned, returning to his growing pile of torn up grass. John shook his head. How the boy would turn the shredded mound of grass into fireworks a mystery to John as was a lot about how Dean's head worked. John was not new to fatherhood. Dean was four and a half. Of course, until the first week of May, he spent most of his time with his mother. Now that his baby brother had joined the family, John was finding himself in charge of his oldest more than ever before. Still, what went on in his firstborn's head baffled John. It was a good bafflement. The kid was clever and creative; he had a wicked grin that told John there was a lively (and probably naughty) sense of humor budding behind those green eyes.

"Will bears eat us when we go camping?" Dean asked abruptly.

John nearly choked holding in his laugh. He didn't see anything wrong with laughing at some of the crazier things Dean said, but Mary thought it seemed insensitive or mocking to their son. John doubted the kid would think that. One of the things about his wife that irritated John was Mary's constant ascribing of vulnerable traits to their son, characteristics John did not seen. Dean was a rambunctious, little boy with a fan club among the women on their street and the cashier ladies at the grocery store. The only things about Dean that concerned John were his aversion to the concept of bedtime and his grudging acceptance of his baby brother.

John and Mary spent a lot of time explaining to Dean through the winter that he would have a sibling in the spring. He seemed okay with the idea until Mary brought baby Sammy home from the hospital. That weekend found the house full of crying: Mary for hormonal reasons, Sammy for hunger and wetness instances, and Dean for what John presumed was jealousy. Four years being the center of the universe came to an abrupt halt for Dean on May 2nd when his brother greeted the world. The pediatrician told the Winchesters it was a phase that Dean would outgrow soon but that would rear its head again when the boys were nearing their teenage years and hit the juvenile wasteland of moodiness and flaring tempers. John dismissed that assessment, the teenage aspect of it, as he would not need to face that for a decade. What he did hear and accept was the doctor's advice about giving Dean things to do that would keep him from feeling jealous over the baby's monopoly of Mary's time.

John's solution was to introduce the boy to the things he knew: sports and cars. Of course, he was learning how short Dean's attention span was. The boy could not sit still long enough to wait through an oil change on the car and found it more fun to tackle John on the couch when he was trying to watch sports. Not that John minded Dean's chaos much. It was just a learning period for both of them. He forced himself to keep his cool when Dean wasn't paying attention; after all, he reminded himself, Dean was just a child and they had a lot of years to spend together learning each other's likes and tolerances. That knowledge was driven home hard the day John realized his son was the same age that he himself was when his own father disappeared.

Thoughts like that put life into perspective for the former Marine. He looked down at his son, whose big, trusting eyes blinked innocently at him, waiting for a response about forest creatures. John's throat tightened with opposing feelings: anger and loss over his father's departure; and intense protectiveness over his own family. He vowed, as he did each time those thoughts swelled in his mind, that nothing on the planet would separate him from his young family.

"Don't worry about bears either, Dean," John pet his head affectionately. "I'll never let anything hurt you. Besides, we're not going camping this summer. That's next year when Sammy is a little bigger. This year, you and me are going fishing."

Dean hooted his approval then tossed his grass gatherings in the air, sending them raining over his head and his father's feet, demonstrating his fireworks display. The boy then cocked his head to the side suddenly. His eyes contracted into narrow slits as a signal another of his deep and (likely) off-the-wall questions was bubbling up.

"Are there sea monsters that can eat us?" he asked.

John sighed and hung his head, making mental note to try and figure out why his son was suddenly seeing imaginary monsters around every corner.

**oOoOoOo**

_June 1994_

_Singer Salvage_

_Sioux Falls, SD_

The basement of the ramshackle home was dark except for the flash pot that ignited as the match touched down on the summoning powder of the blended herbs and roots. The puff of smoke was brief and the burst of light momentarily blinded Bobby Singer, but the surprise standing before him was what struck him dumb.

He never expected the summoning spell, the one he had researched and worked on for a year, to work. He only attempted it to satisfy one last buckets-of-crazy idea. Singer had been trying to crack the mystery of who took the Winchesters boys a decade earlier and figure out how they were suddenly found for no logical reason in 1993. In all his wildest estimations, Bobby never imagined it would end with this. Sure, he suspected the spell would turn up something, but Vegas would never have given odds on what he saw before him.

The seasoned hunter barely had the time to strike and throw his second match to the floor, igniting ring of oil resting there, before his knees gave a shudder to his resounding shock. The flame flared instantly and burned in an eerily quiet and smokeless fashion while Bobby gaped at the other presence in the room.

"You?" Bobby marveled as he stared at the visage before him.

The short, blond man with the arrogant smile and perturbed scowl, offered him a sour and bored expression as he looked at the ring of holy fire. The visitor folded his arms and sighed superiorly.

"You rang?" replied the man Bobby knew until that moment only as his quirky and absentee neighboring property owner 'James Smith.'

"You're a… a….," Bobby stammered, barely able to get the word out. "An angel?"

"No, you used an Enochian spell to summon the manager from Dominos," the creature scoffed with an eye roll.

"So, angels look like humans," Bobby said, more to himself than the being.

"Wrongo, chief," the angel replied shaking his head pityingly. "The human form can contain the energy that is an angel. This devastatingly dashing exterior is a vessel. A willing and suitable one, I might add, that I've grown accustomed to over the last few millennia."

Bobby stared, gaping actually, at the man/vessel. The sigh he heard from the angel seemed both understanding and perturbed. The hunter/junkman struggled to compose his thoughts and find his words.

"Well?" the angel asked. "What's with the hocus-pocus, _compadre_? Bobby, if you needed to speak to me, you could have called. You have my new number, right? I gave that to you, didn't I?"

The short angel's confidence and arrogance were amplified by the flare of his temper at being trapped in the flames. He showed no fear of the tongues of fire flicking around him but he emanated definite disdain for the man who trapped him in the burning circle. The air of the basement hummed with his presence, as though every molecule of air was electrified.

"Which one are you?" Bobby asked sternly, trying to regain his focus. He was glad he hadn't dropped a load in his pants when the spell worked. Shitting himself in front of an angel, regardless of which one, seemed like pretty bad form.

"What's in a name, Bob?" 'Mr. Smith' chuckled, but there was a pained look in his eyes that said he knew the semi-retired hunter wouldn't just let this go.

Seeing that he was locked in equivalent of holy handcuffs inside the flames, the odds of sidestepping an interrogation weren't precisely in the angel's favor. He knew Bobby was not a typical hunter as he did not kill for sport and only doled out prime information on a need-to-know basis.

"Gabriel," the angel replied eventually in a smug and superior tone while still managing to sound like he was pouting.

"Gabriel?" Bobby repeated stunned. "As in the archangel?"

"No, the rap star," Gabriel scoffed. "Now, I've said it once, and there's no need for you to repeat it so _ixnay _on the _aim-nay_, alright? What do you want?"

"To know why the hell you took those boys," Bobby insisted, his features dark and distrusting in the flickering fire light.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Gabriel shook his head. "Boys are not my thing, pal. I prefer the ladies, if you know what I mean."

"I know I'm about to barbeque your ass if you don't give me some answers," Bobby threatened, hoisting his canister of oil to shake it menacingly.

Gabriel snorted and looked at his lighted prison. He shook his head and let the hunter know he wouldn't answer until this weapon was no longer pointed at him. Bobby chewed on the possibilities for a moment. He couldn't exactly keep an angel simmering in his basement forever. Besides, the man, creature, celestial whatever, had offered to answer him. Bobby wasn't sure he could trust an angel having never met one or met anyone who had met one before, but he figured his chances of being smote were stronger than his chances of being lied to if he kept Gabriel on the hot seat too long. So he grabbed a bucket of water and doused the flames. Gabriel offered an insincere nod of thanks.

"Sorry to waste your time, but I don't know what you're talking about," the angel shrugged.

"No, it was you," Bobby seethed. "Now that I think about it, I think some part of Dean sort of remembers you."

Bobby always noted that the teen grew oddly withdrawn and sullen around his "landlord" _Mr. Smith_ whenever the guy dropped by, which wasn't all that often, but it was always without notice and seemingly for no reason at all. Dean never said anything to Bobby about Smith, but Dean Winchester not saying anything when he should was one of bugs in that machine. The teen obviously did not distinctly recall his kidnapping or who took him. What Bobby did know from a pilfered report about the boys' unexplained reappearance in Illinois, the eldest of the Winchester children stated someone named Gabriel took them. The rest of his statement seemed like nonsense until that moment. The boy told authorities that he traveled by light when he left his home. Seeing the angel's appearance, Bobby now understood. It seemed to Bobby, now that Gabriel/_Smith's_ cover was blown, that the boy sensed something or some detail about the landlord that remained buried just beneath the surface in the kid's hazy memories of his abduction on Halloween Night a decade earlier.

The angel scoffed and relented with a half-hearted shrug.

"Hard to believe, but windexing Tweedle Dumb's coconut was a harder than expected," Gabriel snarked. "That's my brother Michael's doing on some level I'm sure—particulars of the vessel and all that (the prima donna). As for why I did it, that's none of your business. I had good reasons, which are not for you to know."

Bobby glowered and cut his eyes once again at the holy oil, but the suddenly sincere look on Gabriel's face made him halt.

"Look, I can't go into details," the angel said in a pleading tone. "I'm sort of in celestial witness protection so the less you know the better it is for everyone involved—the brats, their parents, you and especially little, old me. I will say this: I took two very big and nasty bullets out of a gun that was going to wreak holy hell (and I meant that literally) on this planet. The boys had to give a little to get a lot. They're home now so no harm, no foul. Are we done?"

"Not quite," Bobby shook his head. "If all is well, then why are you still nosing around every once in a while."

"What can I say," he shrugged. "I'm all heart. Besides, those boys adore me."

"Dean thinks you're a pervert getting chemical castration," Bobby offered. "Sam thinks you're a lonely head-case whose family doesn't want him around so you're looking for friends."

"Well, one of them is half right," Gabriel grinned. "The smart one, of course. I always liked the younger one better. His older brother tried to bite me the night when we met—whose the deviant now, huh?"

Bobby scowled, unimpressed and aware his question had not been answered.

"You tagged 'em," Bobby began. It wasn't a question. "All those carvings on their ribs-that's why we couldn't scry for them."

"_Si Jeffe_," Gabriel nodded. "Now, none of my kind can find them using our secret spy glasses. The competition might be able to locate them, but I've been around—stash a little hex bag here and there so _voila: _They're nowhere the supernatural on the map. For that, you're welcome. Of course, the flip side is you can't find them with your little bags of tricks either. They've got their own semi-permanent Deathly Hallow Cloak of Invisibility, you might say."

"Their what?" the hunter asked squinting with frustration and anger.

"Oh, right, that book's not written yet," the angel grinned in a naughty fashion. "Spoiler alert: Snape's a hero. Undercover agent and all that—he's kind of like me only not nearly as handsome and nowhere near as charming. Plus, I always get the girl in the end. Well, girls, actually. Not like they can resist me. Any-who, now that you're not trying to fry my wings extra crispy, I gotta go."

"Wait," Bobby commanded. "So you're protecting the boys still?"

"Uh no," Gabriel shook his head. "Past tense. I protected them. Back then. From a terrible fate. Not to get maudlin or cliché, but I'm talking Armageddon type of bad hair day, okay? Bottom line: One of them didn't get the ruffie of a lifetime and the other… Well, let's just say that without Frick being on the supernatural juice, Frack kind of has no relevance to the rest of the play, if I've read Dad's Cliff Notes thoroughly. So game over. Everyone goes home with a little trophy called free will. The Winchester boys get exactly what they should have from the start: A chance. That's all. No supernatural powers. No mandate to sacrifice any chance of a real life to save humanity. No special rules whatsoever. They're people, just like everyone else now. You cut them, they bleed. You feed 'em McDonald's or Oreos all the time and they die of heart disease, that kind of thing. Or is that if you feed them after midnight? I always get that mixed up."

"So that's it?" Bobby said. "You say you saved them from a big bad fate and now you're dropping them? If that's true, then why are you still checking in?"

Gabriel shrugged. The truth was, he found the Winchesters fascinating. He knew what they could have become—he'd seen it—but he was more fascinated by what they were becoming. Some aspects of the family had remained the same. They boys were still close, and Singer was still a large part of their lives.

Others aspects of the family were tantalizingly different. John was not a revenge driven hunter who left behind fatherhood for his role as a militant commander. Mary was alive and doted on her sons alongside her husband. However, the most colossal shift Gabriel said was in the youngest. Never being doped with demon blood cut the searing selfishness and self-righteousness (traits straight out ofLucifer's truck-load of issues) out of Sam's personality. He was a little kid and wasn't a precisely docile and agreeable puppy about everything, but he was really no different than any of the other 11 year-old in his homeroom class. He wanted his own Nintendo; he wanted to become a scientist to create his own version of Jurassic Park; he thought the X-Files was creepy (but said it was "cool" when he was around friends). Gabriel's mad dash with the boy a decade earlier cut off the yellow-eyed minion's chance to create the would-be vessel and thus removed Sam from serving as Lucifer's meat suit. Keeping the bitch blood out of the boy's system entirely and abruptly ended any chance for the aggressive edge that would have taken hold of Sam Winchester. Now, the boy was allowed to be what nature intended him to be: a polite and curious boy with floppy hair and desire to understand the world around him while pleasing those he cared for most.

While the changes in Sam were astounding, Gabriel was a bit disheartened to note that the same could not be said for Winchester Offspring Number One. Everything that made Dean Winchester who and what he was remained the same. The original factory settings were in place, and (emotionally) the scars caused by his 10-year exile from his parents left him reasonably close to the person he would have grown up to be had the archangel never stepped in to change the family's fate. There was a moment on that fateful Halloween Night when Gabriel nearly did not take both boys. Removing Sam from Azazel's reach was his only goal, but something changed the angel's mind at the last moment so he grabbed Dean, too. Some part of him just couldn't leave the drooling human alone on some doorstep, so big brother got to tag along, and Gabriel stood by that choice.

Of course, there was a price for that.

The debt was paid out of Dean's emotional security and development. The child developed a heightened protectiveness of his baby brother and a tendency toward sacrificing for the little guy. That personality quirk was born as much out of being an older brother as it was to being what amounted to the underage parent to his sibling for so many years. So, right or wrong, where little brother profited and thrived in his removal from the celestial equation, Dean was saddled with a destiny as watcher, keeper and protector. He did so at the cost of his own happiness for such a long time that he still struggled with finding a balance with his own heart's desires.

Since reuniting with their parents, Dean's sense of purpose was gone. Absent the constant need for vigilant duty to protect and raise his baby brother, Dean floundered in a swirling pool of doubt. Where the teenager had previously held an unwavering sense of purpose and responsibility, he now drifted aimlessly through life. Certainly, his determined nature still existed, but now it was scattered and unfocused. Whether that would sort itself out or become his downfall was unknown—but Gabriel felt that was the beauty of it. No one knew what might happen to either of the boys anymore. Every possible future (except the pre-ordained one) was up for grabs.

"I'm waiting," Bobby said as he continued to glare at the angel as his demand for information went unanswered. He gripped the handle of the sawed-off shotgun on the table tightly. He doubted it would actually harm an angel, but it would sting for a moment. There was no way anyone felt refreshed after a load of rock salt in the face.

"Don't even think about it, Quick Draw McGraw," Gabriel warned see the man's finger's flex. "We both know my ninja skills beat yours without trying."

"Oh yeah?" Bobby countered. "Then let's see them."

"Well, here's the thing," the angel continued in an embarrassed tone. "The more I do, the more likely I am to get outted, so I'll have to pass on your request to tango."

"Are you watching them or not?" he asked darkly.

"I'm not their personal guardian angel," Gabriel scoffed. "Trust me. The guy who got that job in the first draft, it did not turn out well for him or his trenchcoat. I'm talking clipped wings, time in the penalty box, a bad wardrobe, an unrequited man-crush, and a hard on for a demon who got shivved before her time. You following me?"

"No," Bobby glowered.

"I lay low and things go along smoothly, capiche?" Gabriel replied. "That being said, if Heaven steps in or any minion of Hell on a mission specifically from my brother discovers your little nose pickers, I'll be around to help. Honest. You have my word: I swear to Dad. Other than that, the Winchesters are on their own out here in the big cruel world. You and their parents are hunters. Well, at least you and their mommy were. Daddy only did some understudy work this go around, which is a little sad considering his family legacy, but whatever. Who wants to live in a concrete box in Kansas anyway, right? So, you can choose to teach the boys the truth about what's in the dark or not. How you choose to protect them is your business. The boys are at least as safe as any other amoeba salsa'ing around this old Petri Dish. They make their choices. They live with their consequences—just like you. What more do you want?"

Bobby shook his head. He was not pleased with these revelations. He felt in his gut he was not getting even a fraction of the story. If Gabriel was right and the boys were free to live their lives, then there was no destiny they needed to avoid. It made taking them away for so long seem pointless and purposefully cruel. If the angel was wrong about sidestepping destiny, then what was to keep some other force of the universe from putting things back on the track? Bobby didn't think fate could get hoodwinked so easily.

"How about some assurances my boys are not gonna up and disappear again if you change your mind?" Bobby said.

"Whose boys?" Gabriel grinned. Again, the attachment the hunter had to the two children was fascinating to him. There appeared very little in the world that could keep the man from being a force in their lives.

"You say you protected them from a worse fate," Bobby growled, sticking to his point. "What's to keep someone from dealing those cards again?"

The angel scoffed and rolled his eyes superiorly. He shook his head and patted the hunter on the arm patronizingly.

"Trust me, it can't happen now," Gabriel assured him. "I'm not all cuckoo salad brains behind this pretty face. I thought about it for a long time, okay? What I did was the solution. See, that nasty destiny was a two part equation. All I had to do was take the lime away from the coconut so no one could mix it all up. I made sure my bratty, temperamental brother's hand simply never got dealt. It takes two to tango, but now we've only got one dancer. No partner equals a disqualification so game over."

Bobby found himself nodding, but he was not certain why. The angel's arrogance was worrisome but who was he to argue with that sort of creature? A being that knew more than anyone else about creation and destiny was a debate opponent well above his pay grade.

"Those boys, together, are now no more special or interesting than any other human," the angel proclaimed. "Someday a reaper will come for each of them. Is it tomorrow, or next year, or 70 years from now? I don't know. That, my friend, is the gift. The Winchesters get to live their own lives. That was what mattered to me. That was my gift to them—to everyone on this planet."

Gabriel patted Bobby kindly on the shoulder, his smug grin still in place. He clapped his hands with finality and then shrugged.

"Okay, well, now that the cat is out of the bag, I'll be making myself scarce," Gabriel said. "Don't be paging me like this often or giving spoiler info to anyone about who I am or what I did. I need to stay off the radar—and so do those boys. I can watch from wherever I am. The more people who know who I am, or the nearer I am to them, then the higher the chances that they'll get spotted. Understand_? _Good. Live long and prosper. Don't call me, I'll call you. Got it? Good."

Bobby stared back at him, digesting his offerings and unsure what to think.

"Oh," the angel snapped is fingers and turned quickly with a knowing expression, "and just as a little friendly advice, you might want to make sure you don't let Big Foot eat them for lunch."

Before the hunter could ask what that meant, the angel vanished in a rustle of invisible wings.

**oOoOoOo**

_Singer's Salvage_

_One week later…_

The phone rang, again. Each of Bobby's phone lines had been going off like crazy for the last week and a half . He was on the verge of cutting the wires for each of them.

Not that he would.

But he was burned out and in need of some quiet time away from hunters—especially those who didn't know their ass from a Rugaru (and God knew Travis thought everything was a possible Rugaru these days). It was like the whole damn world of hunters went and got stupid all of a sudden. Bobby blamed himself a bit. He'd made himself less of a field man and more of a phone man and researcher in the last year. Sticking close to home to help keep an eye on the boys (he thought of them as his boys). In that time, he became the wayward hunters' crutch, their lifeline, their cheat sheet for a test, the Cliff Notes version of 'Knowing What The Hell You're Doing When You Go Hunting.' And he was tired of it.

Not that dragging two snot-nosed brats into the Black Hills of Wyoming constituted peace, quiet or relaxation. And not just any two kids. The Winchesters no less: the thinker, Sam ("I Think I'll Cease To Exist If I Don't Ask Why Every Two Minutes"), and the prowler, Dean ("I Wasn't Listening To What You Just Asked me, But Did You See That Hot Chick"). The only good news was their father wasn't joining the outting.

Sure, having John there to keep the boys in line and help play a zone defense to keep them corralled and busy would be nice, but Bobby had been in the field with Major Dad before—on a hunt—and it wasn't any picnic. John liked things his way, no matter what. He was stubborn and bossy and grouchy and demanding. Bobby knew that hunters described himself the same way, but that was not important. Bobby, at least, knew he was more of a free spirit than John. He would enjoy being out in nature with the boys. John's uptight nature would sap some of the fun out of the trip. The former Marine might enjoy the alluring and enticing peace of time away from the bustle of daily life, but his protectiveness of his sons would turn him into a grouchy bear when they were far from home. He spend his time dictating the proper way to set up a tent and secure the food over night. Those were all great things to learn, but there needed to be time to just show respect to the forest by sitting quietly and watching the shadows fall and listen to the birds call to one another. Bobby was all for being safe and teaching the boys the best way to do that, but fun needed to be part of the equation.

John was getting better at that kind of thing, Bobby knew. He had found a common interest with Sam in the promise of camping. The boy liked to look at seeds and leaves and anything in nature. John knew about roughing it and had taught his youngest how to build and use a compass. Sam lapped up the time with his father on their walks through the wooded areas around their house. John also had found common ground with his oldest son during long hours at the Salvage Yard where he taught Dean what he knew about cars: what made them run and how to fix them when they broke down. Still, putting John with both boys in a forest where he had to go into parental commando mode was just asking for the tougher hide of his Marine personality to re-emerge. The last thing Bobby wanted was a surly camping partner barking orders at rambunctious kids and treating the forest like an enemy that needed to be tamed.

So Bobby and the boys were going alone. And he needed to finish packing if the damn phones would just stop ringing! He had started ignoring them 15 minutes earlier, then his guilt jumped him, and he picked one up. It was Allard, asking if there was a summoning spell for a water wraith (something he damn well should have known there wasn't). The next was Rufus asking for Bill Harvelle's other number (something he damn well should have known also). Finally, Caleb called asking for (unbelievably) Bobby's chili recipe. At that, the hunter vowed he would leave them all high and dry for a few days. He had put the word out a week earlier that he was going to be out of town. That no one seemed to remember that or believe him was their problem.

He returned to his hiking pack. It had been years since he went to the woods for pleasure rather than a hunt. He felt a bit shaky doing so. He laughed at his fears as he checked his supplies once again: Decontaminating tablets for water purification (boiling didn't kill everything after all); friction wire for cutting small branches; a second compass (in case Sam's homemade one wasn't so accurate); two sets of waterproof socks; an extra set of flints (yeah, he had matches but he was gonna make the boys try to start a fire the way Bobby had learned, back in his '_caveman kindergarten days'_ according to Dean), and his lucky flask (no way he was gonna make it a whole four days with two boys in the woods without needing a belt at least once).

He looked across the table at the other items strewn there. Many things from his hunting kit that had been weeded out as unnecessary for this trip. His hunting journal was going with them; he took that everywhere. His eyes next fell on the crucifix and his mind was drawn back to the conversation with his winged visitor a week earlier. An agent of heaven had watched over the boys once before and was still doing so, even if it wasn't openly admitting it. Bobby hadn't told John or Mary any of what he knew and wasn't sure if he should. Gabriel was pretty firm on remaining anonymous. Pissing off an archangel didn't seem wise, no matter how Bobby justified it. Still, what bothered him more was the lack of reassurance the information gave him.

Bobby shook his head, again amazed at what a loon the angel was. Then again, Gabriel's quirks did not seem all that odd in the grand scheme. Nothing supernatural was ever reasonable or rational (not for long anyway). The wingman's quip about Big Foot was a prime example. Everyone knew that creature was a hoax.

Of course, that didn't mean Bobby was heading out unprotected. He peeked one more time into his bag. A nickel-plated .44 loaded with silver bullets gleamed up at him. He pulled it out and checked the clip and the slide—both were in working order. Confident in their function, he slipped the gun back into the pack and offered up a small wish to the universe that he would not need to use it. He would also be bringing his old hunting rifle, the one used on woodland critters—the kind people knew about, accepted existed and ate. That weapon would be visible and only used to get their dinner.

He looked to the long-barreled gun resting against the table then turned his eyes away from his concealed weapon as he closed the pack. Critters with claws didn't have to be supernatural to be dangerous, he knew, but some of what was chalked up to attacks by those creatures were actually nastier, darker things no taxidermist ever mounted on a wall. With a deep sigh, he cut his eyes at the currently stilled phones. His face momentarily twisted into a scowl. On a whim, he snatched up a receiver and dialed. The phone on the other end rang six times before a machine picked up. The softly accented tones of a son of the Lakota Nation carried over the line.

"You have reached a recording of Summer Proudfoot," the man's voice recited in a precise and peaceful cadence. "You may now speak to the wind."

The beep swiftly followed.

"Summer, it's Bobby Singer," the hunter said hesitantly. "I'm just calling to give you a heads up, sort of an insurance policy I mostly likely won't need, but…"

**oOoOoOo**

* * *

**A/N:** More to come. Hope you enjoyed the first chapter in this story. I published it in time for Thanksgiving as a Thank You to all of those who enjoyed the first story in the series and were so kind to post reviews and send me private messages. Like with the first story, this one starts slow. Hang in there as I take the boys on a vacation they won't soon forget. Chapter 2 will be published soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**oOoOoOo**

Voices rang from the small home, a formerly abandoned Catholic house of worship once known as St. Gabriel's. The house sat at the edge of Sioux Falls, about a mile south of Singer's Salvage Yard. The home was white and located in the center of a rolling meadow accessed by a end of a long, snaking driveway. The afternoon sun baked the dwelling and wilted the early season flowers in the window boxes. The air outside was still. Crickets and tree frogs filled the air with their heat wave opera that acted as a suitable soundtrack to the hot tempers and loud voices inside.

In the kitchen, Mary Winchester narrowed her eyes and folded her arms while forcing a smile onto her face. Her long, blond hair was pulled back into a tight pony tail and the dark circles under her eyes stood out prominently on her pale skin. Her jaw was set firmly and her shoulders held squarely as she kept her gaze focused. It was nearing 4 in the afternoon, technically Day 1 of school summer vacation for her sons, and already the mother of two was biting back her tongue to count aloud the number of days until the new school year started.

She had arrived home for the day just after the lunch hour and now was on the verge of tearing her hair out because her firstborn, an attitude ridden 15-year-old, was tap dancing on her last and fraying nerve.

Mary was on edge since she woke that morning. She wanted to blame it on her lack of sleep. She tossed and turned all night in the heat of the South Dakota weather. Their house's lack of air conditioning, but it wasn't weather that kept her from peaceful sleep. No, the dreams did that, her nightmares. In each, she would come home to find her children missing, their beds cold and empty with no clue where they were or how to find them.

The dreams were old and had stopped for a while but then suddenly returned with a vengeance that week. The reason for that was obvious: Her sons were leaving again. True, this departure was planned and would only last few days. They would also be with one of the best bodyguards she could ask for, but that did not mean she liked it or was happy about it. Letting her children out of her sight to go to school was hard enough. Letting them leave the state and hike miles into the wilderness without her made her heart thump fast and caused icy pains in her stomach.

Her lack of rest and enormous level of stress was making her testy and snappish. In normal circumstances, needing to give one of her children three reminders to do his chores would not make her happy, but it would not put her in full lecture mode. But this was not a normal circumstance. Mary's mommy worry senses, were in overdrive. Her patience was down to its last few strands, but she held herself together as best she could.

She took a deep breath, and leveled her cool, pale and determined eyes on a set of bright green irises nestled in a thick mat of dark lashes that gazed back at her challengingly. Mary realized that she needed to go into full motherly guilt mode. While she knew Dean was a tough, mildly arrogant and practiced cool customer at times, he had two known weaknesses in the universe: pretty girls and family. She put on her best smile and played her card carefully.

"Sweetheart, let me explain something to you," Mary said in a calculatedly and stern manner. "When a woman gives birth to her child …"

"Oh, shoot me now," Dean groaned loudly then attempted to leave the kitchen en route back to his room.

However, Mary was swifter than his departure. She reached her arm around him and steered him back to the table, which took a bit of stretching now that he was nearly taller than her. She guided him back into the chair at the kitchen table and kept her hold on him firm over his shoulders as she continued.

"Childbirth is very painful," Mary continued. "Have I ever told you that I was in labor for 12 hours with you, Dean? It was agony."

"More than I'm feeling having to listen to this?" he wondered dryly.

"Imagine breaking 20 bones at the same time," she nodded.

"Are they all large bones or little ones like pinkie toes and…," Dean began but was silenced by her blazing stare.

"It's 20 bones, Dean," Mary told him firmly. "Big or small, 20 is a lot. And it's painful, more physical pain than you've ever experienced, sweetie. Do you know what I was thinking the entire time I was giving birth to you?"

He flashed a quick and impish grin.

"If John ever comes near me again, I'll castrate him?" he offered. "Guess you forgot about all that pain a few years later, or we wouldn't have Sammy, huh?"

His smile radiated from his bright green eyes and offered their own comment: She really should have known better than to leave him that sort of open ended question. Despite her festering frustration with him, she nearly caught herself smirking in return. She dug her fingernails into her palms to hold her composure as she stared back at him flatly. After a moment, Dean's grin slowly faded, and he dropped his eyes sullenly as he did not get the reaction he sought. Instead, Mary looked at him with her disappointed mother expression—the one she knew he called a 'bitch face' when he thought she was out of earshot. As aspects of remorse and contrition began to seep into his expression, she sighed.

"No," Mary said, squeezing his shoulder then patting him gently on the back. "I kept thinking it did not matter how much it hurt me because the reward of meeting you was going to make every moment of torture worth it. I suffered pain so blinding that I nearly broke your father's hand as I squeezed it, and I did that just for you. Now, how do you think I feel when I ask you to do one small chore to help out around the house, but what I get in return is griping, complaining and a plateful of attitude so that I have to waste my time arguing with you, giving myself a headache?"

"I'm betting you feel like you should have taken the drugs they offered you so you could avoid 12 hours of…," he began but stopped as he caught her full glare yet again.

The smirk faded from his eyes this time as he chewed his lip remorsefully. He knew better than to parry words with her when she used that tone of voice _and_ gave him those kind of looks. She wasn't mad at him, which made it worse. No, instead she was disappointed in him, something that pained Dean probably nearly as much as giving birth to him had hurt her, he guessed. He opened his mouth to try and pull back his answer but knew he was too slow doing so as she launched into the real guilt assault of this tussle.

"Are you giving me all this trouble because you don't think I've gone through enough pain yet?" Mary asked. "Am I that bad of a mother that you think I deserve this aggravation?"

Dean kept his eyes on the floor but did not respond. He knew she was good at this as he felt his shame rise and drain his will to rebel against her. He internally kicked himself for letting the spat go this far. He could see where he went wrong. Any other day, he could have cajoled her rather than riled her, but he miscalculated her focus. The smudges under her eyes and the sharpness of her tone were red flags he missed until it was too late. He sighed and prepared to take his scolding. He didn't like it, but he was still getting used to having parents again. He just thought it unfair that his father and his mother used different tactics.

When John was displeased, he would yell and bark threats of reprisals (no TV, no chances to drive even though Dean had his learner's permit, no going out with friends, no going to the salvage yard to hang out with Bobby). That behavior worked for Dean. The teen considered himself a cause and effect kind of guy. Action and reaction. He could follow his father's militaristic style and get on board with it, even if he didn't always appreciate the outcome (after all, grounded was nearly Dean's middle name this year). But at least his dad's approach made sense and was predictable. Dean understood the man's rules (even if he didn't always agree with them). They were firm and disclosed upfront by the guy. Oh, and his father had an unspoken agreement about emotional boundaries. John Winchester didn't do guilt. He had expectations. He told Dean what he wanted plus how and when he wanted it done. At the start of the chore/order, John let Dean know precisely what to expect if the teen failed to deliver. It was precise, predictable and logical. They rarely fought anymore for that reason.

Mothers, Dean was still learning, were a different breed—not so different from high school girls because they did not seem to follow any rules. Mothers were harder to manipulate. They were also confusing because some days sarcasm got him grounded; other days, it left her laughing at his comments and earning him an offer to put off his chores for a while and have pie with her to talk about his day. He wondered, exasperatedly, how any creature could function without any identifiable rules and get away with it—especially if that creature lived with retired Marine Corporal John Winchester.

His mother's approach also left him frustrated. His father recognized that Dean was not a child; the man did not treat Dean completely like he was an adult yet, but he gave Dean more mature expectations and offered him respect commiserate with that. John acknowledged and acted like he believed that although Dean needed supervision, it did not need to be constant.

His mother was a different story.

She hovered. She watched. She checked in constantly. Dean suspected she had a spy network in town because she seemed to know everything—good and (more often) not so good—parts of his days before he ever got home. She also knew how to get him to bend to her will without a single threat. It was freaky the way she did that and was probably against all sorts of civil rights… probably (he didn't paid all that close attention in class when they discussed the Constitution). But beyond running her own CIA against her kids, Dean was convinced she also had super powers. She could just look at him a certain way, giving him this impossibly sad and hurt expression then get mushy with him. It was torture and manipulation, like Jedi level mind control. She could make him feel like she was hurt or might cry, and he could not think of much he would not do to spare her pain and tears.

Looking at her in that moment, the hint of glassiness in her eyes tugged on his heart while making the muscles in his jaw bunch as he realized he was snared yet again. As Dean slowly surrendered to her unstoppable skill, Sam walked into the room. He lugged his backpack for their camping trip the next morning with him. It was bursting at the seams with supplies but was perfectly balanced for the hike. He'd been packing and re-packing it for a month to get it just right (unlike Dean who threw everything into his bag an hour earlier). Sam knew he was more eager for this trip than Dean, but he hoped his big brother would take the excursion seriously and enjoy it.

Sam certainly was going to enjoy it.

It had been a long time since he and Dean had an adventure. Not that Sam was knocking having a real home and parents. He wouldn't change that for anything, but he kind of missed the afternoons in Chicago when it was just him and Dean wandering around, riding on Dean's bike and exploring all the old buildings in the rundown blocks surrounding the orphanage. That was fun and exciting, and he missed it a little bit. Going to the woods, to go camping for real, with Dean was all Sam had dreamed about for weeks. So, hearing their mother speaking to Dean in her lecture voice, the one that usually preceded him getting sent to his room not to leave for entire weekends, did not bode well. After all, they were supposed to leave before the sun came up the next day.

"Oh god, what did you do now?" Sam groaned dropping his pack loudly on the floor. "Tell her you're sorry and won't do it again. Please."

"Why do you automatically assume I did something wrong?" Dean snapped.

"Because I know you," Sam shrugged. "Mom, whatever he did, he's sorry. Really, he is, like deep, deep, way deep down, probably where you can't see it. I'm sure of it, and even if he's not, you not going to ground him until after we get back, right?"

Sam turned his soulful hazel eyes on her and blinked preciously—the way he did naturally and also knew often made her pause and reconsider whatever punishment she was about to dole out. Not that she punished him often. Taking his brother's interruption as a chance at escape, Dean patted his mother on the shoulder.

"Wow, that's kind of disrespectful, telling you when you can discipline your son," Dean shook his head as he turned a strategically disappointed expression to Sam. "I think maybe Mom needs to explain to you about childbirth and warrior way of the woman. I think her little speech might mean more to you, Sammy. Right, Mom? Think about it: When I was born, the whole pain of having a baby was a surprise to you. With Sam, you had time to think about it and know what was coming at the end, which means you knew what you were getting yourself into. You obviously wanted him more than just out of curiosity. It's like you went looking for the pain. That's twisted, Mom. You ever sought some help for that?"

Dean grinned despite his brother's warning face (a budding bitch-face the kid was apparently learning from their mother). In Dean's opinion, Sam was too interested in pleasing their parents to see that sometimes they liked it when you took initiative and pushed the boundaries a bit (but only a bit). Sam always brought home stellar grades in all subjects. He got awards at school for his projects, helping others, perfect attendance, and model behavior. He always did what was expected. For that reason, he hadn't yet learned how to read people.

Dean did not fault his younger brother for this. It was partially Dean's own doing. He protected the kid for 10 years, keeping adults away from the boy as much as possible; telling him to keep his head down and his mouth shut. Not drawing attention to himself for Sam meant pleasing whoever was in charge: case workers, foster parents, teachers. Dean was the one who felt his job was that of a soldier and scout. He tested the territory, found out who they could trust and protected his brother at all turns. Now that they were living some place safe with people who were family and legitimately cared for them, Dean no longer had to play that role so constantly. Sam, however, still relied on his former survival training of appeasement.

"Dean, shut up before you make whatever you did get worse," Sam grumbled as Dean began to move away but was halted.

"No, he's right, Sam, I'm very twisted," Mary agreed, not letting Dean slip away so easily. She kept her arm over her oldest son's shoulders. "However, my point, if you had bothered to listen, was that if giving birth to you caused me that much pain, there really is nothing else you can do to top it with your mouth or antics. So I am letting you know now, whatever you're think you're going to get away with today, I can outlast it. I always will. Do you know why?"

"Because you're twisted and enjoy pain?" Dean offered skeptically. Mary nodded. "So you're like Schwarzenegger in '_Predator_' going after the alien that's stronger, faster, and smarter than he is?"

"A bit like that, only with the determination of the Terminator," Mary smiled knowingly. Speaking Dean, as she and her husband referred to it, required an agility with pop culture references and the skill to joust with just the right amount of sarcasm to keep him listening.

"Wow," he nodded seeming impressed. "I never realized you were such a head case. I thought that was Atilla the Marine's bag."

"Oh honey, your father has nothing on me when it comes to crawling through hell," she smiled. "So, to get back to our original discussion. This is the last time I am telling you: Stop stalling, stop griping and stop complaining about the weather. Get out there right now and finish mowing the lawn before your father gets home, or you'll be mowing it in the dark with him watching."

Dean scoffed than moved toward the door. He put his hand on the knob and looked back at her over his shoulder with an expression of defeat and disgust.

"Just so we're clear: I didn't inherit the masochist gene from either of you," he said. "I'm pretty sure making me do this in 90 degree heat with 98 percent humidity is a form of torture and child abuse. I'm certain it's against the Geneva Convention."

"We aren't at war, Dean," Mary called sweetly as she waved at him pleasantly.

"Speak for yourself," he grumbled as the door banged loudly behind him.

Sam hung his head then shook it as he watched his brother scuff his feet in the driveway and listened to him bitching out loud to himself about being treated like slave labor. Dean, Sam figured, always made things harder on himself than he needed. His older brother did not start many fights or get in many with his parents, but every single one Sam observed seemed easily avoidable. Dean simply grouched a lot about everything. Bobby always said it was just a teenage thing, and Sam hoped he was right because that meant Dean might outgrow it someday so he wouldn't have so much trouble with adults. Sam worried about that because he worried about Dean. He always had, but Dean never let him help. Sam sighed and turned his eyes to his mother. She did not look mad. Of course, she rarely looked mad at Dean when he would act like a jackass, which was plenty often lately (something Sam would not tell Dean but knew that Bobby would, although the junkman preferred to use the term 'idgit' when he did it). Sam smiled apologetically.

"When I'm 15, I promise I won't be grumpy like Dean," Sam vowed.

Mary grinned then reached over and kissed the top of his head before ruffling his hair.

"Actually, sweetie, I think you'll probably be worse," she said confidently and smiled as her voice brightened. "Now, are you ready for your big trip in the morning?"

"Uh huh," Sam nodded eagerly as he beamed with excitement. "I'm all packed, and I went over Bobby's list twice. Plus, I read all the books he and Dad gave me at Christmas. I know everything I need to know about the woods and hiking and First Aid. I'm all set. Go ahead. Ask me anything about our trip, and I bet I can answer it."

Mary sighed and pet his face.

"How am I going to get along without you and your brother here with me?" she asked with a sorrowful sound.

Sam grimaced. Their father was okay with the boys going with Bobby—he had planned on joining them until just this week when his work schedule changed due to one of the mechanics getting hurt in an accident. It was their mother that was not sold on the camping trip being a great idea. Sam did not mind what Dean called their mother's 'hovering.' Having a Mom to do that felt nice, normal and comforting. For some reason, it made Dean uneasy. Bobby said it was a form of fear—that Dean still did not trust their good fortune at finding their family so he held on to the fear he would lose them somehow. Sam didn't see how that was possible. Mom and Dad were definitely keeping them. Sam figured it was more likely that Dean was just used to not having anyone watch him or care about what he did. Sam was used to it. Dean always watched out for his little brother. Whether it was in the dirty and cold homes run by the mean foster parents or the dirty and cold orphanages run by the pedophiles, Dean always seemed to watch out for his brother, so Sam always had a hovering parent in Dean. It was only recently that Sam was staring to realize that, in his memory, his big brother never had anyone like that looking out for him. No one other than Sam ever seemed to care what happened to Dean until their father found them in Chicago a year earlier.

Realizations like this, the way a family behaved and needed each other, were coming to Sam more and more lately. He didn't know if it was simply the fact that he was growing up or that he had a complete family to observe now. For example, until his mother asked him her sad question, it never occurred to Sam that letting them leave (even if it was with Bobby for just a few days) might scare her.

"You'll be okay," Sam assured her quickly with a hug. "We won't be gone long, and you'll have Dad here so you won't be lonely. Plus, all our stuff is still here so it won't really be like we're gone at all."

Sam didn't know what he said that did it, but Mary's eyes suddenly filled with tears. She held him tightly for several moments longer than he expected. She then kissed the top of his head before leaving the room without another word. He was puzzled by her reaction and made a mental note to ask Dean about it later. Sam might be good at pleasing people and making sure they liked him, but Dean seemed to understand people more (even though he seemed to piss them off a lot).

**oOoOoOo**

After finishing the lawn, Dean rode his bike to the Salvage Yard a mile up the road to get away from the house as he was even angrier when he finished the lawn than when he started. That might have something to do with getting stung by a wasp or just being pissed that he got stuck mowing the stupid lawn when he felt certain it could wait a few more days. He launched into that diatribe with Bobby only to have the junkman turn a hose on him with a terse growl to grow up and cool off.

Two hours later, Dean stood in the doorway to Sam's room. The radiant orange walls made the heat of the room seem 10 degrees hotter. Dean scoffed and threw a balled up note left on his bed by his brother. The page bounced off the young boy's head from where he sat on his bed reading another of his wilderness books.

"Hey," Sam grumbled a picked the projectile off the floor. "I just left you the note to remind you…"

"I'm not an idiot, Sam," Dean said. "I know I need to set my alarm and make sure my bag is packed. What did you really want?"

Sam chewed his lip and blushed at his subterfuge being so apparent to his brother. Not that it really surprised him. Dean seemed to understand him better than anyone, always had. Sam just didn't want to put into writing what he really needed to talk to Dean about in case someone else saw the note. Sam was worried. His mother's odd reaction earlier and how quiet she was during dinner made his stomach flutter. Sam ate alone with her after Dean took off for Bobby's when he finished the lawn. The quiet and tense meal bothered Sam. He told his big brother about it and his conversation with their mother in the hopes that Dean could tell him that nothing was wrong.

Only, that's not what happened.

"You said what?" Dean groaned and tossed a filthy look at his little brother. "Smooth, Sammy. And you call me a jerk?"

"What?" Sam shrugged as he slid off his bed and started to follow Dean down the hall. "What's the problem? What I said is true. Dad is going to be here with her, and all our stuff will still be in our rooms. I wasn't wrong. Hey, where are you going? Dean?"

Dean held up his hand to halt his brother's pursuit. Dean then huffed and trotted quietly down the stairs. The ground floor was quiet and devoid of life as he made his way through the living room and into the kitchen. From the window over the sink, he spied his mother sitting in a chair near the garden staring out at the scraggly meadow that stretched to the far tree line. The sun was just dipping below the horizon.

Dean sighed and slipped out of the house, dragging his feet on the carpet of freshly mowed grass to let her know he was approaching. His mother had a sixth sense when anyone came near her, but it was always best to announce yourself Dean learned because if you did manage to startle her she went into ninja mode (which he thought was kind of cool); he was still looking for the right moment to ask about that.

"Did Dad call?" Dean asked as he approached her chair. It was not odd for John to work late at the garage, but he usually notified them when that would happen. The Impala was still not in the driveway.

Mary looked up with her eyes appearing slightly red and puffy. He hated knowing his mother could and did cry. It did not happen often, but whenever it did, it made him feel guilty, like he should have known it might happen and done something to prevent it. The desire to fix the problem before it drew tears from her was always strong in him.

"Yeah, a little while ago," she said smiling and answering in a soft voice. "He had to finish the last rush job. He should be home soon. I think it's safe to say that he and the other guys at the garage are going to let the owner know this new policy of 'same day repairs' isn't wise when you don't know what repairs are going to arrive for the day."

Dean nodded and settled on the grass beside her chair, sitting with his legs folded and his elbows resting on his knees. It had been a dry season so far. Mosquitoes were absent and only crickets filled the field. He paused for a few moments. There was no point in asking if she was bothered by Sam's comment still. Her eyes told that story. He didn't blame his kid brother for not understanding, but it amazed him how someone as smart and amiable as Sam could make such a bonehead blunder in the first place.

"It is just a camping trip," Dean said, lifting his eyes to look at her profile. "We'll be with Bobby the whole time. Me and Sammy will be home before you miss us that much."

"No, you won't," she replied and turned a sad smile to him. "I trust Bobby, but I will miss both you and your brother the second you leave the house."

Dean swallowed dryly as he nodded his understanding. He had worried about this, even had talked to his father and Bobby about it. When they first began planning this excursion, Dean offered to stay behind. At that time, it was going to be Bobby, his dad, him and Sam on the trip. Dean actually wasn't all that interested in camping. This was Sammy's deal. The kid was eager and excited. Dean thought it might be fun, but he could find other things to keep him entertained during his summer vacation that didn't include taking a piss in the woods and trying to avoid running into Big Foot (which his father assured Sam a dozen times did not exist).

Dean also did not like the idea of leaving his mother alone during this trip. It surprised him that his father and Sam weren't more bothered by it (or more precisely, were not bothered by it at all). So, it made Dean less keen on going, but once his dad had to bail due to the garage being short-handed, Dean knew he couldn't back out. He trusted Bobby implicitly, had since nearly the first day they met, but he couldn't leave Sam alone like that. At least if their Dad was going, his little brother would have had enough people watching out for him. Two grown and responsible men who cared for the little guy was a fair substitute for one big brother, Dean figured. After all, his Dad was a former Marine and Bobby was tough as nails, plus he was a hunter of some sort (Dean had overheard a few of his out of town friends say something about it earlier in the year). But when Dad's plans changed, Dean knew his place was watching out for Sam. Old habits, like looking out for his baby brother, didn't disappear just because they had a real family now.

"We'll be back," he promised. "You know that, right?"

She looked at him with misty eyes but said nothing. The look pained Dean in ways he could not describe.

"Any chance you'll miss us enough to not make us eat lima beans or broccoli when we get back on Monday night?" Dean asked with a grin. Mary's smile became a little less sorrowful as he joked. "I'm just saying, absence and fondness; there are a lot of ways to show your appreciation, Mom."

She reached out and cupped his cheek lovingly and sighed.

"You're entirely too sweet to be a smart ass so regularly," she said. "Is that why you came out here, Dean? To make me feel better?"

"Who?" he scoffed. "Me? Nah. I'm just…. Uh… well…" He nodded and shrugged. "Yeah. Sammy said you were, you know…"

Dean looked sincerely back at her. His relationship with his mother surely appeared like one of extremes to an outside observer. They did a fair amount of verbal sparring over the chores she gave him and her expectations of him. There was sometimes shouting in the process. Other times, she could sit peaceably beside him and neither would say a word or feel the need to speak, and it could feel like the best moments of the day for both of them. In truth, Dean never got mad at her, and he felt certain she never got mad with him. There were moments of frustration but never real anger. His greatest fear, anytime he made a mistake, was not of the punishment she might dole out but in the disappointment she might feel because of him.

"I'll be fine, honey," she assured him. "I'll just be a little lonely without the two of you making noise in the house. Who am I going to talk to when I feel that night owl urge?"

Dean grinned. He and his mother were both late night people. For as long as he could remember, he simply could not fall asleep at early hours. No matter how tired he was, sleep before midnight just did not come naturally. Mary was the same way. It was during one of her night episodes of prowling the house a few weeks after they moved in the previous summer that she peaked into her oldest son's room and found his bed empty. A small jolt of fear struck her in the chest until she located him sitting on the back stoop watching the fireflies in the meadow.

That was when they began their late night talks. At first, Mary only asked him about Sam, figuring it was a safe and preferred subject for Dean. There was much he could say. He knew she wanted to learn about their lives when they first returned and settled into a family existence. He was glad to tell her about his baby brother. After a while, he grew curious and asked her about herself. She was his mother, but other than a few hazy memories, he knew nothing about her. She told him about her life growing up, how her family traveled a lot (her father was an exterminator and his company moved them a lot, she said). For that reason, she did not have many friends for long because of it and felt loneliness in a way Dean could understand. Her stories were not detailed and did not precisely paint a picture well enough that he could tell anyone about his family or its history, but it was the start of learning to talk to the woman as his mother and not as a strange lady who wanted to be called Mom.

A year later, their chats were more about present day events and future plans. She was adamant that he would go on to college and do something exciting with his life. Dean often fell silent when she started that topic. He felt a little overwhelmed and awed by her confidence that he could do it. He did not believe in himself nearly as much as she did. Still, despite that awkward subject, his relationship with her was easy and natural. It was not always so with his father. He certainly got along well with John once he learned the man's rules and tolerances, but there was always a bit of a wall between them. John was a former Marine who like rules, his rules specifically. He was the head of the family. Dean did not dispute that (directly), but dropping the responsibility of being Sam's caretaker and bodyguard was not something he could do like flipping a switch.

Regardless of the chest thumping scenes that played out between him and his father initially, there was never that level of friction with Mary. Dean would, nearly always, bend to her will (or profusely apologize for not doing so while offering what he considered a good excuse). He had a weakness for her that he did not understand completely. While he and his brother were lost, he missed both of his parents but for some reason Mary was the one he embraced as a parent first once he accepted they were his family.

For that reason, Dean hated when she looked sad or upset. In that instant, the sadness in her face and voice reminded him that the immediate future probably looked empty to her, or worse, looked a bit like her desperate past. This was not merely a bout of empty nest blues. This was her nightmare in rerun, or so it probably seemed on the surface. Those thoughts brought another issue to his mind.

"Well, call me crazy, but if you are looking for someone to talk to while we're on vacation, you have this guy who lives here and calls himself your husband," Dean suggested. "I wouldn't say he's really great at the whole talking thing. And, let's be honest, he's probably not much good with charming the ladies, but you did marry him for some reason. Any idea what that was?"

Mary chuckled and tweaked his cheek lightly, making him smile and blush. Her eyes feasted on him, as she did to both her children anytime she got to spend focused time with them. They were handsome boys, different in looks but with the same streak of sweetness in them. Dean was visually an interesting mix of she and her husband. He had his father's dark hair and was stretching toward his height, but he had Mary's pale complexion and light eyes. Sam resembled more her side of the family. He had her mother's soulful eyes and her father's chin, but he laughed like her and smiled like John.

"Well, it was the '70's," she chided, knowing he would if she didn't. "Who can remember that far back?"

"Good point," Dean nodded but opted not to continue to joke with her as he felt this was a serious matter. "You think maybe you should find out?"

Mary looked at him with widening eyes and a questioning expression. She was often surprised when her oldest son became insightful without warning. It was not that she doubted he was that clever, it was just that he gave no sign when those moments would occur. He would go from sarcasm to thoughtful in the same breath. Dean had an innate sense about people and their motivations, as if he could see into them, past their bluster and armor. Whether that was because kept himself shielded in both so much himself or he was simply a better listener and observer than most people gave him credit for, she did not know. Still, each time he did it, it caught her off guard. Dean spent a fair amount of time being a typical moody teenager with biting comments and cranky attitude, but he could so quickly cut to the heart of a matter with such sincerity it would often leave her speechless.

"Not to get you all upset again, but there's going to come a day in a few years when Sam and I don't live here," Dean said carefully. "I'll be off doing grown up things. Sam will be at Harvard or whatever egghead school he chooses. We'll still visit and call and everything, but you and Dad need lives too that aren't just about hovering over me and Sammy. If you don't figure that out now…"

"Dean, sweetie, don't worry about me and your father," she said quickly, although her stomach knotted as he hit on one of her other major concerns about her sons being gone for the long weekend. "We're fine."

"When Sam and I were gone, you and Dad weren't together," Dean said with a sullen echo in his words.

It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.

Mary never told him about their decade long estrangement. She was certain John never did either. How he knew was a mystery and not precisely relevant to the topic. She wondered how much he recalled of his youngest days. Both before and after Sam's birth, she and John went through a rough patch. There was a lot of yelling in the house, shouting that either sent Dean hiding behind the couch covering his ears not to hear, or throwing himself between his shouting parents telling them to stop. John even moved out for a few days in the month before the boys disappeared. Seeing Dean's wide, green eyes meet hers with a childlike worry so much younger than his 15 years made Mary's heart clench and raised tears in her eyes again.

"You didn't have us around to give you something in common so you stayed apart, probably mad at each other because of everything that was happening," Dean continued, his voice remaining even but sounding hesitant and wary. "I get that things were rough because we were gone. But me and Sam, we're going to be gone again someday—like with notice and easy to locate addresses and stuff. If you and Dad don't have any reason to be together when we're not around…"

"Oh Dean," she sighed and pet his face again lovingly. She felt his skin burn with a blush under her touch. "Honey, you don't need to worry about that. Everything's okay."

"I'm just saying," he continued awkwardly, "Sammy is kind of a girl about this whole happy family stuff. It's like he read too many fairy tales about happily-ever-after or watched 'Family Ties' and the 'Cosby Show' too much. If you guys get divorced because you don't know who you are other than our wardens and chauffeurs and short order cooks, then Sam will fall apart."

"It would bother _Sam_ a lot, huh?" Mary inquired, looking at him deeply and reading through his blocking and bluster with ease.

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "I mean, the kid cries at that old coffee commercial about the guy coming home for Christmas to surprise his family. You owe it to the squirt to make an effort not to get divorced out of boredom or lack of interest in being married anymore."

"Okay, baby," she agreed. "We'll see what your father and I can do to avoid upsetting _Sam_ worse than a 20-year-old Folger's commercial."

"Good," he relaxed. "'Cause this weekend is a prime opportunity for you two to… do… whatever. Have fun and crap like that. Just promise me we won't be getting a baby sister or anything next winter. First off, you're like way too old to be punching out a baby."

"I'm not 40 yet," she said sternly.

"You're close and that's like ancient," he insisted. "Next, I claim the winter as mine. You, who was born in during the summer, does not understand how badly it sucks having a birthday in January. Everyone has a cold so they make you sick on your birthday. Next, it's like right after Christmas so the whole getting a gift thing seems greedy. Oh, and not to mention the day is like the shortest in the whole year so I get colossally screwed from that. The least you could do is leave me as the only one in the family with a birthday during that season and not make anyone else suffer such a cruel and wicked fate."

"Cruel and wicked?" she repeated.

"I stand by that," Dean nodded deftly.

Mary chuckled and shook her head. Dean's rambling rants were entertaining and all the evidence she needed that her oldest was not the intellectual slouch he pretended to be so often. Dean was quick and clever. He simply did not place much value in most of his academics. Unless the class had a lab or a practical application, he paid it little attention. Next, the cheek on him spoke of a colorful character with a desperately tender heart, one she recognized from his earliest days. She remained amazed it had survived so many years not being cared for and loved the way he deserved.

"No new babies," she nodded then leaned over and kissed his head. "Check. Maybe we'll just do something safe like go skydiving."

Dean blanched at the thought, swallowing hard as he grew pale in the shimmering moonrise.

"I didn't say you could do anything crazy or suicidal," he worried, prompting her to chuckle harder before shoeing him back toward the house for an early bedtime in preparation for the next day's journey.

It had been many years since Mary looked towards the heavens and offered up a wish or a prayer. She ceased doing that when her sons were taken, but on a whim and with a flutter in her chest, she turned her eyes skywards and spoke with heart as she asked a god she was still unsure she believed in to keep her boys safe and return them to her in a few days time. She watched the stars for a moment with a childish desire to see a flicker of a star or some sign she was heard.

There was none.

**oOoOoOo**

**A/N: **More to come. The trouble starts soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes:** Reviews appreciated. Thanks to Wholives4Eva. You always come through.

* * *

**oOoOoOo**

Morning arrived cool and dark. The Winchester boys rolled out of bed and into the kitchen, where Mary nervously served breakfast. Sam picked at his while throwing excited glances at the clock. Meanwhile, yawned and Dean nearly fell asleep in his eggs as he slouched at the table and worked hard to keep his eyelids pried open. At the designated time, still an hour before the sun would rise, John prompted them to say their goodbyes to their mother. He gave them privacy to do so as he trudged to the car, telling them to make it quick because they needed to get moving. Sam's hug was tight, grinning and brief as he accepted a trembling peck on the cheek before darting out the door.

Dean hung back as his little brother raced out the door. Dean felt a lump in his sleepy throat as Mary hugged him tightly too and trembled. He wanted to say something witty and funny so that he could leave knowing she was smiling and he made her laugh, except nothing like that came to mind as he saw the tears hiding in her normally bright eyes.

"I promise you I'll bring him back," Dean said, trying to sound gruff, confident and reassuring, but he only managed to sound tense and concerned. "Can't say without a scratch. It's the woods. Scratches probably just happen—like mosquito bites."

"Watch out for him and yourself," Mary said in a thin voice as she forced a smile on her face. "I'll see you in a few days, baby. Have fun."

"You, too," Dean replied. "That John guy, I think he's got a thing for you, you know?"

A slightly naught glint flashed in his sleepy eyes as he grinned and waved to her. Her heart clenched, seeing not her 15-year-old son in the innocent gesture. Instead, she saw a four-year-old boy who had waved excitedly to her as he would go on an adventure with his father to the hardware store on a Saturday afternoon to give her a few moments of peace in the house. She waved in return and waited until the lights of the Impala were at the end of the driveway before letting the terribly cold and vicious stab of fear in her chest drop her to her knees. She buried her face in her hands and wept the tears she held in all night as sleep was chased from her by the unrelenting dreams that left her feeling cold, alone and grief-stricken.

**oOoOoOo**

Arriving at the salvage yard, John grabbed his sons' bags from the trunk of the Impala and placed them in the back of Bobby's already packed truck. With a practiced and schooled eye, he surveyed the equipment and nodded his approval. There was a suitable tent, waterproof sleeping bags, a professional looking pack on a sturdy aluminum frame that was outfitted with several visible survival tools. John knew that Bobby understood the woods and survival techniques. The man could probably live for a month in the woods with just a knife, a paperclip and length of string. His sons were in good hands.

He also knew the boys were equipped with their own Swiss Army knives and survivalist knives (the kind worn on the belt and that had a straight edge to one side and a serrated edge to the other; the sturdy hilts were topped with a compass but were hollow inside to hold waterproof matches, fishing line and hooks). He had made sure they each brought proper clothing (knowing Sam was likely to try and bring everything he owned, and Dean was more likely to just be interested in making sure he had sunglasses with him). They were set with necessities. They were also not the fragile waifs his wife saw when she looked at them. Sam and Dean were strong, reasonably tough and adaptable kids. They would do fine in the woods. John's faith in them was solid.

He just hoped they would take the trek seriously. What he saw before him did not inspire confidence.

"Quit it!" Sam shouted and flailed his arm at his brother and slapped away his hand, which kept trailing toward the younger boy's ear to imitate a spider crawling up the Sam's neck. "I mean it, Dean! Knock it off."

"Getting a little jumping about a teeny bug there, Sammy," Dean chuckled. "I was just brushing one off you. If you're afraid of insects, maybe you should stay home."

"Maybe you should," Sam growled.

"Maybe you both should and I can go find some peace and quiet in the woods with Bobby," John's voice rumbled over them in a warning that made both stand up straighter and take a step away from each other with the implied warning.

John considered it a moderate parental victory that a sarcastic comment (no doubt something involving the movie Deliverance) did not cross Dean's lips, although John did see the eagerness to say it flash there ever so briefly.

"That's what I thought," John nodded as they tromped into the house to find Bobby finishing his coffee and looking as though he had been up for hours.

"Everyone ready?" the junkman asked and received a confident nod from Sam, an unconvincing shrug from Dean and a mighty sigh from John.

Dean leaned on the door frame and yawned his lack of enthusiasm until he heard the jingling sound. Bobby held a set of car keys out to him. Dean's eyes snapped awake quickly and grew wide with a dazzling sparkle of anticipation.

"Really?" Dean asked with awe. "You're not just screwing with me?"

"Your Daddy said it was okay for you to drive if you keep it at or under the speed limit," Bobby nodded. Dean snatched away the keys and raised them in his fist in victory before turning back and grinning widely at the owner of the pickup then gave him a brief and brusque hug.

"Have I told you lately that you are awesome, Bobby?" Dean wondered as he stepped back and twirled the keys like they were a six-shooter. "Old man, I think I love you."

John sighed and fixed his son with a flat stare. John's reaction was simple and selfish. Dean's exuberance was understandable. He knew how to drive, but with John and Mary sharing a single car, the kid's opportunities to do so were limited. He and Dean were going to start working on a car, rebuilding one, that summer so that when Dean turned 16 and got his license the next year he could drive it. Until then, any opportunity to drive was Dean's idea of heaven. His praise of Bobby did pain John somewhat. Certainly, the teen was letting Bobby know his gratitude, but what grated on John was the way the kid said those last three words with such easy to the man.

There was no doubt in John's mind that Dean loved his father, but it was a strained affection at times. Dean was wary of showing the sentiment to anyone other than his mother and brother. John felt his oldest son had an unhealthy independent streak, acting as though no one would help him or take care of him. Dean spent many years in the self-appointed duty of taking care of his little brother (and muddling through taking care of himself in the process when there was time or energy left over to be spent). Handing the reins of Sam's care over to his parents, who were then strangers, made for a difficult and at times contentious adjustment. Since John and Mary became full-time forces in their sons' lives again, the teenager had abdicated much of his sovereign attitude over Sam in favor of merely a more typical surly, put-upon teenage grouchiness. After talking with coworkers at the garage, John knew those with daughters had it much worse.

While John and his firstborn had formed a solid bond (a love of sports and Dean's budding fascination with cars), John still sensed an immense emotional gulf between them. They had a hard time showing affection for one another in normal circumstances. While the kid had no trouble giving and receiving affection from his mother, John felt awkward even giving the boy a hug when the teen did something impressive, like when he hit a homerun to win the final game for his high school baseball team a two weeks earlier. The coach and players mauled Dean with fierce embraces as he crossed home plate, but John hesitated when his chance came. He balked, freezing mid-reach and simply ended up patting the boy on the shoulder. Dean looked at him with his typically enigmatic expression—the one that said he felt something keenly but what that 'it' was precisely was unclear: grateful thanks for John not invading his personal space or the pinch of rejection. Mary, perturbed at what she observed, tersely ordered him to shelve the surly man-code if that was what forbid close personal moments between them.

The truth of the matter was simpler and rooted in simple fear. John accidently hurt his boy when he first found him the previous year. Initially, he scared his son so badly that Dean bolted from him, running into traffic that resulted in him getting hit by a car. Next, to deal with boy's pent up anger, he took Dean outside to spar and burn off his volcanic and disrespectful attitude. A simple ill-placed block landed Dean in emergency surgery with a ruptured spleen. Since then, John felt an awkwardness in their physical proximity. Dean, either sensing the apprehension or sharing it, kept his physical distance as well.

Thankfully, Sam was easier. He was younger and more willing to have what his brother scathingly called "chick-flick" moments. Sam was barely 10 when he came home, a little boy in need of parents and eager to finally have them. He was sweet and affectionate with no teenage need to look cool and play aloof to maintain that image. He could question the shit out of any discussion and seemed to take nothing at face value, always needing to know the intricate 'why's' behind everything, but he was more open with his feelings. Although John was not overly skilled at heart-to-heart discussions, he found Sam's need to dissect everything in an effort to understand people and events an easier (if at times aggravating) way to deal with those moments. His sons had stridently different personalities, different to the point one might question if they were raised together at all. While John understood Dean better, he oddly found it easier to parent Sam much of the time. Dean had issues with authority. He certainly accepted his parents and rarely defied them, but he would grumble and grouse when told to do chores or his homework. Sam never needed instruction or coaxing in those areas.

"Looks like we're ready to roll," Bobby said, spying the distant look in John's eye. The comment snapped John out of his internal musing and was quickly followed by a quip from his oldest.

"Any final lecture, _sir_?" Dean asked with a playful grin.

John sighed as he folded his arms and regarded the teen with a stern but mildly amused expression.

"Have fun but behave," he said gruffly. "Keep alert and listen to Bobby."

"Right," Dean nodded. "Don't feed the bears because they prevent forest fires." He snapped a mocking salute as he nodded and loped out of the house toward the truck, twirling the keys in a giddy fashion.

"I can leave the smart ass here for a weekend of boot camp," Bobby offered with a glower at the departing teen. "I won't be heartbroken by his absence."

Sam looked cautiously, pleadingly, to his father, not fully confident in Bobby's sarcasm. John saw the worry in his youngest son's eyes and shook his head. He placed a large, calloused palm on the boy's shoulder.

"I know Dean watches out for you normally, but you need to do the same for him this weekend," John told the boy. "Can you do that?"

"I will," Sam grinned broadly, proud of both his father's confidence in him and being treated as something other than a child. "I read everything you and Bobby gave me."

"I know you did," John's gravelly voice rumbled as he ruffled Sam's hair and accepted a tight hug around his middle from the boy. Sam then charged out of the kitchen in pursuit of his brother, who already had the engine running and the music blaring to shatter the early morning peaceful darkness. John turned to Bobby with eyes that held an equal mixture of caution and resignation.

"I know it goes without saying, but…," John began.

"Like they were my own," Bobby cut him off with his vow to watch over the boys. "Don't worry about us. You and Mary enjoy a couple days of quiet while I march Tweedle Dee and Tweedle I-Fake-Dumb up a mountainside. I'll bring 'em back in working order."

John nodded, accepting the promise and believing it. Bobby loved the boys like they were his kin—maybe more so as he never seemed to tire of them, despite his penchant for grumbling about them and calling them idgits.

"Mary and I will be checking your messages in case anyone is looking for you," John assured the hunter.

"I put the word out that I'd be gone so no one should be flashing me the bat signal this weekend, but you can bet some of those morons didn't think I was serious," Bobby groused. "Allard and Jefferson come to mind first. I don't expect you to run off and deal with anything. Just… if there's an emergency, do what you can to look up what you need in the library. I'll check in with you once the boys and I get to the Hardy Station on the way in, and I'll call again as we leave."

John nodded and followed the man out of the house. He waved at his sons. Sam was perched on the middle of the bench seat of the old truck waving while sporting a manically happy grin. The sounds of Led Zeppelin's "Black Dog" pounded from the truck's speakers. Bobby groaned as he pulled open the passenger door. John scowled and locked eyes with the driver.

"That better not be one of my CD's," John shouted.

He knew his voice was lost in the wave of sound as Dean merely jutted his chin out to him in a subtle and arrogantly cool motion. John signaled tersely with his finger pointing at the ground for the boy to turn down the volume of the radio speakers from their ear-splitting levels. Dean visibly scoffed and rolled his eyes, but the noise shaking the windows lessened. Bobby touched the brim of his grimy truckers cap and the truck rattled out of the yard. The glow of the tail lights disappeared moments later, and John shivered as a cold knot settled into his stomach.

He trotted down the sagging steps of the front porch and got into his car. The throaty growl of the Impala steadied his nerves as the tires crunched on the gravel. Inside the ramshackle dwelling, the trill of the phone went unheard and unanswered. The caller hung up. The phone rang again a few minutes later with the same effect. On the third attempt, the caller reluctantly spoke to the machine.

"Bobby Singer, we should speak," the man's voice, obviously one of native descent, said. "This is Summer Proudfoot. The wind carried many messages to me last night. One, I believe, is for you. An old evil awakened and prowls for innocent travelers. Stay where you are safe and do not come to this place, or I fear that you and the lambs who accompany you will be slaughtered."

**oOoOoOo**

As the lunch hour approached, Mary stepped into the librarian's office behind the sign-out desk and stared the phone. The light holding the call blinked. When her boss told her that her husband was on the phone, her heart started to race. John never called her at work. Ever. Her stomach flipped with momentary worry.

"John?" she answered, hearing the crack in her voice as she strained to keep her tone hushed.

"Everything is fine," he said instantly. "I just wanted to let you know that Bobby already checked in with me. They made good time getting to the ranger's station—apparently the detour he thought they needed to take for road construction wasn't necessary. They're already hiking."

"Oh," she sighed, letting her knees buckle as she dropped gratefully into the desk chair. "Thank god."

"I didn't mean to scare you," he apologized. "I just didn't see a need for you to spend any more time wondering. According to Bobby, Dean was good with the drive and even stuck to the speed limit… mostly. The boys hadn't started squabbling with each other even. Long may that last."

Mary nodded. In her mind, she was saying a quick prayer of thanks for the simple update. The idea of her children, once again, being anywhere out of her immediate reach remained unsettling.

"So, since I'm working tomorrow, I've got the afternoon off," John replied cautiously. "I'll see you at home in a little while."

"Okay," she said automatically and cringed as she looked at the clock, knowing she would be home in an hour as well.

John heard the hesitation in her voice and tried to not read too much into it as he disconnected. But, if he was going to be brutally honest with himself, the thought of being completely alone with his wife was daunting. That awkward feeling made him nearly as uneasy as the absence of his sons. From his wife's shaky and nervous reply, she was feeling the same way.

This weekend without their children was nerve wrecking to John for two reasons. The first was obvious: his sons were away. He wanted to be with them. This trip was supposed to be their first father and sons outing. He did things with the boys when time and money permitted it, but mostly those things were events in town. He and his wife took their sons out for pizza once in a while (when money wasn't too scarce). Twice the previous summer, he took them to see baseball games at The Birdcage, the stadium where the Sioux Falls Canaries of the American Association of Independent Professional Baseball League played. The previous winter they hiked into the woods and cut down a Christmas tree. The two hour jaunt had been tiring as there was nearly two feet of snow on the ground and Sam kept changing his mind over which tree he wanted. While those were great memories and quality time with his boys, it wasn't the same as going someplace faraway with them to teach them something he knew: roughing it in the wilderness. John knew Bobby was a good woodsman and would look after his sons, but that wasn't what was bothering him. It was the fact that his boys were, yet again, doing something for the first time without him.

Sam learned to walk, to speak and to ride a bike without John being around. He got his first haircut and lost his first tooth without John knowing of it. So much of the boy's life, those milestones that John recalled from Dean's childhood, were out of reach. This camping trip was something Sam asked him to do. It was Sam's belated birthday gift and John was, yet again, denied the pleasure of it. And Dean, well, it was another missed opportunity to help further crack the enigmatic code of his oldest—that carefully constructed wall that only let John see precisely what Dean cared to show him (but usually left John quite certain there was much more there he needed to know).

But, because of an unavoidable obligation at his job, John was stuck at home and would be forced to face a fear of his. While his wife worried about their sons being away from their protective eyes, what worried John more was being alone with the woman he once loved more than his next breath but who now seemed more like a business partner.

Or, more precisely, he would be alone the woman he still loved more than his next breath but who treated him like her business partner.

Dean, John realized, was a great deal like his mother. He inherited his closed expressions and tightly controlled maze of emotions from her. Mary had a façade which most people would look at and judge quickly, thinking they knew who she was and what she was thinking. John knew differently. His wife was a black belt in keeping secrets; she was a master at hiding how she truly felt and only let those she trusted most know the truth and only when she was damn good and ready (or when she was left with no choice). She had him fooled for years, hiding her past as a hunter and the secrets her family knew about what lurked in the dark. So it left John wondering if this amicable existence they had now was just another front, a fanciful story told to hide something darker or more painful.

They lived under the same roof and shared the same bed even, but he could not say their personal relationship was anything other than sterile. Their bed may as well have been mile wide for all the contact they had while in it. The only thing he knew for certain that they shared any longer was a love of their children. How they felt about each other and whether they were just together for the boys' sake was not a subject that ever came up.

Until now.

**oOoOoOo**

Sam's legs burned with the exertion of his muscles, and it made him smile. They had been hiking for what felt like an entire day even though he knew could not have been more than three hours. They were nearing the mark on his map for their campsite. It was not at the top of the mountain—more like mid-way up in a valley nestled between peaks where the land was still heavily forested and there was a nearby stream for fishing. Sam had dreamed about the location for months. The memory of those images drew a deeper grin on his face and kept his legs moving.

The same could not be said for his brother. Dean had walked further ahead as Sam had paused. Bobby was a few yards back just off the trail relieving himself. Sam picked up his pace to locate Dean. When he did, he spied his older brother sitting on a downed tree eating a chocolate Poptart from a newly opened package. Sam growled as he stormed forward

"You brought your own food?" Sam gaped. "We're supposed to be roughing it, Dean!"

"This is roughing it," he scoffed through his full mouth. "Cold Poptart, dude. It's friggin' uncivilized. Now, if you want to live off the land alone, go ahead. Just don't be surprised if what Bobby brings back today makes you sick."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, staring at his brother with his skeptical eyes.

"Sam, this is Bobby we're talking about," Dean offered with a chuckle. "The guy would probably chew the ass off a live beaver if you put ketchup on it. Then again…"

"What?" Sam asked, trying not to laugh or cringe at his brother's prediction about their likely dinner.

"Ask yourself this," Dean said. "You ever seen anything in his refrigerator that didn't come out of a grocery store? I know I heard one of his buddies call him a hunter, but I've never seen any proof the guy has killed anything. Have you?"

Sam thought about it then shrugged. Bobby growled a lot—particularly at anything with the last name Winchester—but he was not a violent man or even a mean one. He was grouchy and crusty, like Sam's father only with a full beard, a trucker's cap and way more books. Oh, and he had a little bit more patience for Dean and Sam. Their father had gotten loads better at not shouting or freaking out anytime they started to mess around with each other, but Bobby never seemed to mind it from the start. Sam knew his brother adored Bobby as much as their parents (and sometimes a bit more because Dean just seemed to trust Bobby the moment they met). Sam thought the world of their neighbor as well and called him Uncle Bobby (rather than just Bobby like Dean did) because Sam wanted him to know that he too thought of the man as family. Sam felt sure Bobby would find their food as he returned a hard look at his brother's confident expression.

Well, like 90 percent sure. Dean's smirk and following comment made that 10 percent doubt sting.

"Maybe he sucks at hunting and now you're gonna starve because you didn't plan ahead," Dean challenged jostling his bag to reveal the telltale sound of peanut M&M's rattling inside.

"You finished?" Bobby asked, suddenly appearing through the trees beside Dean. Sam chuckled as his brother jumped and stumbled sideways into a tree.

Dean shot Sam a hard glare while rubbing a sore spot on his shoulder where he had collided with the tree.

"We got a few more miles to cover before we set up camp and then we gotta scare up our dinner," Bobby continued.

"I'm ready," Sam nodded eagerly and pulled tight the straps on his pack.

"There's a large dam in the stream on the way," Bobby began as they started up a new trail to their left. "If I see its populated by some critters with really plump cans, we'll need to take a break so I can grab myself a snack." He then slapped Dean lightly at the back of his noggin. "Now, get movin,' Chucklehead, before I put ketchup on you and take a bite."

Sam's laughter filled the woods as he practically skipped ahead, following the needle of his compass. Dean grumbled under his breath, mumbling a few choice words about his brother and their guide. Bobby heard every syllable but did correct him or directly scold the teen for it. The boy's father would do that and Bobby was a lot of things that were paternal in nature to these boys, but he did not have John's need for such rigid approaches to respect. He let Dean complain and speak in a salty manner up to a point. He noted that the kid was tapering off that a great deal in recent months. The hunter figured part of that was because he chose to ignore Dean's language. Take away its power by ignoring t. Instead, Bobby took a different approach and went at the attitude behind the words rather than the words used.

"You bitch enough to be an old grandmother," Bobby observed.

"And you creak and groan enough to be an old rocking chair," Dean replied. "It's no wonder we get along so well."

"Keep walking," Bobby growled and received a toothy and unconcerned grin from the teen in return. Under his beard the cragged hunter fought a smirk.

They trudged forward with Bobby becoming acutely aware of the sounds around them—or more precisely, the sounds he did not hear. At first, he did not pay the quiet much attention. The boys were loud hikers, crashing through the underbrush without any care or concern for disturbing the indigenous life that called the forest home. They snapped branches back at each other, scuffed their feet through duff (the remnants of leaves and pine needles dried up from the previous year that carpeted the floor and made for great tinder to light the place ablaze if there was a careless camper or a well-placed lightning strike). They also talked both to and at each other, arguing and egging each other on while turning to Bobby to play referee occasionally.

That was enough to send any critter used to the normal quiet and peace of the trees scurrying for cover far from them, but Bobby's senses were tingling. He found his eyes scanning not just the floor of the forest but also the trees in areas much higher than a normal man might reach. If the boys had asked, he had his reason ready: Bears. He saw a few marks that might be from actual bear claws, but he couldn't be sure. The canopy above them was thick and did not let in much light. Whether the marks were actual drags marks in bark was a mystery as was what might have caused them. There were a lot of options, and a few put his hunter radar on high as he checked the breach of his rifle once again to make sure it was in the unlocked and loaded position.

"Any chance you'll let me carry that?" Dean asked, catching Bobby checking his weapon.

"My gun?" the older man's face twisted in surprise. "Just what makes you think I'd trust you with a gun?"

"Well, you and my dad taught me to shoot this spring," Dean shrugged. "You let me sight in all your guns because you said I have a good eye and I'm a natural at hitting targets."

"I also say you're an idgit," Bobby countered.

"But you always say it with such pride and warmth," the teen offered, smiling knowingly with his eyes. The wide, green orbs twinkled in the scarce light as his thick lashes fluttered mischievously. Bobby forced a scowl, but it did not make it to his own eyes.

"There's also the fact that I'm like way younger than you, and I'm just trying to be helpful," Dean continued. "No little old ladies to help across the street here, so I figured while I'm out here playing boy scout I should, you know…"

"Help an old man through the woods?" Bobby grounded out as he trudged onward at a quicker pace. "Save your strength. You'll need it to pull my boot out of your ass if you keep dragging your feet and asking stupid questions. Find a new gear, Dean. We've got a ways to go before we break for camp."

Dean snorted and set his jaw firmly on frown. He cast his eyes to the forest floor and walked determinedly ahead of his brother and Bobby. The hunter let the kid cool his heels. Dean's temper flares rarely lasted long anymore. They were just unpredictable. Sam watched him pass by and giggled, wisely saying nothing until he was out of Dean's reach. The 11-year-old adjusted his pack and fell in step with Bobby as Dean forged a few steps ahead grinding his teeth and scuffing his feet noisily on the ground with each step.

"Aw, he's just mad because Hope Price asked him if he wanted to go to the movies this weekend," Sam grinned as he walked with a bouncing step, thinking of the redhead who had boldly walked up to Dean outside the grocery store a week earlier while they waited for their mother to return to the car. "He had to say no so the next day Justin Sterns asked her to go instead."

"How do you know about that?" Dean snapped.

"I'm friends with Justin's sister Melinda," Sam replied. "I helped her with her with math this year. While we were doing flashcards on the last day of school, she told me."

"Who studies on the last day of school?" Dean moaned. "You are such a geek."

Sam shot a sour look at his brother and stuck out his tongue. Bobby cut his eyes at the younger boy but said nothing. Grumbling and teasing between the brothers was normal. As long as no one started screaming or swinging, they would be fine. They were getting tired, he knew. They had been up long before dawn, had driven a long way and had been hiking some rugged terrain without a break. A little spat between them was expected, but he gave Sam a warning look just to be certain. Again, the silence of the area niggled at him. His stomach fluttered a bit. It wasn't the full-on fight or flight response he felt in dicey situations, but there was definitely something not sitting right with him about this spot.

With the boys as his charges, his first instinct was to turn around and hike back to Hardy Station. He chided himself for that reaction. He decided he was letting Mary's angst about the boys being away from her reach get the better of him. She had called him the night before, speaking in hushed and sorrowful tones about wanting the boys to take the trip and have fun but still feeling so fearful that she could not sleep. Bobby did his best to assure her that he would look out for them and see that nature did not take any sizeable bites from her two angels. She had done research, just as he had, and the area chosen for the camping trip was as quiet as quiet could be. No strange occurrences in 110 years of recorded history. No odd deaths. No animal maulings. Nothing but virgin forests, crystal clear mountain streams and fresh air.

Reminding himself of that kept his feet moving forward rather than pivoting to return. If he was by himself, he knew he would not have the slightest twinge of concern about a weekend of camping in this area. His worry, he decided, was more just for being the sole responsibility for the Winchester boys. A few scraped marks on bark and too few birds in the trees were easily explained away.

Oblivious to his inner discourse, Dean proceeded to defend his attitude and explain a few things to his brother about the teenage mindset. Despite the boy's lack of concern for their surroundings, Bobby still could not get the knot in his stomach to unclench entirely. Moving forward was a good idea, he knew.

"Besides, the only movies playing in town are The Lion King and Speed," Dean scoffed and shoved his brother forward brusquely. "A cartoon or Keanu Reeves? No thanks. And another thing…"

"Dean," Bobby tried to interrupt.

"You have no idea what you're talking about, Sammy," he continued undeterred. "Hope asked me and I said no to her. Got it? She asked me, not the other way around."

"So?" Sam shrugged. "What's the difference? Either way, she's going with someone else."

"I'll tell you the difference," Dean said, his voice rising.

"Dean," Bobby tried again.

"The difference is I didn't get turned down," Dean asserted. "She did. She asked me first, which means she interested. She'll be back. Girls like it when you brush them off. Makes them chase you even more."

"You are a flat out genius about the ladies," Bobby noted flatly. "Your girlfriend told you that yet? Oh wait, I forgot. You ain't got one."

Sam laughed and grinned madly at his brother as he caught a wink from Bobby.

"Now, if we're done with educating Sam on how to get dumped and be a grade A jackass, let's pick up the pace," Bobby said.

Both boys noted the slight tension in his voice. They looked at him with questioning faces.

"Just a little too quiet around us for my liking," Bobby replied casually. "Never a good sign when it's too quiet out here. Might mean a pop up storm is coming. Can't tell under all this canopy so let's get moving so we can make it to our camp site in case the skies open up on us."

**oOoOoOo**

The afternoon crawled, like a caterpillar across a branch. It was slow, methodical and quiet. Those were eerie occurrences in the Winchester household. With two young boys, quiet and slow just never happened. The methodical was always an aim but chaos was more likely to reign. Mary sat at the kitchen table looking at her hands as her husband finished washing the plate used for his lunch. They had not spoken much since both returned home at the end of their shortened work day.

"This is… awkward," Mary said finally.

John sighed with relief and collapsed into a chair as he ran his hand roughly over his face.

"You think so, too?" he replied. "Thank god. I was worried it was just me. What is wrong with us?"

"I'm not sure," she said, running her hand through her hair. "Boredom, maybe?"

They had known each other for half of their lives and been married, at least legally, for most of that time. They'd lived under the same roof, shared the same room and slept in the same bed, for the last year. Still, there was an awkwardness to their interaction. They each felt like strangers and as though there was an audience watching them.

"I don't know why I'm so jittery," Mary said worriedly. "After 20 years of marriage, being around you shouldn't feel so… weird."

John nodded as he scoffed.

"Well, that decade apart sort of cuts a healthy chunk out of the 20 years," John shrugged. "And it's not like all the years before that were easy or blissful."

Mary grimaced. She tried not to think of the missing years. Returning to hunting when her boys disappeared was a nightmare. She did not give her husband or her marriage much thought during that time. She was focused instead on finding whatever creature took her kids and exacting revenge for what she believed were their deaths. Just like the lost years, she never allowed herself to think of the hard parts of the years that proceeded them. Diving into the sea of problems that made her marriage stormy in the weeks leading up to the fateful Halloween night when her boys were taken was like taking a dingy into maelstrom. There was no reason to willingly seek out the devastation so Mary simply hid from it.

Now, with her family restored, she realized hiding might no longer be an option. Her oldest son's concerns rang in her ears again. She had brushed off Dean's worries when he spoke them, but that was mostly because of the pangs of guilt they brought her. Dean was just a little boy when she and John struggled to hold their marriage together. In the intervening years, she had managed to forget the times she found her toddler son standing in doorways with tear-blistered eyes and a quivering lip as he listened to them shout at each other. Mary pushed back the memory that suddenly rose in her mind of her little boy asking yet again if his Daddy was coming home on the nights when John chose to stay at the garage or simply stayed at a friend's house to avoid another shouting match. Dean's promise as a toddler, during one of his father's absences, to stick with her and always love her broke her heart at the time. It pained her even more as she realized the boy, now a teenager, made her the same vow in the backyard just days earlier, letting her know that despite his claimed lack of memories of his young life, he did recall a great many things.

"I guess we owe it to the boys and ourselves to figure out what this whole 'us' thing means," Mary said nervously. "We've spent all our time getting them settled and adjusted to this life that we never…"

"Settled ourselves?" John suggested with a rueful sigh.

He scrubbed his hand over his unshaven face and hung his head. He and his wife lived as a family once again, but all of their time was spent caring for their children, getting them adjusted to family life, a new home and new schools. He and Mary had jobs and household responsibilities. There were repairs and bills and a million little, normal, everyday things that got in the way of John and Mary learning if they were a couple or just roommates. This weekend was the first time that they would be alone together in a very long time, and it was scaring the ever-living crap out of both of them.

"Did you ever…," Mary began. "I mean, we were apart, and you were on your own, did you ever find anyone else, even for a little while?"

John looked at her and feared the question. Not because he was embarrassed by his answer but because it would mean he should ask her as well. He wasn't sure he could stomach her response. He recalled with regret the loud and pointless arguments that erupted between them before the boys disappeared. He remembered with equal pain the cold and vicious exchanges during the years they suffered through the loss of their family. For the last years, he knew there were plenty of moments they each spent walking on eggshells, avoiding confrontation, for the sake of their children. Now, with no one needing a façade and no one there to act as a natural speed bump to slow down any impending argument, they were faced with the terrifying prospect of being fully honest with each other.

"There was never anyone," John replied honestly while shaking his head. "I spent all the time I could looking for clues on the boys. There were opportunities and offers, but somewhere between: Can I buy you a drink? And actually going someplace with a woman, I'd find myself talking about how I was looking for my sons. Most women aren't turned on by heartache from missing kids, I guess. I got a lot of 'you poor baby' and 'how awful's.' After a while, being hermit was just easier to take."

He paused, wondering if he could change the subject. If he didn't ask, maybe Mary wouldn't volunteer any information. Before he could act, she plunged onward with her own revelation.

"That's better than me," she said without prompting, sending John's heart clattering down into the vicinity of his feet.

"I understand," he said slowly. He knew, in that instant, if he peaked under his shirt he would see a gaping hole just over his heart where her admission had lanced mercilessly into him. Inside his chest, his heart was torn in two and hemorrhaging.

Seeing the sudden pall cross his features, Mary shook her head quickly. She reached her hand to touch his as his expression dropped and darkened. Staring at her, sitting with him in their small kitchen, he felt a twist of jealousy in his gut that someone had filled her nights and felt her sorrow while they were apart. John had met hunters; their lives were short and extreme and tragic. The men picked up women in diners and on their cases. The women hunters, he supposed, were not much different. The release from the dark world that so few realized existed and the knowledge that each day might be the last, pushed them all to seek solace anywhere and anyway they could.

"Oh, no, not that," Mary shook her head firmly. "I meant that I couldn't even stand the company of people most of the time. Anyone at all. There were days, weeks even, that I wouldn't even speak to another person unless I had to because I was on a case. I was mad at the universe and kind of thought if I wasn't saving them then people should get the hell out of my way."

"So you mean, you never…," John began, his breath filling in his chest much easier as a relieved grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Not ever?"

It was a stupid grin he knew. It wasn't even something that should make him happy. All those years she was hurting and miserable, but all that time, he realized, she was still his. She left him for revenge and vengeance, not because she hated him and blamed him for blaming her (something he never actually did but her own fears and guilt conjured that he must). She might not be the same seemingly innocent girl he used to meet in the Jayhawk Diner in the evenings, but she was still his wife, his beloved Mary.

"No, never," she shook her head and chuckled in a nervous fashion as she blushed. "Jim Murphy kindly puts it that I am a leader in the Church of the Born-Again Virgins. Mostly, I was known in the hunting community as the coldest bitch on the planet. I think Bobby got invited to bed more than I did."

"Good," John sighed then shook his head. "I mean… You're not a… Well, actually, you can be a bit of a…"

"Stop," she commanded. "I'm going to help you from putting your sizeable foot in your mouth. I know how I can be. And even if I didn't, Dean lets me know pretty frequently that I can be a bit of a pain."

"Only we haven't gotten him to express it that politely yet," John remarked as a chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. "We really should have grounded him longer when he announced that you ride his ass often enough to enter a rodeo."

Mary waved off the memory with a quiet chuckle. Her oldest was colorful. Having spent 10 years of his life as the parent and protector of his little brother made Dean mature beyond his years in some ways and maddeningly immature in countless others. Those years grew a hard crust on his personality with an appropriately salty vocabulary to go with it. Mary knew her oldest actually possessed a tender and warm heart, but he hid it away to save himself the pain of it breaking. He was better now than when they first got him back, but his walls were far from completely demolished.

"I overheard Sam scolding him after we did," Mary said. "Sam's disapproval tends to have a greater impact on Dean than you or I making him stay in his room."

Both fell silent. Neither of the boys was the topic of concern at that moment. The T Rex-sized elephant of John and Mary as a couple was staring at them expectantly from all corners of the room. Sensing this, John grimaced. Talking about their children was 90 of the talking he did with his wife. The other 10 percent was about bills. He feared that with the boys out of the house, they might learn that there was nothing left between them. What that would mean for their family worried him. However, that was not a good enough excuse not to find out.

"Right," John nodded. "Okay, well, we're broke."

"Didn't need the reminder, but thank you for the abrupt change in the conversation," Mary said. "You always were a smooth talker, Johnny."

He smiled and hung his head at the mild chiding.

"No, hear me out," he insisted. "We're broke, so we can't go do anything extravagant, but I would like to ask you out on a date tonight, if you're not busy."

"A date?" Mary laughed. "John, we've done the dating part already. We got married, and I gave birth to two children for you."

"I recall and I thank you for all those things, but none of that matters right now," he shook his head. "So much has happened since then that it feels like we need to start over. It's kind of like when the boys first came home to us. We had to start slow and get to know them again so we could learn to be a family once more. Well, I think that's what you and I need. We've been living here in the same space, doing all the family things, but we aren't doing…"

"Each other?" she remarked without thinking then smirked. "Sorry."

"For the record, I would like to point out all evidence suggests that if any of it is genetic, Dean gets his mouth from you more than me," John offered but grinned. "So, what do you say? Do you want to try this? We can have ground rules for the date so we know what to expect and what not. Obviously, rule one is :We can't go anywhere because we have no money. Rule two: No expectations for how the date will end. I mean, if it ends like our first date ended, that's fine, but if not then that's fine, too."

Mary cocked her head to the side as she narrowed her eyes at him. She held up her hand, halting his issuance of rules.

"How exactly do you recall our first date ending?" Mary wondered. She folded hear arms tightly across her chest as she narrowed her pale gaze.

"The same way you do," he grinned. "We were at Tom Clayton's party for a very short while and then we…"

She quickly swatted his hand in reprimand as she gaped. Her face grew an misty shade of pink that was a warning to John. Whether it meant she was embarrassed or mad, he never knew. He only knew it was wise to tread carefully at this point.

"That was not our first date," Mary insisted. "Not even close. That was like our 10th official date!"

"No, it wasn't," John countered. "Every other time wasn't a real date. It was…"

"You thought I slept with you on the first date?" she gasped. "John Winchester, you are a complete ass! We were dating—exclusively—for nearly three months before… How could you think I was that kind of…"

"Not relevant anymore, Mary," he cut her off quickly. She offered him a stern look, but she was smiling under the glare. "Regardless of when our first date was or how it ended, this one doesn't have to end in any certain way. Rule three: No talking about the boys."

Mary chewed her lip. That would be hard. Their sons were the center of her world. Having lost them for so long, most of their childhoods in fact, made focusing on them, what they needed, what they did and said, her priority (John's too). Taking the boys off the table as a conversation option worried her. She didn't know who she was anymore other than Sam's and Dean's mother. Spending so many years not being their mother made her dive headfirst at the chance to take up that role again when the opportunity presented itself.

"John, that's going a little far," she said. "We're their parents. They're a huge part of our lives and who we are."

"Rule is a rule, Mary," he replied. She rolled her eyes but kept silent. "Look, we know we are parents. We know we love the boys and take care of them. I don't know about you, but I don't know who I am anymore outside of being their father. That's not a complaint, but I've been thinking that it's time that I figure that out. I think you need to do the same."

Mary sighed. That John's thinking was identical to hers was both not a surprise and a shock at the same time. The unsurprising part was in his admission the boys were his world. John was big on family. It was his unwavering devotion to the concept of family that did not let him accept every expert opinion (civilian and psychic) that his boys were dead. If his dogged streak and competitive nature sometimes grated on Mary during the early parts of their marriage, she could not undervalue its importance now. It was that which brought her sons back to her and it was that which made her forgive her husband for all the imperfections that once riled her and put their marriage in dangerous waters.

What did shock Mary was that she did not realize until her husband spoke those words that he felt his identity was a mystery now just as she did. Knowing how daunting and scary it was to face that, she wondered why she had not noticed this inner turmoil in her husband previously. That lack of perception did not bode well for their impending date. If they lived in such close quarters but were able to keep such bone deep secrets from each other, what else might they find out about each other that they had been hiding?

"What if we figure out we don't belong together?" she asked after a moment of contemplation. "Sammy and Dean can't take an upheaval like that."

"This isn't about them," John reminded her. "Besides, they deserve honesty and stability from us, not an act or a front."

She nodded slowly but felt the first stages of panic begin to flutter in her stomach.

"So a date?" she swallowed dryly. "Okay." She nodded and tried hard not ignore the knot in her stomach, the one that felt a lot like the fear she felt when she used to hunt ghosts and monsters.

**oOoOoOo**

The phone at Singer's Salvage rang yet again. There were half a dozen messages on the various answering machines. Each was from a hunter seeking Bobby's advice on a case and wondering where he was or expressing disbelief that the hunter had actually taken the vacation he said he would. The latest call, though, was on the legitimate business line. It was not one many hunters called. It was the ultimate in emergency lines as it was the only one truly registered to Bobby and traceable to him. The voice on the end of this call was again measured but much more urgent than his first call.

"Bobby, this is Summer Proudfoot," the native's voice said. "I assume you did not receive my warning and proceeded to the woods. The wind's tale to me was wise. A demon long dormant has awakened in the vicinity of your destination. It took two men who remain missing and mortally wounded a child several days ago. The reports of their disappearance only appeared in the news today. If a friend is helping your business and reviewing your calls, please know that I will summon help to find Bobby Singer, but I must also go to hunt this beast. I have asked the spirits to watch over Bobby and his young friends. I pray that the spirits listen and heed my request. You should do the same."

**oOoOoOo**

* * *

**A/N: More to come shortly.**


End file.
