Name:If I didn't Know You

Fandom(s):Supernatural

Pairings:Nothing to declare~

Hey guys! So, Supernatural has been my recent TV show obsession (I know, I'm really late on the uptake here). Now, there have been a lot of great moments, lines and scenes so far (I'm halfway through S7) but a line that still sticks out to me after all this time is something that Dean said to Sam after he saw his using his abilities for the first time. It mentally opened a whole new, terrifying world for me where Sam and Dean never had an emotional bond to keep them from truly turning against each other. And so this story was born!

In this story's universe, Mary still died in the nursery fire and Sam was still infected with demon blood. All that is changed is that Azazel kidnapped Sam when he was a toddler, letting John and Dean think that Sam is dead... and hilarity ensues?

Set in 2006/Midway Season 1 and continuing for as long as I have the time and/or energy.

Rated T for Language, Violence and all that good stuff that Supernatural normally offers. Possible character death in later chapters, I'm still on the fence about where this is all headed.

Enjoy!

"If I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you." - Dean Winchester in "Metamorphosis"

Prologue: Dean

It was a mild January evening in Nevada. The sun was was halfway hidden beyond the horizon and the sky was beginning to deepen in colour. The city of Las Vegas was silhouetted against the bright flares of the sun, a great shadowy colossus crouched at the end of a long stretch of road.

The black, Chevrolet Impala gleamed in the light of the setting sun. It was parked, carefully, at the side of the road, pointed away from the famous city. On her hood, a young man sat, carefully tracing a map with his finger. He was tall and broad, sporting a brown leather jacket and worn jeans. He had short, fair hair and large eyes, which were currently squinting down at the paper before him.

Tapping an "X" on the map, Dean Winchester looked up. The desert stretched for miles ahead of him, with each area of rock and sand looking the same as the last. He sighed heavily before folding the map up and stowing it in a large bag. Slinging the bag over one shoulder, Dean slid off the hood of the Impala and began to trudge off the road.

He counted his steps as he walked, stopping as he reached step number 24. He dropped the bag beside him and took one final glance around the area. This was the spot, he was sure of it. Dean bent down to open the bag and took out his shovel. He backed up, positioned the tool on the sand, then forced it into the ground.

It took just over ten minutes to find the casket; the grave was quite shallow but the rocky sand was difficult to shift. Stopping to catch his breath, Dean stared down at the worn wood of the box, savouring the moment. Then he jabbed the casket with his shovel and watched as it collapsed inwards. The bones and tattered clothes of a young woman were visible inside.

Working quickly, automatically, Dean clambered out of the hole and took two containers of salt and lighter fluid from the bag. As he emptied both products over the corpse, he felt the air begin to grow colder around him. He paused for a split second, then picked up the pace. He knew what was coming.

From his back pocket, Dean snatched a box of matches and struck a light. He was about to be drop the lit match into the grave when something in the corner of his right eye made him turn. A tall, elegant woman in a long black dress and a veil stood before him. As he watched, her eyes widened and blood began to dribble from the corner of her mouth. She reached out towards him, moaning and spluttering.

Dean grinned and straightened up, staring the spirit straight in the eye. His heart was beating faster and yet he didn't feel afraid.

"Not today, you sorry son of a bitch!" he called before finally dropping the match. The first drop of lighter fluid was ignited and the woman began to scream. As the fire in the grave engulfed the corpse, so did spectral flames engulf her. She writhed and screamed for nearly ten seconds before exploding and disappearing into nothing. For a moment, Dean didn't move, again savouring the moment; the feeling of a job well done. Then he kicked some sand onto the burning bones and watched as the fire began to die down.

The sun had almost vanished completely from the sky by the time that Dean had got back to the Impala, covered in a light dusting of sand and ash. He threw the large bag onto the back seat before climbing in behind the wheel. He rubbed his neck and rolled his shoulders, feeling his muscles slowly loosen up. Then he reached up and adjusted his mirror so that he could see behind him. He watched as the first few neon lights in the city began to light up and smiled to himself. He readjusted the mirror and turned on the ignition.

"We're going to Vegas, baby," Dean murmured. His smile stretched into a wide grin and he jammed his foot onto the accelerator. The tyres screeched as the Impala was spun around and then went hurtling towards the great shadowy mass of Las Vegas.

Spending a few nights in a bad hotel was nothing new for the two Winchesters, but the cramped, dingy building on the edge of the city would probably have made their top ten worst accommodations list. The single light bulb which lit the top floor hallway flickered slightly as Dean fumbled with the lock to his room. He cursed under his breath as the door refused to be unlocked by a key that was refusing to turn. Eventually, he gave up and proceeded to bang twice on the door.

"Hey, it's Dean, the piece of crap key won't work. Can you open up?"

There was the sound of something heavy being put down then creaky footsteps before the door was opened. Dean was about to speak when lukewarm water was splashed into his face.

"Holy water, just checking," said John Winchester, a small flask clutched in his hand. His son raised his eyebrow at him as he entered the room and went to sit on one of the unmade beds.

"Hello to you to, Dad," Dean said, kicking off his dirtied boots. "You know, this is the first time in nearly ten years that no-one's given me a second glance when I've come stumbling through a hotel door covered in grime. Do you reckon they get many hunters passing through here?"

"I reckon they get a bit of everything passing through here," said John, going back over to his bed and picking up a shotgun, "Some guy in his twenties with a duffel bag covered in sand isn't going to bat many eyelids." John imitated a smile; the corners of his mouth pulled up but his dark eyes remained empty. Dean had seen this expression many times before. It didn't mean that John was happy so much as it meant that he was trying to be.

"I guess," said Dean with a yawn. He checked his watch before remembering that he hadn't changed it to the local time.

"It's just past eight," said John as he loaded his gun back into the open case on the floor, "We'll be leaving tomorrow morning for California, OK? I got a tip off from an old friend of mine about some interesting demonic activity..." John looked up at Dean, who was still sat on the bed and staring at his father with a painful expression, "I take it that, since I took care of the locket and you took care of the bones, we're done here?"

"I- Well, yeah... Yes sir." Dean said quietly. There was a weight growing in his stomach as his father turned his attention back to the open chest.

"You were right about where the bones were buried then?" asked John.

"Yeah, I guess I can get that much right."

There was a chinking noise as John stood up, his hands behind his back.

"Well then, I guess this can go down as another job well done..." John smiled, this time more warmly, and handed Dean one of the beer bottles that he had hidden behind his back, "...on my son's birthday."

Dean stared at the bottle incredulously for a moment, then laughed as the weight was lifted from his stomach.

"Jesus, Dad, don't do that to me," he said shakily, taking the bottle from John and opening it, "I honestly thought you'd forgotten."

"Winchesters never forget, Dean," said John, opening his own bottle and raising it to his son, "To 27 years of living."

"And to 16 years of hunting with the world's best," returned Dean, raising his own bottle to his dad.

"Don't be ridiculous, you've been a better hunter than me for some time now," said John, sitting down on his bed and taking a swig, "Remember the vamp nest in Minnesota."

"You keep bringing that up but I learnt everything that I know from you and Bobby."

"Yeah, well, it's your birthday. Just mentioning one of your greatest hits."

John stared down at Dean's foot, which he was tapping on the spot as he drank. Noticing where his dad was looking, Dean sat completely still, earning a strained laugh from John.

"Look, don't think I can't see that you're itching to see the night life around here," said John, taking another sip of his beer.

"Yes Sir, I guess so," said Dean, "I mean... it's not like we pass by Vegas very often, right?"

"Right," said John, standing up and rolling his shoulders, "Well, we leave at five tomorrow morning. You're a big boy and it's your birthday. What you do between now and then is on you."

"You're not coming?" asked Dean, also standing up and staring, surprised, at his dad.

"Nah, I've got stuff to pack..." John looked over to the side table, then back to his son, "You know how it is for me today."

Following John's gaze to the side table, Dean let out a low sigh. No matter where they went, or how long they stayed, the pictures would always be set out. The three of them, each in a golden frame, looked lovingly cared for when set against the tarnished guns and worn clothes.

The first picture was the oldest, a wedding picture of a bride and groom under a white archway. John and Mary Winchester's young, happy faces were set in contrast next to the burn marks around the edge of the photo. The second picture was landscape, and showed a family of four huddled together on a large couch. John held and grinning, wriggling Dean to him while Mary nursed a baby which couldn't have been older than a couple of months. The final picture was the least professional. That is to say that it had been taken by Bobby on a Polaroid rather than by a photographer with a grade A camera. A six-year-old Dean, complete with a mop of fair hair, was crouched down, his arms wrapped around a two-year-old with thick brown hair. They were both covered in mud and smiling up at the camera, the young Dean looking almost prideful.

These three pictures were the only solid pieces of evidence that Sam and Mary Winchester had ever existed. Dean only had a vague memory of little Sammy and an even more vague memory of his mother. That was the reason why these pictures were so precious; they were a constant reminder of who they were fighting for.

Dean walked over to the side table and picked up the picture of Sam and him. He smiled down at his own former self and felt a sudden pang of loss. He may not remember everything about his brother but he remembered the night of his death. It had been Dean's seventh birthday. The yellow-eyed demon had come back, and set fire to the motel room that they had been staying in, starting with Sam's bed. For years after that, John had never dared to leave Dean on his own.

But the demon had never been seen by the Winchesters since. In fact, Yellow Eyes appeared to fall off the map completely for years upon years at a time. John and Bobby told Dean that they had come to the conclusion that the demon had got what it had wanted all this time; Sam's life. Why a top tier demon had wanted to kill a two year old was still beyond anyone's guess.

"Dean?" John's voice sounded as though it was very far away, "Dean, I need to pack them."

"What? Oh, of course," Dean's voice was slightly croaky, his throat having become very dry. He watched his dad, who was usually so heavy-handed with things, carefully stow away the three pictures in a lined box. Then Dean turned on his heel and headed for the bathroom.

"I'll be back before five Dad. We should get a jump on these bitches in case it really is Yellow Eyes."

"Yeah, sure." The not-smile was back on John's face.

Dean closed the bathroom door behind him and stared into the cracked mirror. Winchesters never forget. He stood there for a moment, observing his own reflection and pondering what his little brother might look like if he were still alive.Us versus them. For Sam and Mary.

Dean rubbed his eyes then turned on the shower. Suddenly, the Vegas strip wasn't quite as inviting as it previously had been.

AN: Because I'm so short on time right now, I'm dividing the prologue into two, one for Dean and one for Sam. In my personal opinion, I think that Dean's relationship with his dad would have been slightly happier without Sam to worry about, though I can imagine that John would be far more beaten down for obvious reasons. As we can see, Dean's still our little soldier ehe. Next up, we check in with (very not dead) Sam...

~Reviews are appreciated~