This is kind of an interesting one for me. Visually - in my head that is - this idea works out fine, in print well, I'm not so sure but since nobody else has a window to my mind (not a bad thing in all honesty) this will have to do!

It's set before the series and based on the fact that Sam sounds surprised to hear Dean's been hunting alone when he turns up in the pilot. No, Sam's not in it but I'm already writing my next story and I've got to say I've definitely missed him. Bobby takes Sam's place in compensation and I hope his absence isn't a complete turn-off!

Finally, when I say 'new' enemy in the summary I mean new to John and Bobby at this point - to us he/they (it's up to you which you prefer) are well introduced! So without further ado, on with the first installment...

Chapter One.

John was in the doghouse, he could feel it.

From the moment Dean had strode past him that morning, a bag of ammunition slung over his shoulder and a severe look across his usually chirpy features, John had known he was out of favour. When his son had let the motel room door swing shut in his face and later on at lunch when John had stopped at the diner they'd designated on the map the night before only to watch the Impala sail by on the road outside, he'd known again. The car had been parked at the next stop along – a silent message.

Dean didn't often do irritated, nor did he favour heated arguments or the shirking of orders, instead he did this. Silence. God it was annoying. Never did John think he'd have actually missed Sam's all-out confrontations, which whilst infuriating had never left him in any doubt as to what exactly was on his younger son's mind. Dean on the other hand was so closed that he made an unabridged Dostoevsky look like light reading. Still, at least this time he knew what it was all about.

Dean wanted a solo hunt. No playing back-up, no John hiding somewhere with a shotgun ready for the big showdown, just him, the Impala and a real live case. He was grown and as far as he was concerned, he was as ready as he'd ever be. The worst thing was that John didn't even disagree, he just couldn't make that final step and say 'yes.' He didn't know why. Not that his refusal to give an explanation had helped smooth matters over any, if anything it had only pissed Dean off more.

He was definitely in the doghouse.

Pulling his truck over the rough overgrown lawn of the house, John shut off the engine and listened as the Chevy rumbled in alongside like some sort of metallic banshee always growling away just behind him. He'd never realised how reassuring that sound was until suddenly faced with the prospect of losing it. That sound told him Dean was there – had once upon a time told him that Sam and Dean were there. The silence would be hellishly hard to bear.

Silence however was what he got, as abruptly Dean switched off the rumble and plunged the surroundings into sudden stillness. Sighing as the rear view showed no signs of his son emerging from behind the wheel, John flung open his door and swung out his legs. They couldn't both sit there like a pair of idiots, not when they had a job to do. Dean could sulk later.

Seeing the movement as his cue too, Dean slid silently from his seat and round to the trunk of the Impala, which opened with its usual creak of rebellious protest. There was no sign of Bobby, which meant until he arrived Dean and John were just going to have to contend with each other's company until John either apologised or laid down the law. The former was no option at all.

"Dean?" he began, convincing himself that the gruffness in his tone came from the six silent hours he'd spent staring at the road ahead and not reluctance. He watched his son's eyes slide upwards, ever obedient if not quite matched by the expression. Yeah? "I want to be ready to move when Bobby arrives. We get in, do what we've got to do and get out, you understand me?"

He wasn't sure what he'd hoped to achieve by using his drill sergeant's voice but whatever it was fell far short of the mark as Dean simply nodded in typical compliance.

"Yes sir," he added quietly, dropping his voice to hide the sarcastically military tone. John noticed it anyway but said nothing.

"You know what you've got to do in there?" he asked instead, wincing as he realised the sentence implied Dean was some sort of moron when in reality his son was anything but. Ironically Dean was probably the most grounded one in the family. He could almost feel Mary shaking her head somewhere,

Oh John…

Damn it if he wasn't letting everyone down, for all that he tried to do otherwise. Dean however simply nodded again, not showing it if he had been hurt by the insinuation.

"Put a round of salt in anything ugly while you and Bobby look for bones."

A hint of macabre Dean Winchester humour; the best kind, and what was more a silent acceptance of their situation. Obviously letting his father eat alone at some crumby diner had been punishment enough. In that respect Dean was also unlike Sam, luckily enough for John since his youngest son was able to hold a grudge with the tenacity of a pit bull despite his overall mildness of character. John snorted, a wry smile crossing his face as he nodded at his eldest in amusement.

"Sounds about right to me bud."

He chanced the nickname with a hint of hesitation, but was rewarded with a crooked smirk as Dean continued to sift through his vast array of weaponry, counting and discounting possible firearms for the hunt. Apparently John was forgiven but they both knew the issue was far from forgotten. It was only a matter of time before he tried again.

The house standing beyond their cars was much like any other haunted house they'd ever stumbled across, tall, old and imposing with the usual collection of missing tiles, boarded windows and peeling paint that signified its long-abandoned status. Once upon a time it had been an opulent private residence and a little after that a well to-do dental surgery, although business had ground to something of a halt after a suspicious and pretty bloodthirsty accident during some 'routine' molar work. After that the ravages of time had pretty much done the rest and as a window shutter creaked eerily in the wind somewhere above their heads, John felt Dean draw alongside him, a grimace of disgust gracing his features as he peered upwards.

"Wow," he offered with a snort, absently flapping up the back of his jacket to push a handgun into his waistband, "Cosy."

"Yeah."

Raising his head to again take in the peak of the building – a little medieval-style turret topped by a crooked weather vane – John half-registered Dean step past him and vault up onto the covered porch, stooping forward with a shielding hand to peer in through the window beside the door, seeing nothing much past dust, shadows and a whole heap of gloom. Yeah, real cosy.

When he turned back his father was still staring skywards, a clear frown of concentration on his face and a look Dean had seen one too many times to ever mistake. John had seen something. The younger's brow furrowed instantly, a quiver of readiness rippling over him as he tensed for action,

"What? Dad?" he stepped closer, fingers reaching behind his back and curling around the handle of the gun, "What is it?"

Letting out a long sigh John dropped his head blinking quickly as if shaking himself from a daydream. Technically he hadn't seen anything it had just been a strange sensation of being watched. Possibly he was imagining things – in their line of work that was something of an occupational hazard, seeing the supernatural everywhere you looked – but he also knew enough of his instincts to trust them, which meant that whatever was inside the house knew they were there. Damn. It took him a moment longer to notice Dean standing before him on the porch wearing his game-face.

"Nothing," he assured wearily, by which they both knew he meant do nothing as opposed to it was nothing. A subtle distinction but an all too common one in their vast array of words, gestures and expressions that whilst initially created for hunting situations, seemed to have at some point subconsciously invaded their every exchange. Funnily enough it had been one of Sam's reasons for leaving, that sense of always being on duty. He'd bucked against it every chance he could and yet to Dean it came as naturally as breathing. John had often marvelled at that. The differences between them.

Sensing the situation descend from threat pending to stand down, Dean uncurled his fingers from the pearl grip of his handgun, happy to oblige. Sighing at the false alarm he started forward off the porch, planting one foot down solidly onto the little white steps.

The crash of splintering wood took them both by surprise, Dean's boot disappearing through the broken shards as he pitched forwards through the air with a low yelp. Taking out the other steps as he went, he piled into the long grass with a thud, landing heavily on his outstretched forearms. A pair of feet thundered into view immediately, the familiar toes of his father's boots appearing a hair's breadth from his nose. He groaned in quiet embarrassment.

"Crap."

"You okay Dean?" came John's gruff tone, caught somewhere between concern and amusement with the former winning through. Peering down he watched as Dean hauled himself off the ground in a single push-up, clambering to his knees and then straightening, brushing soil-covered hands across the legs of his jeans as he did.

"Yeah," the response was snapped, the face flushed with anger. His pride was hurt but otherwise, John assessed, his son was fine. He let him have the dignity of clambering to his feet himself, instead turning and heading back to his truck with the intention of checking over his salt cartridges one last time. Dean followed behind him, muttering incoherently and displaying a vague limp. John would check on it later at the motel when the embarrassment of face-planting off a porch had worn off just a little, suggesting an examination there and then would have been like poking an angry bear and he wasn't keen to return to the doghouse for at least another week or so.

Luckily the squeal of bad brakes drew their attention and both men looked up in semi-amazement as a familiar face pulled up on the grass alongside them in an entirely unfamiliar vehicle. His expression through the windshield said it all.

To call Bobby Singer a connoisseur of fine cars was like calling McDonalds an experience in fine dining. He had cars – plenty of them – just all in varying stages of decay except the few salvageable ones that he used to get himself from A to B. Dean and John were used to rusty and mismatched vehicles drawing up, what they were not used to was once-bright orange VW camper vans complete with overhead bars for the stowing of surfboards and carefully hand-painted trails of pink flowers flowing across the front and down the sides. It was the scowl that sat firmly in place underneath the beard and cap however that just about finished the look. Bobby Singer was not a happy man.

Dean on the other hand, was ecstatic.

"Hey Bobby," he greeted with a cocksure smirk as the little camper door swung open, "Have fun at Woodstock?"

"Can it boy," came the sharp response as the older hunter slid ungraciously from the driver's seat, a death glare stamped firmly across his features, "It's the only damn thing I had working,"

Dean ignored the warning signs with practised ease,

"I like it, very summer of sixty-nine. Bryan Adams would be proud."

Stalking past him with a string of mumbled curses, Bobby threw a narrow-eyed glare at John, stood watching the proceedings with something like a grin of fondness. The truth was Bobby doted on his sons as much – if not sometimes a little more – than he did, the spiky relationship he shared with Dean was just another part of that, built on a mutual if not somewhat dysfunctional affection. They all knew that Bobby wouldn't have traded the barbs for anything in the world and the thought made John's smile widen,

"Bobby."

"You'd better talk to that idjit son of yours before I put a boot print on him," came the irritable reply instead as the elder hunter drew to a halt beside him and accepted a welcoming clap to the shoulder. Letting out a sigh Bobby turned to lean an arm against the roof of the Impala, pushing up his well-worn cap with a lazy thumb. He'd never say it but seeing the Winchesters – minus one – in good shape after a period of absence was always a pleasure. Even that damn boy was a sight for sore eyes. Beside him John sighed and sensing a change in the mood, Dean drew alongside them and stood quietly waiting for the brief.

"What have we got Bobby?"

The answer wasn't what John had expected, nor was the uncertain shrug that accompanied it.

"A spirit. Maybe."

"Maybe?" He shared a glance with Dean, "We're going to need a little more than that."

"That's all I know," the older hunter offered with widespread hands, "Buddy of mine called and asked me to take care of this spirit case he'd been working on. A suicide, one very bloody dental accident, handful of disappearances…" he shrugged again, "…just a regular salt and burn case."

Dean's brow furrowed,

"So why'd you call us?"

John nodded silently beside him, the question the exact same one playing over in his own mind. Salting and burning was not normally a three man job. Something was up. Reluctantly Bobby heaved a sigh, shifting almost awkwardly.

"Well, see now usually Clyde's a stand-up guy, real reliable, but something about the way he just called me out of the blue…" he tailed off, still carefully thinking the matter through before submitting to defeat, "…seemed strange."

John eyed him closely,

"You think it's a trap?"

"I'm damned if I can work out why."

Behind them Dean pulled out his gun, sliding back the top with a click of trusty metal. He eyes were glinting with dangerous anticipation as they turned to look at him, his mouth a grin.

"One way to find out."

Turning back to look at John, Bobby shrugged for a final time, his expression asking a silent question. Well? Beside him the Winchester patriarch blinked, his gaze both mild and resigned. There was no way he was walking away from a potential job.

"Dean's right," he offered simply before turning and heading back towards his truck. Not knowing what they were up against was going to require a whole lot more consideration on the weaponry-front. It was also going to require a lot more planning.

Behind him Bobby grinned, nodding silently to himself and then turning to run a hand absently across the Impala's smooth and gleaming paintwork. He felt Dean's smirk of amusement before he heard it,

"Remembering what it's like to drive a proper car Bobby?" he prodded, drawing in to lean smugly against the bodywork of his pride and joy. Bobby simply grinned back, the width of his smile taking some of wind out of Dean's sails.

"No," he began, turning to saunter casually back towards the camper, "You got a ding in your side,"

"What?" As Dean scampered frantically to replace Bobby's position by the car, the colour virtually draining from his face as he ran loving hands across it, the older hunter chuckled to himself in amusement. Poor kid, him and that damn car. The funniest thing was that there wasn't even a scratch on it, a fact Dean quickly worked out for himself judging by the glare of ferocity he was wearing seconds later, "Bobby, you ever try that again I'll – ,"

"Nice wide street isn't it?" Bobby interrupted suddenly, the change in topic startling the anger straight out of the furious youngster, "Got a good clean view right down the road."

Dean blinked, not following.

"What's your point?"

"Watch where you're putting your feet kid," Bobby grinned back at him, smiling like the proverbial cat that got the cream, "Next time it might not be a porch you fall through."

Fantastic.