This is the first story I've posted. It's definitely a work in progress. Of course, I own nothing but my OC, Liv. Feel free to review/follow or critique; I appreciate all feedback.

"Someone's coming up the road," the light-haired man commented. He was bent over the front of a shiny, black, muscle car, his head hidden beneath the hood and his fingers covered in thick grease.

Both men turned, registering the approaching vehicle and the cloud of chalky, red dust it left in its' wake. It was a beat up, old Jeep with cracks in the windshield and a busted headlight.

"I've never seen that Jeep before. You?" The dark-haired man asked.

"Nah. Probably looking for parts. That hunk of junk looks like it could use some work. Hand me that lug wrench, Sammy." Shorter than his companion, but by no means diminutive in height, the first man turned back to his own car. In stark contrast to the Jeep, which had pulled off to the side of the narrow dirt road and was idling loudly in the otherwise quiet of the peaceful afternoon, the Impala was in mint condition. Shining in the late afternoon sunlight, it was a piece of art – perfectly waxed, the chrome polished until the metal sparkled. You couldn't even admire it without shielding your eyes from the blinding glare.

"I don't know, Dean. She doesn't look like much of a car person to me." The taller man, Sammy, had watched the woman climb through the driver's side door. She was so petite that she actually teetered on the edge of her seat before free falling several inches to the ground. The crumbled dirt and gravel crunched beneath her small feet, clad in old, rugged, bohemian sandals. A small, brindle pit-bull with white markings on its' feet, chest, and belly, no more than a puppy really, leapt out of the jeep and stood next to the woman with a goofy, doggy grin plastered across its' face. Its' ears pricked up at the sight of the two men and, distracted by a piece of worn paper in her hand, the woman didn't even notice when the dog bounded toward them. In fact, Sam was certain she hadn't even noticed them standing there, barely twenty yards away from her.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" the shorter man shouted, backing away from the swiftly approaching dog, which appeared much larger while barreling toward them at full speed.

The woman looked up, sharply, and let out a tired groan.

"Molly, stop!" she yelled, hurrying toward them.

Sam quickly saw that there was no danger in this unruly but affectionate canine and he kneeled down to greet her. The dog, Molly, slammed into him with the full force of her twenty wiry pounds, a panting ball of energy that immediately began baptizing his face with her hot tongue. Sam laughed when Molly rolled onto her back and wriggled against his legs, sending clouds of dust all over his jeans and the side of the previously spotless black car. Behind him, Dean cursed loudly.

Sam turned to face him and laughed even harder when he saw that his brother had literally backed up onto the hood of the car in a desperate attempt to escape Molly's wrath.

"Dean, what're you doing? It's just a puppy," Sam said, demonstrating his point by vigorously rubbing the dog's belly. Molly grinned up at him; her tongue lolled out the side of her mouth and left a widening puddle of drool in the dirt.

"I know that," Dean retorted, slowly inching his way off of the car.

"I'm so sorry!" the woman cried out. She had finally caught up to the overzealous pit-bull and was frantically trying to grab onto its' collar. "She's usually really well behaved but we've been in the car for hours and she loves people; she just got excited. I'm really, really sorry!"

Sam waved his hand, dismissively.

"It's totally fine," he said, grinning broadly at the distraught woman. "Really, don't worry. We love dogs, don't we, Dean?"

Dean nodded, clearly still wary. He visibly relaxed when the woman was finally able to snap a leash onto Molly's pale, pink collar.

The woman smiled hesitantly and tugged on the leash. It seemed, however, that Molly wasn't interested in leaving Sam's side quite yet. She settled down on the ground beside him and rested her head on his rather large shoe. He only laughed again and ruffled her ears before standing and extending his right hand toward the woman.

"I'm Sam. Are you looking for parts?"

She shook her head but accepted his hand, shaking it firmly. "No, actually I'm looking for Bobby Singer." She looked up at him, craning her neck to maintain eye contact and shielding her eyes from the fading but still power sunlight. He was so tall and she so short that the top of her head didn't even reach his shoulders.

"You know Bobby?" Dean asked, stepping closer. "I'm Dean, by the way."

The woman shook his hand, as well, and nodded.

"I've known Bobby my whole life, but I haven't seen him in forever. Is he here?"

Before either of them could answer, Bobby stepped out of a nearby garage, an uncharacteristically wide smile spreading across his face.

"Livve? Livvie Tate, is that you?" he called.

The woman squealed and ran toward him, dropping the leash which Sam bent down to collect though the dog continue to show no sign of moving. The brothers watched Bobby sweep up the woman in a great, bear hug. Her feet actually lifted off the ground as he swung her around.

"Oh, man, no one has called me Livvie in years!" she exclaimed as he set her back down.

"I guess it's Olivia now, huh?" Bobby said.

"Nope, just Liv," she answered.

"Alright then, just Liv," he said, releasing her from the hug but holding onto one of her hands. "What the hell are you doing here, girl?" he asked.

Liv's smile disappeared, instantly.

"It's Dad, Bobby. I haven't heard from him in six months." She opened her mouth to continue but Dean cut off her words.

"You said Tate? Is your dad Rick Tate?"

She nodded, quickly. "Do you know him? Where he is?"

Dean shook his head. "I know who he is but we've never met."

"Sure you have," Bobby interjected. "You both have. You've met Liv here, too, back when she was still little Livvie. Must have been twenty five years ago, at least."

Sam squinted at the woman, looking her up and down. It was true; she did seem just barely familiar. Dressed in a long, floaty skirt with a paisley pattern of multiple colors and a simple, white tank top, she looked like she belonged in another decade, perhaps the 60's. Even her long, dark hair that fell to her waist in tangled, natural waves would have looked right at home in the Woodstock community. Her pale skin was smooth and dusted with a spatter of dainty freckles. It was lightly weathered, as if a decent amount of time in the sun had finally made some impression on her fair complexion. He noticed a few tattoos, as well; one on her foot that looked like some kind of large bird, and another on her shoulder. It was partially concealed but it appeared to be a tree, with several more birds roosting in its' branches.

"We have?" Dean asked, and his eyebrows rose in question. Sam saw that Dean was giving the woman the same inspection and was coming to a similar conclusion; that they had met her was likely, but neither could remember from when or where.

"Oh yeah, long time ago. You were just kids but you spent a summer here. Well, part of one, anyway. Your dads left the three of you here with me and went on a hunt, some coven out in Modesto."

Sam and Dean exchanged uncomfortable looks; Bobby rarely mentioned the real family business in front of strangers. Liv only smiled, accepting the information as truth without question, which they took to mean that she was accustomed to the line of work that Sam, Dean, and Bobby lived and breathed every day.

"I remember," she said suddenly, grinning. "You almost blew your hand off with a firecracker!" She pointed at Dean and burst into raucous laughter.

Dean scowled but Sam and Bobby joined in. Sam watched her eyes twinkle and realized how infectious her laughter was.

"Oh, yeah," he agreed, turning to his brother. "You double-dared me to hold it 'cause you were convinced it was a dud. When it sparked in your hand, you threw it at me and ran about a mile." Sam continued to laugh, remembering the incident. His recollection of the girl was still shady, at best. He remembered someone being there, someone who was of little interest to his five year old self.

Noticing Dean's furrowed brow and offended expression, Liv coughed back her giggles, with extreme effort, and smile at him apologetically.

"I don't remember much else," she said. "I think we had fun, though."

Bobby nodded. "Like I said, you were just kids. You two stuck around another month but Liv left after two or three days. Tell me, kid, when was the last time you heard from him?" he asked, turning back to her.

"Like I said, about six months ago. He called from a bar. He was a drunk." Liv paused, frowning. "I hate it when he's drunk."

"Well, he always was a dumbass," Bobby grumbled. "Come on, let's go inside and get some grub."

Two hours later, after a meal of Bobbly's homemade, and delicious, chili con carne, the four of them sat around a desk in the den. The room was dark, lit only by a small, kerosene lamp on the mantle. A large map of the Midwest was laid out in front of them. Molly snoozed softly from a nearby armchair, occasionally opening one eye to check on her people.

Liv took a small, narrow nail from a jar and pressed it into the map, marking the location of the bar from which her father had last contacted her.

"He was here. He forgot to block the number so it showed up on my cell phone. There's a pay phone at this bar that matches the number. I called it back a few times but no one ever knew who I was talking about."

"Six months is a long time, Liv. Why would he be in the same place?" Dean asked. Liv just shrugged.

"It's the last place we know of. Did he say anything about the case?" Bobby asked.

"No, nothing. I'm not even sure he was on a case." Liv pulled a pair of dark-rimmed glasses out of her bag and slipped them on. With her right, index finger, she traced the route from the bar to Bobby's home in Kansas. "It's only 300 miles from here, give or take a few. I can't believe he didn't call you for help or anything, Bobby."

"What did I say before?" Bobby said, gruffly. "Rick was a good hunter in his prime but he's always been a first class dumbass."

"Maybe he didn't need help," Sam offered.

"Maybe," Dean said. "But it's pretty stupid to go into a hunt on your own without someone on the line for back up, or even telling anybody, even if you don't need help. Hell, there's two of us and we always check in with Bobby, no matter what. For all we know now, he could be-."

Bobby directed a swift kick at Dean's shin, under the desk, and nodded toward Liv, who was oblivious to the slight commotion below and had paled at the implication of Dean's words.

"Fine. For all we know, he's completely fine," Dean finished, sounding falsely optimistic. "I'm sure he's fine."

That first night at Bobby's, Liv's thoughts were consumed by images of her father. Was he hurt somewhere? Trapped? Sleeping off one hell of a bender? It wouldn't be the first time. But he'd never gone so long without getting in touch and he'd promised her he never would.

In a fit of angry frustration, she picked up her cell phone and dialed his number. For the thousandth time, it went straight to voicemail, which was full and not accepting any new messages. Filled with her own messages, most likely. They had started off calm and inquisitive, asking where he was, when would she see him again, normal questions. They quickly shifted into hyperactive panic, though; she could sense that something wasn't right. Eventually, her concern turned into red-hot anger. She cursed him for being so selfish, for subjecting her to a life of worry. Her final messages, the ones she left in the days just before his voicemail stopped cooperating, were simple pleas, begging him to call her, just to let her know he was alright even if he didn't want to speak to her. No matter her approach, he never responded.

Cursing, she flung the phone away with more force than she'd intended, further angered by the tears that tumbled down her cheeks. It wasn't fair. He was the worst kind of father; absent, alcoholic, destructive, yet he was still capable of eliciting such feelings of grief at the prospect of losing him.

A light tap on the door brought her to her senses. Dean stood in the doorway, clothed in only a white towel wrapped around his narrow hips. His hair was still wet from the shower and he clutched a small, black revolver in his right hand, which he held below his waist.

"Everything okay in here?" he asked, his eyes shifting around the room. "Sounded like something fell."

She brushed away the tears and nodded.

"Everything's fine. I dropped my phone," she finished, gesturing toward the cell phone that sat on the ground, beneath a fresh dent in the drywall.

"Dropped it. Okay," he said before nodding and slipping away, pulling the door shut behind him.

Molly watched him leave, and then turned back to her mistress. Her eyes drooped and she let out a quiet woof before lowering her head.

"Can't you sleep outside?" Dean snarled. He rolled around uncomfortably on the makeshift bed he'd fashioned on the floor of Sam's room. Bobby had insisted they give up the nicest spare bedroom, Dean's room, which left Sam and Dean in the closet sized spare with one twin bed. After several tense rounds of rock, paper, scissors, Sam had settled onto the pancake thin mattress while Dean swore profusely from the cold, hard wood floor below.

"Don't be bitchy," Sam answered, grinning despite the metal springs that threatened to puncture his flesh through the nearly useless mattress. "You're being chivalrous."

"Chivalrous?" Dean said, incredulously. "What am I, a fucking knight?"

"It's the nice thing to do. She's had a rough few months," Sam said.

"Easy for you to say, up there in a real damn bed. This floor smells like moldy ass."

"I doubt Bobby's gotten around to spring cleaning this year," Sam laughed. "Or last year. Or the year before that. Or ever."

"Did you see her tattoos?" Dean interrupted.

"The birds on her shoulder?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, and on her foot. What the hell are they supposed to mean?"

"They were crows, I think."

"Okay, and?" Dean demanded.

"Crows are harbingers of death," Sam answered, grinning as he rolled over onto his side and pulled up the covers.

"Great," Dean muttered, sarcastically. He savagely punched his pillow and shifted onto his back, grimacing as the frigid cold of the floor seeped through the blankets he was lying on and confronted his flesh.

Sam fell asleep almost instantly, his feet comically hanging several inches off the foot of the bed.

A light breeze ruffled the lacy, yellow curtains, stained by years of age. As he drifted off, Dean could have sworn he felt the delicate brush of satiny, soft hair across his chest, and the unmistakable calling of crows outside the window.