Welcome! If this seems at all familiar, that's because it is. It's a rewrite, one I a) plan on writing with more skill and b) should actually finish. Now, on with the story!

White snowflakes fell around a pair of brothers, the light of a scummy inn the only thing that took the darkness of nightfall away. They shivered as the cold stone of the building bit into their backs, snowflakes fell on their unprotected faces, and the far-off yells that could only be associated with a dingy alleyway were heard.

Sam and Dean Winchester were orphans, though not in the usual sense. Their mother had died in a fire, it was true, but their absentee father still lived, a drunkard who'd run off as soon as his youngest, Sam, had a major falling-out with him. Granted, his absence hadn't been sorely missed, as John had usually been unconcerned about his parenting duties. Dean had really been the one to bring up his younger brother, resulting in the two staying together, even though John had expected Dean to go with him.

"The bar has heating, you know," the elder said, rubbing his bare hands together to try and generate some warmth.

Sam shook his head, "It's loud, rowdy, and we don't have much money, certainly not enough to be able to spend on alcohol. Besides, you always manage to get yourself into a fight."

"It's too bad that the game market has dried up," Dean continued, ignoring the quip about his temper, "But it's the dead of winter now; there's nothing to hunt until springtime."

Sam nodded, "There's no use in being a good shot unless there's something to shoot."

Collapsing into silence at the lack of conversation and the frigid cold, the two sat huddled against the building as a heavy winter wind swept through, swirling the falling snow into vortex-like shapes.

Hesitant to break the quiet, Sam spoke softly. "Do you think he'll get better?"

Dean had strained to hear his younger brother's whisper, and answered curtly, "He's fine, Sam. You should be more worried about us, rather than him. He always makes it."

Silence fell again as the taller man made no effort to correct Dean, instead moving closer to him in an attempt to conserve heat as the carriages swept wind their way, their wealthy inhabitants hidden behind heavy curtains.

The two were interrupted as a jeering voice rang through the night, echoing along the alleyway. "Look at the peasants!"

The brothers, well-used to such treatment, as all the poor were, didn't react.

A group of wealthy young men approached them, their ringleader appearing to be no older than twenty, with a shock of red hair and a bottle in his hand.

"What?" one of them mocked, "Are you deaf? That wouldn't surprise me, poor filth like you."

Dean colored, hands clenching as he was sorely tempted to reach for the blade in his back pocket. Sam laid a hand on his arm, a silent warning.

"Why am I surprised?" the ringleader mocked, "Not just filth, but fags as well!"

Dean spoke at that, voice a low growl, "Brothers."

"It speaks!" The comment drew a round of laughter from the group.

Dean, unable to stand any more, rose and drew his knife. "And it's telling you assholes to shut up."

"Dean," Sam protested, "They aren't worth it; let's just go."

"No, no," the redheaded man's eyes sparkled as he unsheathed his sword, "Let us see who wins this: the peasant with a rusty pocketknife," he paused dramatically, "or the heir to the Earldom."

As the other man advanced, making a show of twirling his weapon millimeters from Dean's face, the Winchester stood his ground, smirked, and spoke, "There's just one thing."

"And what's that?" while swift, the sweep of his sword at Dean's legs was nimbly avoided with a quick jump.

"It's not rust," Dean's eyes gleamed dangerously, "It's blood."

Just as the two were preparing to really begin fighting, circling around one another, a third voice rang out in the distance, making the attention-seeking youth quickly drop his weapon.

Dean didn't move to strike back, though his knife was still pointed at the other, ready to attack in the case of trickery.

"Jasper Penbrandle," a stern voice said, surprising the brothers when the man appeared. They'd expected someone much older, but he seemed to be around their age, and he wore a heavy beige coat, an odd look considering what was currently fashionable. However, he had the look of a good man.

The redhead turned, rolling his eyes, "Oh, it's you."

"Leave them," a quick pause for emphasis, "Alone."

"The beggar boy insulted me," Jasper said, crossing his arms, "Was I simply supposed to stand there and do nothing to defend my honor?"

The man gave him a look that spoke volumes, "Just like the last one, I'm sure. You should see about that ego of yours, it's very sensitive to the opinions of those who you seem to think less
of."

His face reddened, "You aren't the boss of me! I'm…"

"I know what you are, but what am I?" a steely smile. "You'll do well to remember that I technically am the boss of you. You do, of course, remember who you are talking to?"

When no response came forth from Jasper or his cronies, the regal man spoke, "In that case, you and your lot may leave… this time."

Heeding the dismissal, the group dispersed, grumbling all the way around the corner.

He turned to the two of them, "Are you okay?"

"Oh, peachy," Dean spat back, but pocketed his knife, "Can't even sit down without those people after us."

He cocked his head, "I don't see how this particular occasion relates to fruit."

Dean shook his head, clearly unwilling to admit that anything was wrong. "Thanks, but we're fine."

"You're blue in the face!" the other protested, looking unconvinced.

"Well, not everyone can afford to live like you, okay?"

"Dean," Sam admonished, glancing apologetically at the man Dean appeared determined to offend, "Let's go."

"And go where?" Dean finally exploded, the combination of the near-fight and the odd butterflies in his stomach due to the man's presence combusting, "Go where?"

"You can come with me," the man burst out.

The brothers looked at the suddenly red-faced man in shock. "Excuse me?" Sam finally questioned, unable to believe his ears.

"Come with me," he said, again, as if to emphasize the fact that he'd spoken the first time, that it hadn't just been his imagination.

Instantly on the defensive, Dean spoke, "And why would we want to do that? You could be an axe-murderer for all we know."

He had to reflect on that. Why were the two so different? Even if he couldn't answer that, he spoke anyway. "You aren't the usual, and that intrigues me."

"We really aren't that interesting," Sam said, almost bashfully.

"Are you saying that you find us better than the common filth?" Dean questioned brutally, jaw working, "Gee, thanks a lot."

"You're welcome?" the other said, looking confused yet again.

"And here we thought you were socially inept," Sam muttered to Dean, "But I still don't trust him."

"Did you think I did?" Dean said.

Turning to the stranger, he spoke, "We don't know you, and you don't know us, and I really don't want to be some rich noble's plaything, so no. That's a definite no."

See that I did something stupid, made an error, or, goodness forbid, you actually liked this fic, please drop me a review! I live and breathe for them. Just so you know it's true, I'm going to sacrifice these delicious cupcakes to you guys, and, if there are reviews, I should live to post the next chapter, sans this deliciousness. :D I hoped you enjoyed!

xoxo Brenda