Quick Author's Note: So, besides Supernatural, I also love a good fairytale. So, I got this idea rather suddenly… and decided to run with it… I hope to achieve a Supernatural story that mixes an old school fairytale feel with our boys… and also gives a good helping of angst. (Cause you can really never have too much...)

Side Note: This is a pre-series… with the boys at age 16 and 12.

Dove's Heart

Chapter One: Fear and Regret

Rated: PG-13 (for language and violence)

Disclaimer: I do not own the Winchesters…

Dean sat heavily on the lumpy mattress near the bathroom. Leaning forward, he rested his head on his hands and ignored the loud thunder and bright flashes of lightning outside the room. The weather was terrible, a torrential rain that had started an hour earlier and shut down the entire town. The sky outside was inky black streaked with grey, though Dean knew that beneath the dark clouds a full moon glared.

They had tried several places, but nothing was open. No one was out and about to answer questions or glean information from and the helplessness of the situation made his chest ache. He could hear his father moving around the hotel room, bringing in his bag and kicking several old pizza boxes that had been stacked in a corner.

Though Dean was soaked through and shivering, he couldn't bring himself to care. He felt drained, empty, and the thought of being clean and warm made him feel vaguely ill.

"Dean," his dad's voice was quiet in the room, softer than he could remember it being in a long time. The last month had done that to his father, made him a hollow man whose voice didn't rise above a soft stern order, "Go take a shower."

Shaking his head back and forth, Dean glanced up at his dad. His father peeled off his drenched coat, throwing it on the back of one of the rickety chairs set next to the small corner table. Shrugging off his t-shirt, Dean watched his father go through his duffle bag for warm clothes. His head felt as if it were stuffed with cotton.

"Dean," he pulled his eyes from the far wall, "take a shower."

Hearing the tone of his father's voice, the edge that had crept up into it, he stood up quickly and tried to get his bearings. His father was walking a tightrope and Dean wasn't certain how long his dad could maintain the balancing act. His father couldn't remain in the state he was in forever, and Dean wasn't sure what would happen when the dam burst. Shrugging out of his coat, he threw it over the other chair and toed out of his shoes. They were sopping wet and probably ruined.

He knew his father wouldn't let the shower issue drop and struggled toward the small space. His dad hadn't been able to let much of anything drop since…

Dean shut his eyes, pulling his mind from the sudden dark thoughts that made his heart race.

The bathroom was worn down and faded, the sink and shower chipped and stained. The walls were covered in blue patterned wallpaper that was moldy and had started to peel at the edges. The water was hot, so warm that Dean was certain his back would be bright red and sore. He liked the uncomfortable heat, felt some reassurance in the stinging sensation. Resting his head against the grimy tiled wall, he forced his breath to slow and strained his ears.

Even now, he was certain that this was all some sort of terrible nightmare. If he just listened carefully enough, he'd hear him in the other room, nagging their father or noisily unpacking.

Over the sound of the shower and the loud rain, the motel room was quiet.

He finished quickly, roughly toweling dry, knowing that his father was still stuck waiting for his own turn. The air was chilly, just cold enough that the warm beads of water that still lingered on his skin soon raised goose bumps.

Shrugging on a pair of sweatpants and a raggedy t-shirt, Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, not bothering to look at himself in the dingy mirror above the vanity. He knew he was sleep deprived, that there were bags under his eyes and harsh lines surrounding his mouth. It felt like he'd aged ten years the last ten days. He wouldn't be surprised to learn that he'd dropped a few pounds either; food was about as appealing as ash.

In the other room his dad had turned on the television and had just flipped shut his bulky cell phone.

"Pizza will be here in twenty. If I'm not out of the shower I left some cash on the table."

Dean nodded in understanding, his mind already miles away. Sitting on their unkempt bed, not his bed, never just his bed, Dean pulled out the book he'd started leafing through the evening before. It was one of many that littered the room; they'd been stacked on every available surface, including the floor.

Many he recognized; he knew the feel of the binding and the width of the pages. Some though were new, still sitting in bags or boxes, waiting to be studied.

The far wall had been dedicated to any theories or leads they'd managed to find. Dozens of Polaroid pictures littered the wall, each with their own space beneath for patterns or ideas. It was woefully bare, the clippings haphazardly taped with handwritten notes. For all the weeks they'd been looking, the amount of information they still lacked was like a slap in the face. Dean worked without pause, stopping only occasionally to write something down or cross reference what he had read in another book. He'd never thought of himself as much of a 'researcher,' but had read in the last month more than he probably had in the last five years.

He knew finding an answer in one of the books was a slim possibility. In fact, just thinking of what a waste all their searching more than likely was made him bristle with anger. Dean's hand clenched involuntarily, crushing the page he'd been about to flip. He thought he'd passed the hot anger stage, thought that he'd moved on to the cold fury that consumed his father, but supposed he hadn't.

Whenever his dad was out of sight Dean felt the coldness leech out of him. His heart raced, his palms sweat, and deep inside gut wrenching anger collided with nauseating fear. The worry gnawed at him until he couldn't think, couldn't operate. Even now he could feel it, eating away his insides and leaving the sharp taste of bile in the back of his throat. He was simultaneously struck with the desire to smash every piece of furniture in the room and curl up into a ball and cry.

"Dean?" his dad's voice cut through the quiet and Dean tried to hide his surprise. He hadn't even heard the shower turn off, "Are you going to get that?"

His father rubbed at his hair with a stained towel and motioned towards the door. Dean cocked his head and heard a knock. He supposed it probably hadn't been the first.

Struggling to his feet, he tripped over the edge of the bed and grabbed at the cash his father had left out. He wasn't hungry, even the thought of food made him ill, but his father had already told him more than once that not eating wasn't an option. But the thought of consuming food, of allowing himself any sort of comfort when…

He shoved the thought away and opened the door. The delivery guy looked like a wet rat, his hair plastered to his skull, forehead, and ears. The red standard collared shirt was now a deep crimson.

"That will be fifteen ninety five." Dean watched the guy shiver, the silver of his lip ring glinting in the dark. Dean paid him and pushed the door closed with his foot. They'd had the same guy deliver pizza the last four times and if given the opportunity he was a chatter box.

The pizza was garbage, a mess of meat and vegetables that looked as appetizing as a wet piece of newspaper. Grabbing a greasy slice, he slouched on the far bed and ate it mechanically, wondering if he could stomach a second. Dean didn't think so. His eyes focused briefly on the program playing on the television, but quickly wandered away.

"So," his father ate his own piece and seemed to study the banged up table the box was on. They didn't do much talking anymore and the noise was foreign, "Tomorrow we'll be heading out as soon as the rain lets up."

Dean listened to the words and heard the order in them. His body straightened at the tone of voice, adrenalin flooded his veins. It was an automatic response that hadn't diminished despite all that had happened. In fact, his father's orders were one of the few things that gave him a reason to get up every morning. His father wouldn't allow him to succumb to the deep seeded terror that threatened him at the end of each day.

After choking down a piece that tasted more like sand than pizza, he went back to work. He could hear his father finish his own pizza and the two worked with the television as background noise. Dean wasn't sure how long he paged through articles, books, and miscellaneous leads that seemed to lead nowhere, but when his father finally sighed loudly Dean's attention shifted back to him.

"Dean, go to bed."

Dean knew without asking that his father would be up much later, paging through obscure leads and drinking stale coffee. He had tried arguing with his father, tried reasoning with him and disobeying him, but his dad never budged. While he ran himself into the ground, Dean would at least get the sleep that they both so desperately needed. Dean reasoned it was his dad's way of knowing that at least one of his children was getting to bed at a decent hour.

Not that laying in bed awake all night really counted.

Setting the books that were scattered across the bed onto the floor, he lay under the scratchy sheets and stared at the ceiling. His father clicked off two of the three lamps and the television, casting the room in mostly darkness. The motel was familiar even without light; Dean had memorized every shadow after nights of insomnia. The ceiling above was bumpy and stained, the pillow beneath his head lumpy and smelling faintly of mildew. Closing his eyes, some of his tension drained at the quiet noise of his father working.

Dean rolled over, the sound of the rain beating against the roof loud and rhythmic. His arm unintentionally snaked out onto the empty half of the bed. For some reason, he still expected to feel the warm body of his sleeping brother.

Sam was a ball of nervous energy next to him, pushing at his long bangs and bouncing his left leg up and down in a staccato rhythm. Smiling, he turned his head and looked at Dean, the dimples on his cheeks standing out sharply on his rounded face. Though his eyes were half hidden by his hair, Dean could see the curiosity in them. He tried to wink at Dean, then used his arms to help him bounce on the bed.

At twelve his limbs were gangly, the last of his baby fat melting away to reveal a coltish frame. He was all elbows and knees and his coordination had been shot to hell the last six months. Dean couldn't remember how many times his brother had stumbled, tripped, or somehow ended up on the floor in a tangle of limbs. The shirt he wore was a faded blue and just slightly too big for him, an old hand-me-down. It was Sam's favorite.

The motel room was clean with one bed and two battered end tables. A wide window sat next to the door, lavender curtains pulled across them. The carpet on the floor was a dusty rose with flowers and vines in purple and green. It was a hideous pattern.

Dean concentrated on the floor and watched it swirl, vines lazily moving and crisscrossing. He cocked his head to the side, trying to focus on the shifting plants. One of the flowers lazily opened an eye and hissed. Dean didn't recognize the room, but watched Sam laugh and roll back onto the comforter, his legs still hanging off the end. He hadn't seemed to notice the strange floor.

"Dean?" his brother giggled, "Can we go outside now?"

Though Dean couldn't remember just how they'd gotten there, he nodded his head and started to stand. Remembering the carpet, he glanced down just in time to avoid another flower that had a gaping mouth and sharp looking teeth. He quickly pulled his feet up and out of harm's way, scooting fully onto the bed. It snapped menacingly, closing its mouth and stilling again. The carpet continued to move, creating an odd rhythm that was slightly memorizing and nauseating. Though his brother's feet didn't touch the ground, he still grabbed at Sam's legs and moved them onto the bed.

Beneath his hands the comforter was rough from age and use. It too was a mismatched mess of pastels.

His brother continued to laugh, rolling onto his side and tugging at Dean to sprawl out onto the bed next to him. The emotion was contagious, Sam's delight making it impossible to stay closed off.

"I thought we were going out?" Sam's voice was inquiring but content, clearly okay with staying right where they were.

Dean couldn't trust the ground at the moment and wasn't sure why their father would have checked them into such a dangerous motel. If Dean hadn't been there, Sam probably would have gotten hurt. He didn't know about the floor, didn't seem to notice that anything was amiss. His father was supposed to be there and Dean couldn't understand why his dad hadn't warned him about what could have happened, what nearly had happened.

He leaned back next to his younger brother, Sam curling in close and seeming suddenly small for his age. He wrapped on arm around his younger brother and reflexively glanced up at the ceiling.

Sam was there, his eyes and mouth open in shock. The blue shirt he wore was now a dark purple, blood pooling and dripping. His small shaking frame was pinned and Dean felt the breath leave his lungs in an odd gasp.

"Dean?"

Sam was next to him, playing with the talisman that Dean wore and humming quietly. Dean wasn't sure why he'd accepted the talisman from his brother, he should have insisted that Sam keep it and wear it. His hands were small; he wasn't a day over eight. Sam tucked his head into Dean's shoulder, the vibrations from his voice causing a slight tickle in Dean's chest. His voice was high and squeaky; his hands were chubby and clumsy. Dean's eyes flickered to the ceiling, it was bare except for a lone fly that crawled lazily across it.

"Are we going out?"

Dean glanced down at the top of Sam's head, the dark hair shifting as Sam tilted his face up. His eyes were suspiciously wet. Dean's heart stuttered at the sight. Not trusting the floor, he pulled himself back up and leaned over the edge of the bed. Sam followed him, burrowing into his side and wrapping an arm around him. Dean adjusted automatically.

Dean wasn't sure where they were, how their father had gotten them there, but was uncertain and on edge. Straining his arm, he grabbed at the curtains covering the window and pulled them open.

Outside the sky was red and angry like an infected wound. Even the clouds appeared to be furious, visibly storming across the sky and releasing hard droplets of rain. As if a flip had been switched, Dean could hear it pelting against the roof of the motel. The light hurt his eyes, and cast a strange glow in the room. It felt as if his skin could melt off at any moment. Butting up against the small parking lot there were trees and Dean knew with a certainty that startled him that there were things in there… things that were watching.

"Dean?" his brother asked, not seeming to notice the bright red sky.

"Sammy," Dean kept his eyes on the forest and saw something move just beyond the tree line, "We're not going out right now, okay?"

He tried to keep his voice steady and held on to the fact that at least Sam was safe with him in the room. Without another thought he closed the curtains and cut off the strange light and peering eyes. He only wished he could reach the door to double check the lock.

Turning his face back to Sam, he stilled. Beyond the bed the bathroom light was on, the door barely cracked.

His brother stopped humming and watched Dean quizzically.

Dean was frozen, his heart hammering in his chest. There was a shadow under the bathroom door and quiet noises as someone moved around.

"Dad?"

Dean's voice wavered, his body tensing. More than anything he wanted it to be his father. But he knew the way his father moved, knew the sounds that he made while getting ready in the morning, and knew almost as soon as the question had left his lips that it wasn't him. Straining his ears, he focused on the noises he could only just hear above the rain. It was a woman's voice beyond the door, saying something that he couldn't make out.

The voice spoke again, still too quiet for him to decipher the words but just loud enough for him to recognize the person. He could feel the blood in his veins chill, his eyes taking in the room again.

Somehow it had filled with objects, figures, papers, and charms that littered every available surface. Dean's eyes scanned over the plethora of stuff, his heart stuttering at the thoughts trying to organize themselves. He recognized everything, his mind mechanically cataloging which pieces he'd looked at, which ones were still unidentified.

"Dean?"

He turned and wrapped an arm around his brother, pulling him close. Sam squirmed, but Dean's grasp remained firm. Sam didn't seem concerned at the woman in the bathroom, but Sam had never met her. He had been in the car and hadn't even gone into the home until after she had been taken care of.

She was there though, somehow just beyond the door – Dean knew it. He could feel it under his skin, and the urge to go into the bathroom and beat her bloody was overwhelming. But Sam was next to him; Sam was safe. He pulled his brother tightly against him, feeling the fluttery beat of his heart. He smelled like books and soap and hadn't touched any funny objects or even stepped out of his brother's sight.

He had to get Sam out of that room, before the woman came out and saw them, before she saw Sam. Swiveling so that his feet hung off the bed, he jerked them back up. The flowers were still there, teeth snapping and eyes watching.

"Sammy," he pulled his brother closer, wishing he could somehow keep tugging until his brother was completely a part of him and hidden.

"Dean?" Sammy's voice was muffled in Dean's shirt, confused and young, "Where am I?"

Dean glanced down at the top of his brother's head.

"What?"

But Sammy said nothing else, just lay still in his brother's arms. His younger brother's heart thudded in his ears, an odd ringing accompanying it. There was an itch under his skin, the need to do something eating away at him. But Dean didn't want to do anything, knew that if he moved the woman would appear and then Sammy would be gone again.

Something though was ringing and the noise cut through everything else and made Sammy flicker and moan.

Dean jerked awake, his eyes opening and his heart straining against his ribcage. Shaking slightly, he propped himself up on an elbow and ran a hand over his sweat drenched forehead. Trying to gather his bearings, his eyes flickered across the dark room and automatically searched for his brother. He knew instantly that his brother wasn't there.

Sammy, God… Sammy…

Dean's body trembled at the thought of his brother and he felt a hot burn beneath his eyes. If he concentrated he could still feel an eight year old Sammy cuddling up to him and asking to go outside. Hell, he could picture Sam without thought, looking as he had a month ago, twelve years old and ready to take on the world.

During the day it was easy to pretend, easier to remain confident and cool. But at night, with the dark pressing in, it was impossible to not feel as if he were suffocating. There was a weight pressing in on his chest and every day that Sam was gone, the weight seemed to increase. He didn't know how he was expected to sleep, to function, when his brother was not there next to him.

It wasn't the first time he'd dreamed of Sam, his brother had started making almost nightly appearances. And it was almost worse, because the Sam of his dreams seemed younger, more vulnerable, and Dean had woken up more than once with a sick stomach.

Something sounded and Dean tried to wrap his head around the unnaturally pitched repetitive noise. Still more asleep than awake, he pushed at the stifling comforter and sat fully up.

"Dad?"

The phone rang again, sharp and cutting, and in the dark he could see his father slowly sitting up from where he had fallen asleep. Dean didn't think his father had slept in a bed since Sam had disappeared.

"Go back to bed Dean," his father's voice was rough and low.

They'd been getting calls at all hours for over a week, hunters that his dad had contacted for information or ideas. His father hadn't wanted to call anyone at first, had been so sure that he would have Sam back in no time. Dean didn't know when his father had first phoned Bobby and Pastor Jim, but was thankful that there were more people trying to find his brother. He seemed to be failing at it.

The calls always woke him and even now he knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep again. He was surprised, like he was most times after he stuttered awake, that he'd even fallen asleep in the first place. Closing his eyes, he listened to his father stagger across the room to where he'd left the phone. Outside the rain continued to beat against the roof. He hoped Sam was somewhere dry.

"Yeah?" His father's voice was curt and quiet.

Dean can barely hear the noise on the other end of the line, but in the dark can feel the air shift. It was as if a vacuum had suddenly turned on, as if all the sounds and smells had been sucked from the room. Dean didn't hear the rain, couldn't smell the old pizza or dirty clothes. Something had changed and Dean wasn't sure whether it was good or bad.

He felt the edge and swallowed down the bitter taste of fear and regret. The Winchesters had no time for either.

He watched his father stand in the room, a tall dark silhouette, heard his father's voice painfully catch.

"Sammy?"

And Dean's topsy-turvy world finally came to a halting stop.

Brief Ending Author's Note: Though there are a few things about this chapter I don't especially love, I would LOVE to hear your thoughts… You should probably review!