Families come in all shapes, sizes, and flavors. And I guess I could tell you the story of one particular family. Now, I don't actually know the full story of how it all went down, but I can tell you how it began.

It starts in Lawrence, as many stories do, and it starts with John Winchester. John Winchester was a lot like one of those guard dogs that could scare the shit out of any and all hardened criminals; half-wild and all snarling teeth. He had made a name for himself as a hitman; no job was too grisly. And the man was cold, cold, cold. He was as unyielding as the clamp of teeth from a dog that goes down fighting.

But they say even the King of Hell's dog can be soothed by a song, and there was no song sweeter than his wife Mary. She was the unwavering center of his life. And like most loved people, left a devastating hole in her passing.

It had been three months since John took a job. He wandered his house like a ghost, freezing at the framed pictures of happier summer days. He'd bury his nose in Mary's clothes, taking in her scent before it faded away for good. He would visit the places that they'd made their own, sitting broken and quiet on a bench. When he reacquainted himself with the bottom of a bottle once more, he would take the picture of the sonogram out of his wallet and stroke the fuzzy image, mourning the son he would never know.

He was half way through a bottle of Jack when Bobby called.

"Get your ass up here, John. You're not doing yourself any good, and I've got something you need to see."

"Something" turned out to be "someone." A boy, no more than 8 years old, silent and solemn, with huge green eyes that looked like they could swallow the world.

"Turned up on my doorstep a couple days ago. 'Figure he's from one of the orphanages, but he won't say a word to me."

"So I figure he could help."

"With what," John growled, "He's a kid. Take his ass back to wherever he came from and wash your hands of it."

"Normally I would, but you didn't see the shape he was in a couple days ago. The kid heals fast, but wherever he came from wasn't any place he should be going back to."

John glanced back at the boy; knelt in front of him to take in those hollow eyes. In looking, John saw the stirrings of something deep within the boy, an awakening of hope where there was none.

"What's your name, son?"

"Dean Smith."

"Would you like to come with me? You'll have work, a roof over your head, and food every day. It won't be easy, but that's what I have to offer."

And there it was; that spark of magic, there in the wide grin the boy gave John. It was like a punch in the gut. There was so much of Mary in the boy; it almost took the man's breath away.

"Sure."

John couldn't have asked for a better son. Dean was perfect. The orphan boy who ran away with nothing but the clothes on his back proved himself to be smart and trainable; a perfect soldier. And so very loyal. Even when John reeked of alcohol, no matter what hour of the night he made his way home, Dean was up waiting with a blanket in his scrawny arms. And in the morning, once John had successfully crawled out of the bottle, the boy would have a cup of hot coffee already prepared.

Life was good.

Dean refused to leave John's side, and as a result, the boy learned the business. At first, it was small things; cleaning the guns and sharpening the knives. Then it moved to bigger things; how to fire a rifle, the proper use of a silencer, knife throwing, human weak points, how to keep still enough for a target to never suspect a thing. The boy absorbed everything; drank in the knowledge; followed every order perfectly so John would continue to look at him with approving eyes.

And when John brought back another boy, Dean didn't even bat an eye.

"I always wanted a brother." He said, throwing a friendly arm over the other boy's shoulder.

The other boy was Sam. He was battered and bruised, armed with a pistol and a prickly attitude. Sam was hard as nails, but it was impossible to not cave to Dean. In the dark, while John and Bobby went over the plans for a job that came to their plate, Sam told Dean everything. He whispered quietly about his mother, a faded wisp of a creature, in sharp contrast to his father, an angry man with thick fists and a nasty temper.

"Everybody loved them. They made me love them. Whenever people were over, they acted like they loved me back. And then when everyone left, they locked me in the cellar," in the moonlight, his long fingers curled into fists at the memory, "and they would never tell me why."

"Don't worry Sammy. We're your family now."

It ends in Paris, Missouri. The day was bright, and the skies were clear. John Winchester left the world a quieter place.

It wasn't in a blaze of glory or a desperate standoff, like any one with half a brain would have predicted. Death came quietly, seeped into the very cells of his being. Years of hard liquor finally caught up with him, cancer festering in his liver. He never told the boys and he didn't seek treatment. Instead, he sent them away on a job. Watching the tail-lights of the Impala as it pulled away, he called up Bobby.

He'd gotten used to having company, and now he didn't want to go out alone.

Bobby showed up on his doorstep, a paper bag in hand. Inside was an unopened bottle of whiskey and enough morphine to knock out an elephant.

"Let's get this over with."

The boys came back before John anticipated. (He should have known better. He trained them to be the best.)

With stoic faces, they set the funeral pyre and said goodbye to the man who was their father in everything but name.

After that, they sort of drifted. Taking jobs together as much as they could. Eventually, they just took separate jobs and started living different lives. Wesson had one thing, Smith had the other. And after a while, the only things they'd heard of each other was through the grape vine.

And then, seven years later (such a magical number) they saw each other again, in a police line-up of all things. But I'm getting ahead of myself. That's a story for another day.

A/N more back story for that Usual Suspects AU.