Ok I've been playing with this idea for a while. I know this is an awful idea, but John dies on a hunt when the boys are young. And this is how they deal with Dean having to be a Dad and a brother, and Sam growing up with no-body but Dean.

I've decided to do it in segments kinda thing. So this first story is when John originally dies, when Sam's aged 10 and Dean is fourteen.

Enjoy.

"It's alright Sammy, it's Ok,"

Despite the laments, the soft noises and the gripping hug, nothing stopped Sam's sobs. And despite his sub-conscious screaming at him to stop, the blood drawn from his palm as he gripped his fists, and the howling of the window, nothing could stop Dean's either. Sam's words were unintelligible, small wailing syllables that added together in his jumble of crying made little sense. It made Dean hold on tighter. The grass wasn't wet but the ground beneath it was, and it soaked their jeans as they sat furled in the edges of the forest. The wind broke against their barely protected backs and bit into their fingers and cut at their faces. They didn't seem to register it though. Sam buried his hot shaggy head into Dean's neck and he crawled further up Dean's trembling knees, "Dean, Dean," he wailed, the little ten year old letting rip as he lost his hands in his big brother's jacket, holding on for all it was worth. And his eyes fixed on the same spot all of the time. Dean tried to say something but choked, instead lukewarm tears reached to his throat and touched his skin gently, reminding him. They hit Sam's hair with inaudible patters.

"What do we do Dean, what do we do?" Sam's voice eventually managed to push together.

Dean held on and his chest moved with sobs he couldn't stop. "I don't know Sammy,"

Dean called Pastor Jim when Sam was asleep. Or at least that was what he told Sam. When the red-eyed, shallow breathed little Sammy appeared in the morning, holding onto one of Dean's old t-shirts and looking lost, Pastor Jim still hadn't arrived. And as they sat staring at their respective breakfasts, Sam doubted Dean had rung Pastor Jim at all.

"Is he going to come?"

"Who?"
"Pastor Jim?"
"Sure he will Sammy,"
"When?"
"I don't know,"
"Is he going to do something with…with Dad?"

Dean suddenly looked pained, and he had to dip his head towards his cereals to stop the wetness in his eyes showing, "Uh, yeah, I guess," he said, his voice breaking a little. Sam watched his brother struggle to keep the pain in, and nodded gravely. He felt like crying too, but unlike his brother he'd sobbed all night into the pillow whilst Dean had been out 'sorting stuff out'. He seemed to have cried all the tears humanly possible, and even if he tried he doubted he could weep any more. At least for now. The expression on Dean's face, for example, was starting to bring a lump to his throat.

"Can I have a bath, Dean?"
"Yeah. Yeah if you want,"

Sam paused, biting on his lip, "Am I allowed to turn on the hot tap?"
"What?"
"Well the water in his place is really, really hot and Dad says I'm…Dad said I'm not allowed to touch it,"
Dean sighed and disappeared for a moment, before re-appearing with his shoulders looking as heavy as lead, "There you go Sammy. It's running,"

He sat down on the chair next to Sam and ran his hand through his hair. He forced a funny expression onto his face and chuckled croakily, "Wash your hair whilst you're there too Sammy, it's disgusting,"

Sam gave a small smile before slipping off his chair and heading into the bathroom. Dean sat back down heavily at the table and stared at his Cheerios. He hadn't rang Pastor Jim last night. For the first few hours he was aware enough to do anything, he'd stowed Sam in the back of the car under their Dad's coat and told him to go to sleep; something he knew Sam hadn't done. He'd told him not to look up, just to stay there with his eyes closed; another thing Sam hadn't done. Then he'd buried their Dad's body. It had taken the exhausted fourteen year old all the strength he'd had but he'd done it. Not six feet under, not that far, but enough to stop rogue animals from digging him up. It was a thought that – combined with other memories from the night's experiences – had caused him to turn around and heave up his stomach onto the grass. That was when he'd seen Sam out of the corner of his eye, knelt up on the back seat watching him through the window. There'd been so little expression on his baby brother's face, and Dean had promptly been sick again.

He knew that to bury his father meant that he could have some time to sort himself out before he rang Pastor Jim. The creature had Sam and Dean's blood in it's nostrils and would hunt them down so as not to endanger its litter again. So when he'd tucked Sam into bed, knowing all the while that the trembling body he swathed in the blankets wasn't quivering from cold but from sobs, he'd then gone and killed the beast. It was an ugly thing, shaped like an emaciated gorilla but doubly intelligent. It had smelt Dean a mile away but Dean had killed it, and its litter too.

But still…Dean couldn't seem to force himself to pick up the phone. After a while of staring at his breakfast he went into the bathroom to see Sam curled up in the water, shivering even though there was steam from the temperature. Dean grabbed the shower head and blasted Sam's hair with it.

"Ah Dean!"
"Sorry, but you weren't getting on with it were you?"
"I can wash my hair myself,"
Dean handed him the shower head and Sam began to scrub at his hair.

"When's Pastor Jim coming?" he asked again, rubbing so hard Dean wandered how his scalp didn't set on fire.

"As soon as he can Sam,"
"You haven't rung him, have you?"
"Yes I have,"
"No you haven't. Or he would be here by now," Sam's voice was low, a touch down from accusing. He ran the water over his hair and rinsed the shampoo out.

"He lives a long way away Sammy,"

Sam dunked the showerhead into the bath as an exasperated motion and said, his voice louder now, "Dean, Dad always said that Pastor Jim would make any journey in half the time if he knew one of us needed his help-"
"Christ Sammy that was only metaphorical," Dean snapped, unable to help himself.

Abashed, Sam looked down at the water, "What does metaphorical mean?" he eventually asked into the silence.
"It means that it should be true, or it should work, but it probably doesn't in real life,"
"Oh. Ok,"

Dean sat himself down on the toilet with the seat down and began to make a 'To-do' list.

1. Find a way to get them some money

2. then go food shopping

3. call pastor Jim

4. Organise his Dad's stuff

5. Get Sam enrolled in school in the school their Dad had found for him

6. Buy some aspirin for his headache.;

Sam had acquired Dean's old t-shirt as a comfort blanket. When he woke up to screams in the middle of the night he got confused between the blanket and his brother; since both smelt of Dean. In the end he clutched the blanket and curled his body around it, putting his hands over his ears and willing away the sounds of his brother having a nightmare. He bit down on his lip until two gentle rivulets of blood slunk down his chin. When eventually Dean settled, Sam snuggled his head into the crook of Dean's neck. He placed a hand on Dean's heaving chest and, caught in a moment of indecision, began to cry himself. After a moment or two he sniffed heavily, taking in a long steeling breath, before deciding to comfort his brother in the only way how; copying the master.

He rubbed Dean's chest and said, in a small voice that trembled at the edges, "It's Ok Dean. It's Ok. It's not real. It's just a bad dream,"

Even though Sam knew that this time it most probably was real. When Dean woke the next morning there was blood on his neck and Sam was fast asleep, his breaths shuddering a little as if he'd been crying. Carefully he extracted himself from Sam's grip, and clumsily made his way into the living room. He was wonky-eyed from sleep and there was a strange sensation in his leg like it had gone to sleep. Forcing himself to think about breakfast, and only breakfast, he forgot about everything else and tumbled over something on the floor. His Dad's jacket lay wrapped around his ankles when he looked down, but he didn't have the heart to kick it away. Instead he pulled it up over his knees, leant his head back against the kitchen counter, and remained where he was. He stared into middle distance, and didn't cry, fist clenched inside his Dad's jacket. Breakfast eventually waited until midday.

Next Chapter: 'I'm going to have to get a job,'

'Dean you're fourteen, you're not allowed a job,'

'It depends what job you apply for,'