Hey all! This here's my latest story, and there's a few things i'd like to mention before ya'll get reading.

1. This story is set back when the boys were kids, and in the first chapter i've used a wendigo as the creature being hunted. You'll have to have an open mind, and pretend that the episode Wendigo never happened, otherwise this will not make sense with the actual SN storyline. A wendigo was the best option for this story to work.

2. I'm extremely busy at the moment, so updates are not always possible all the time. I'm hoping to give ya'll one a week at least, but please dont lose faith in me, because i WILL finish this story. i currently have 10 chapters written.

3. Please leave feedback and comments - strictly NO flames! I dont want to hear how bad it is. If you dont like it, dont read it, and dont even bother to comment.

I hope you all like it.

Nikki

Mistakes That Last A Lifetime

Chapter One

1993

Aspen, Colorado

It moved deeper into the silent wilderness of the woods, shooting faster than the eye could see, it's footsteps a mere patter on the leaves that had glided their way to the ground. It could smell the prey; could smell the blood that pumped through their veins, the bones that made them so strong, that held their shape. But it could also smell the danger the prey posed upon him. They weren't weak and pathetic backpackers like the other meals had been; they were there for a purpose. They were there for him. He had to move carefully. The prey's backs were turned, and he moved past them quickly, ensuring the rustle of leaves and snapping of twigs would be the only proof of his presence. The prey wouldn't win.

The moon shone meekly through the slight gap the thick clouds allowed, that blanketed over the stars viciously, and the air was fresh and moist. John Winchester looked at the sky wearily as thunder rolled across the air above him, the loud rumbles echoing in his ears. He re-adjusted his grip on the flare gun he held, whirling around suddenly as the rustle of leaves behind him seeped into his ears. He glanced over to his 14 year old son Dean, who had also heard the rustle and had his flare gun aimed and ready.

'Easy son,' muttered John.

Dean's grip relaxed instantly.

'Yes sir.'

'You see it Tom?' John called back to his colleague, who with his 15 year old son Mike, was keeping an eye out on the other side of the woods.

'No, I can't see him,' replied Tom. 'But he's around…I can feel him watching us.'

'This is one nasty Wendigo,' Mike added.

Spotting movement out of the corner of his eye, John turned quickly and fired to his left, reloading his gun instantly when he missed.

'Damn things,' he muttered. 'Why do they have to be so fast?'

A female scream hit their ears, followed by a flash of movement in the opposite direction.

'What the hell?' exclaimed Tom. 'Who comes into these woods at this time of night!'

'Help me! Help me please!' came the woman's desperate pleading somewhere from the thick brush. 'Before it comes back! Please help me!'

'Dean, Mike, I want you to find that woman,' ordered John. 'Go now! We'll go after the Wendigo; I saw it heading in the opposite direction.'

Both boys nodded their heads and took off at a run towards the still screaming woman. Tom and John jogged off in the opposite direction, in search of the Wendigo. They had barely gone 10 metres before a loud shout erupted from Dean, followed by the firing of a flare gun. It had been a trap.

'Wendigos must be able to mimic voices!' shouted John.

Immediately the two fathers ran in the direction of the shout. They were completely unprepared for what they saw.

The Wendigo had an unconscious Mike slung over his shoulder, and was creeping closer to Dean, who was slumped against a tree, a large gash on his forehead, his flare gun lying metres away.

'Hey!' yelled John, his gun aimed. The Wendigo paused, staring at the hunters, as if daring them to take a shot without hitting Mike.

'John, no. NO!' yelled Tom. 'Don't even think about it! That's my boy…you'll hit him!'

'What else am I supposed to do?' yelled back John. 'He's got Mike anyway and he's gunna get Dean if I don't stop him! What's the point in both of them being taken!'

John took aim, and as his finger yanked the trigger, he was tackled by a hysterical Tom.

'NO! JOHN NO!'

But it was too late. The flare shot sharply through the air, piercing the Wendigo. The flames engulfed the creature immediately, and Mike, spreading down to the dry leaves on the forest floor. Dean weakly scrambled over to his father, who put his arms around him protectively and began to drag him away from the fire.

'MIKE!' screamed Tom frantically. He turned angrily to John. 'HOW COULD YOU! HOW COULD YOU JOHN! THAT'S MY SON!'

The forest was on fire, the flames licking up the trees fiercely. Tom began to run to where he had last seen Mike.

'Tom! ARE YOU STUPID?' bellowed John. 'It's too late! Don't risk your life!'

'I hate you John Winchester! I HATE YOU!' screamed Tom, his eyes filled with coldness. 'You killed my son!'

He disappeared behind the flames. And as the rain slowly began to trickle from the sky, that was the last time John Winchester saw Tom.

2 years later

Atlanta, Georgia

John awoke with a strangled cry, the perspiration from his forehead trickling down his face, landing with a resounding plop on the bed sheets. Two years. Two whole freaking years. His breathing still laboured, he glanced at his clock. 1.53am. The exact date and time, he realised, of Mike's death and Tom's disappearance. And the night still haunted him. His friend, his best friend, and those hate filled final words that had been sent his way. He'd make a mistake. To save his son. A horrible mistake that yanked away another life, another son, another loved one. He buried his head in his hands, rubbing his sleep deprived eyes and wiping the sweat from his forehead. He'd never get to sleep now. Sighing at the effects of guilt he pulled himself from his motel room bed. He treaded carefully across the room, taking care not to wake his sons, who lay sleeping in the double bed beside his own.

Filling a glass with water, he watched Dean and Sam resting, thinking about the innocence they held whilst they slept. He sighed again; this time at life and its unfairness, before downing the water in one go.

'Dad?'

The small voice momentarily startled him, but he relaxed almost instantly when his eyes fell on his youngest.

'Sammy? What are you doing up,' asked John quietly.

'I couldn't sleep,' replied the 12 year old, sliding carefully from the bed. 'Looks like you can't either.'

'True,' replied John. 'But I don't have school tomorrow.'

Sam just rolled his eyes.

'I'm gunna go get some coffee,' said John. 'I expect you to be in bed by the time I get-'

He was cut short as his phone's shrill ring tone pierced the air. Frowning, he picked it up from the bench, glancing at the caller ID.

'Winchester,' he finally answered. Immediately his face fell. Sam watched, his father's serious expression concerning him as he listened intently to the caller.

'NOW?' spluttered John incredulously. 'I'm already in the middle of a werewolf deal-' He paused. 'I'm in Atlanta.' John ran his hand through his short hair in frustration. 'Yep. I can be there in 3 hours.' Another pause. 'No I won't bring the kids.'

Sam's face fell immediately, and John avoided making eye contact so he wouldn't see the disappointment etched into Sam's face. After a short amount of conversation, he hung up his phone and began to pack up his possessions. Not a word was spoken, Sam's gaze never leaving his father. When John had finished, he moved over to Dean's bed, gently shaking the boy.

'Dean,' he said in a loud clear voice. Dean's eyes flew open, his hand instinctively reaching under his pillow for his knife. He relaxed when he saw his dad.

'Dad?' he mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

'Look Dean, Bobby called. He needs me for an urgent gig, and I have to leave now. I want you to stay here and take care of your brother,' ordered John crisply.

'Why can't we come?' protested Dean.

'Dean. You WILL stay here and watch your brother,' John repeated sternly in a no-nonsense tone.

'Yes sir.'

'I will be out of contact, so if there's a problem, go to Bob, the guy who runs this motel. If it's our kind of problem, lock the doors, salt all entrances, and do not leave until I get back.'

'I know, Dad. We've been over it a million times.'

'And Dean,' said John, continuing as if Dean had said nothing. 'You are strictly NOT allowed to continue with the werewolf job until I return. Clear?'

'Crystal,' muttered Dean. 'Sir.'

'Good.'

John ruffled Sam's hair, who had remained silent throughout the entire conversation, and nodded his head at Dean. And just like that, he was gone.

'Great,' complained Dean. 'Forced to stay here with you and do nothing.'

'Get over it Dean,' said Sam, climbing into his Dad's bed. It was bad enough that he was forced to share with Dean while his father was around. He switched the lamp off. 'You should be used to it by now. He doesn't give a shit about us.'

'Language Sam,' snapped Dean, still fuming that his father had left him behind. 'That's not true. He does care. You just don't show any respect. Now go to sleep. It's 2.30am and you have school tomorrow.'

'So have you,' retorted back Sam.

'I'm older though and can do what I like,' mumbled Dean into his pillow, already half asleep.

'Whatever.'

Silence consumed the room as they slowly drifted off to sleep.

'Do I have to Dean?' moaned Sam as the Impala pulled up outside his school. 'Just one day off…please.'

'I thought you liked school.'

'I do…but this school is stupid! They're teaching me things I learnt LAST year,' Sam argued. His eyes pleaded with his brother.

'Don't do that,' complained Dean. 'Don't give me that look. You're going. I'll see you at 3.30pm like always.'

Sam cussed under his breath and stepped from the Impala, slamming the door behind him.

'Hey! Treat the car the way you wish to be treated!' Dean called after his brother. His only response was Sam pausing to stick up his rude finger. He sighed as he pulled away from the school. He loved his brother, and would do anything for him, but sometimes he could be a real pain the ass. He'd been driving Sam to school for a year now, thanks to his fake ID, and it was a whole lot easier than when he had to walk him. The license was a huge relief to have. Plus he got to drive the coolest car he'd ever laid eyes on. He flicked on his stereo, tapping his fingers along to the beat of Highway to Hell, and becoming deeply absorbed in the music. So absorbed, he didn't notice the car following him.

The rumbling from the Impala died as Dean pulled up outside the motel and cut the engine. He'd spent a while cruising the streets, but an hour and a half and an almost empty petrol tank later forced him to head back to the hotel. He was suffering from an extreme case of boredom. Most likely he'd end up bumming around the motel room, watching crappy daytime TV, cleaning his guns and researching werewolves in his father's old books. He stepped out of the car, shivering slightly at the cold crisp air that hit him front on. His fingers numb already from the cold, he fumbled awkwardly with the motel keys, muttering to himself when the door finally gave in and the lock clicked open. Throwing his stuff down onto his bed, he collapsed in one of the under stuffed armchairs and studied his hands intently, sighing. He was already bored. Deciding food was the best option, he looked in the cupboard to see what was stocked, finally making a decision and grabbing a bag of chips. As he nonchalantly shoved a handful into his mouth, a loud, persistent knock on the door me his ears. Swallowing the chips, Dean sidled cautiously to the door.

'Who is it?'

'Mr. Young, its Bob, the owner of this motel,' came a voice. 'I need to speak with you.'

'Uh…my Dad's not here at the moment,' called back Dean. He furrowed his brow in confusion. That voice sounded oddly familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

'I still need to speak with you,' said the man impatiently. 'It's important. If you don't open the door I will.'

Seeing no other option, Dean unlocked the door, and began to cautiously open it. Unexpectedly, the man outside shoved the door open fully, hitting Dean and causing him to stumble back, before he tackled him and attempted to pin the stunned boy to the ground. Dean immediately began to fight back, thrashing around wildly in an attempt to dislodge the man, who was twice his size. His attacker finally got a hold of Dean's wrists and held them down on the floor tightly, staring at him with distaste. Dean ceased his struggling as he finally got a good look at the man, and his eyes widened in disbelief.

'Tom?'

The mans face remained unreadable as his fist raised in the air.

'Now your dad will know how I feel,' he whispered menacingly.

That was the last thing Dean heard before Tom's fist connected with his face, rendering him unconscious.

An immense relief washed over Sam as the school bell rang for the final time that day. He rushed from the classroom, stopping briefly at his locker to get his bag, and followed the swarm of children rushing out the front door to go home. Glancing around, the first thing he noticed was that Dean wasn't where he usually was parked; actually he wasn't anywhere.

'Ok, so he's running late,' thought Sam. But he knew he was kidding himself. Dean was never late. He was in the exact same spot everyday, waiting for Sam to finish school. And in the depths of his stomach, Sam could tell. Something was wrong. Pulling out his mobile phone, he dialed Dean's number, listening to the ringing tone anxiously. He bit his lip as Dean's voice mail started up.

'You've called Dean Winchester. Leave a message.'

The concerned Sam further. Dean never missed a call. Especially from him. Not bothering on waiting to see if Dean showed up, Sam began to jog the few miles to the motel.

The first thing he saw was Dean's car, sitting out the front of their room.

'Maybe he just fell asleep,' thought Sam. But the weight of dread still hung heavily in his stomach. Something wasn't right. Approaching the motel door, Sam noticed it was slightly ajar. He pushed it open carefully, gasping at the sight in front of him. On the floor in front of him, Dean's bag of chips lay strewn messily all over the carpet. The rest of the room had been trashed completely, and there were signs of a struggle. But one thing was for sure. Dean was gone. And a daunting message, painted on the wall with blood stood out immensely.

"Payback's a bitch, isn't it John?"