AN: So I've started a new story. Dean is 17 and Sam is 13, that way they can be in the same school together. It is a WIP, so please review and it will inspire me to write and post faster. Thank you to Bartlebead for the beta, I really appreciate it! Oh and I also do not own Supernatural and anything associated with Supernatural.

Chapter 1

It should have been a day like any other. It had started out normal enough-for the Winchesters anyway. The early morning hours had found all three blurry-eyed from lack of sleep, reluctant to start the day, since their previous one had yet to end. An all night hunt for a wendigo over rough terrain, in freezing temperatures, had taken its toll. In the end the monster was ganked, various wounds were cleansed, stitched, and patched, and John Winchester was already researching the next hunt. The boys had trudged off to school, understanding that too many unexplained absences raised red flags, though they knew the lack of sleep and the throb of their wounds would be torture, even discounting the strain of struggling to stay awake in the classroom.

On the way to school Sam had been his usual bitchy self, complaining that the hunt was ruining his chance at an education and demanding to know why they couldn't be normal. Whatever that was anyway. Dean forgave him his crankiness; he remembered the look of fear in Sam's eyes as he loomed over Dean, pressing rags to his shoulder to staunch the flow of warm, sticky blood. The stench of burning wendigo had permeated the air, but Dean had seen nothing-known nothing-other than Sam. The injury hadn't been the worst he'd ever had, wasn't even life-threatening, but in that moment Dean had understood Sam and his fervent quest for normal. Routinely almost losing the only thing that mattered to you could drive a person crazy.

So here he was, when he'd rather be asleep, feeling the warped wood of the standard school desk dig into his aching muscles, pretending to learn about crap he knew he'd never need. If things had been different Dean imagined he would have been a passable student. He'd never have been the effortless brainiac that Sammy was, but Dean knew he'd have done alright. He knew where his strengths lay and in what areas his talent was unsurpassed. But since things weren't different, and reality was a bitch, Dean resented wasting his time listening to old Sternhull ramble on about algebra. Had the school offered a monster-ganking, gun-toting, bullet-assembling, knife-wielding class, Dean would have been the kid who screwed the curve.

He shifted again, hissing slightly, when his restless movement agitated the neat stitches his dad had put in his skin only hours before. It was almost 11 a.m. and Dean was running on empty. They had all been awake and hunting during the frosty night hours. Prior to that there had been talks of strategy, weapons cleaning, and Sam's homework. Dean's had lain forgotten as it did most nights, in between the dinner he'd prepared and the weapon he'd been cleaning. By the time the Winchesters had properly disposed of the body, seen to Dean's wound, and made it back to the current craptastic motel they were calling home, the dawn was already unfurling across the sky.

Sammy had been in full on bitch mode, running around grabbing his school things. Dean had seen no other choice but to suck it up and join him. Tuning back into the class, he rubbed his gritty eyes. He was so tired his skin felt crawly, like it was too tight and too loose at the same time. The back of his neck ached; a dissonant tingling ran up and down his spine. Shifting again, he let his mind wander. The rhythmic tones of the second hand on the clock above the door matched the tick under his right eye.

Jeez, he was freaking tired!

Laurie Middleton and Stacie Ames sat in the row ahead of Dean, their giggles soft as they passed notes back in forth. For a moment Dean imagined he was with the two of them, instead of here in this stupid class, but even the fantasy took more energy than he had currently, so he went back to staring at the clock.

Suddenly the door banged open, the sound loud and intrusive, interrupting the monotonous drone of algebra. Dean jerked to attention and felt his stomach fall to his feet. Framed in the doorjamb, eyes wild, stood Sammy. His brown hair, while never the most tidy, stood out in every which way. His chest heaved, with panic not exertion, Dean knew because Sammy was a card carrying member in the Winchester camp for survival. Sammy was scared, and it took a lot to ruffle a Winchester.

It took Dean less than three seconds to take in the information and cross the room to where Sam still stood. Over the teachers outraged demands about interruptions and hall passes, Dean made himself heard.

"What's wrong, Sammy?"

"We gotta go Dean; we gotta get out of here."

Figuring the worst, like dad was injured or CPS was on the way, Dean grabbed his brother by the shirt, and made ready to go. School wasn't important, his family was, and Sam wanted to leave. That was monumental in and of itself. Sam never wanted to leave, especially school.

Dean started to push his little brother out of the door, intending to follow him through, but that was when he heard the gunshots.

And the screaming.

In those first few seconds, time slowed down. He recognized the semi automatic by the sound of the shots, smelled the scent of fresh blood on the air. His fatigue was gone, his boredom shoved aside, and he ignored the lingering pain from his recent injury. He was a Winchester damnit, his father's soldier.

Keeping Sam safe was his number one directive and Dean vowed he would not fail.

AN II: Thanks again so much for reading, any reviews and tips on improving my writing will be immensely appreciated! See you next time.