AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is the pilot of a serialized story, written in the episodic style of the original show. PLEASE NOTE there is an ongoing slash romance sub-plot, but this only manifests as UST nuances in the early episodes.

DISCLAIMER: I'd like to acknowledge/apologize to the creators and writers of Supernatural for all original dialogue lovingly pinched and abused for the purposes of this fic.

Chapter 1: What's Wrong With This Picture?

Attempting to escape from his violent past and the demands of his hunter family, Sam is struggling to make a life for himself in a new town when a death vision of his employer's wife and son, under horribly familiar circumstances, draws him back into old ways and the hunt for his mother's killer.

The house was unexceptional. It could have been one of a million homes in America's heartland, and there was absolutely nothing about its features that made them memorable. Once viewed, its details would slip from the mind as easily as the remnants of a fading dream. The young man who was ascending the stairs clutching a sandwich was another matter. Tall, lean-muscled, with a mop of carefully blow-waved chestnut hair and a manner of studied ease, he could have been a male model. But it was only when you studied his face close up that you appreciated how extraordinarily beautiful he was. His boyish features had an almost feminine sensuality; his large liquid-bright eyes sparkled with iridescent green-hazel hues and were framed by a thick fringe of astonishingly long lashes, and his mouth . . . his mouth . . . his full, silk-soft, sensuous lips had a compelling fascination – they made you want to touch, want to kiss, to taste . . .

He was raising the sandwich to his mouth as he reached a bedroom door. Pausing before opening it he glanced down the hall to the room at the end of the passage where light streamed through a partially open door.

"Night, Mom!" he called.

He took a bite of his sandwich and turned the handle of his own door, then paused again. "Mom?" he called again through half chewed bread. Some instinct, some sense of unease, drew him down the passage toward the open door.

"Mom?" he repeated, a little louder, a little more insistently.

The room appeared empty when he entered it and a puzzled frown settled on his face. Then something bright red splashed on his forehead.

No.

He wiped the drip from his brow and stared for a moment at the blood red stain on his fingers.

Don't look up.

His bright eyes flicked to the ceiling. There was a moment of dull incomprehension before they widened with horror and he uttered a strangled scream. "Mom!"

There was the briefest glimpse of the blood-soaked woman pinned to the ceiling before a wash of yellow flames blazed from the centre, engulfing her.

NO!

Yellow light enflamed the emerald hues in his frozen, stricken eyes before the room exploded around him and he was swallowed by the mass of greedy fire.

...

"DHUU!" Sam woke up flailing and panting. His heartbeat was racing and his temples throbbed with a searing headache; he was forced to close his eyes from the piercing glare of the morning light. He lay crouched and still, fighting waves of nausea for a full two minutes before the pain began to recede and, even then, his respiration and heart-rate were far from steady. It had been so vivid.

He'd had nightmares many times before. Since his childhood his dreams had been haunted by death and violence, that was nothing new; it was to be expected, he supposed. But these new dreams, the ones peopled by strangers and strange places, the ones accompanied by sick pain and a horrible, helpless sense of foreboding, they were different. And now this.

The manner of the woman's death was familiar, too familiar, of course. He might have been able to pass off the dream as the product of latent memory and anxiety if it weren't for the headache . . . and the young man. Sam had never seen him before, he was sure of that, yet every minute detail of the man's features was still startlingly present to his mind's eye even now that the dream itself was fading. And Sam couldn't explain the acute distress he'd felt at the moment he'd watched this stranger die. He had felt it as if it were a deep personal loss. Why?

Slowly and cautiously, still fighting the urge to retch, Sam uncurled his body from its fetal coil then unzipped and extricated himself from the twisted folds of his sleeping bag. Making up a fire he started to prepare some breakfast, and all the while he cooked and ate a gnawing ache gripped his chest. He couldn't understand it, but he couldn't lose the feeling that what he'd seen had been real, that the stranger was real . . . that, somewhere in the world, the young man really existed - or had existed. As the last thought occurred to him Sam felt a stabbing pang of something like grief.

It made no sense.

With breakfast finished he bathed in the chill shallows of the lake then returned shivering to the camp fire. The clothes he'd washed and hung from the branch of a tree the previous evening were still slightly damp. As autumn progressed it would be harder to get clothes dry, but he hoped to save up enough money for the deposit on a place of some sort soon. After he'd toweled himself down and changed into his dry clothes, he took down the damp ones and rolled them in his spare towel before storing them in his back pack. Another minute saw his few other possessions safely stowed and the fire doused. Before he broke camp he performed his habitual checks - gun, holy water, silver knife, iron bar, stake . . . – before hoisting the pack onto his shoulders. It was heavier than it looked, but Sam was used to its weight. He had a long walk to work, but he was getting used to that, too.

...

Winchester and Copes Auto was on the outskirts of town. Sam acknowledged he'd been very fortunate to find a place with John and Stan. When he'd seen the advertisement for an assistant mechanic he'd walked in all prepared with his fake references, fake IDs and social, but one look at John's face and something had prompted Sam to abandon all pretence. He'd told the truth – or as much of it as he reasonably could – that he'd been brought up on the move, he'd never held a steady job but he had a number of useful skills, that he'd kept some questionable company in the past and had done some things he regretted, but he was honest (in his own way) and ready to work hard if Winchester were only prepared to give him a chance to make a fresh start.

Sam had found John instantly likeable. He was an earthy, no nonsense, practical man with shrewd eyes and a warm smile. He'd watched Sam clean a carburetor then he'd given him the job. And Sam had worked hard since then to repay the man's generosity and prove himself worthy of the opportunity he'd been given. Stan Copes, John's business partner, had been rather less accepting of Sam at first. His small-town suspicion of strangers had made him wary of the newcomer and he'd watched Sam with eagle-eyed vigilance while John had gradually given the boy greater responsibility as he demonstrated himself capable, and eventually Stan had come around and welcomed Sam as one of the team. Today, however, he was working on an engine by himself while Stan and John were doing a rush job for a regular customer. Mid afternoon John appeared by his side oil-stained and sweaty but looking satisfied. Sam inferred the job was completed successfully.

"Haven't had a chance to check up on you today, Sam. Have you eaten yet? I'll bet you haven't."

Sam smiled without comment. He was sure John hadn't taken any lunch yet either.

"Come on, take a break, son. You work like a machine."

Sam followed John to the kitchen where Stan was already making coffee for the three of them. He fetched his roll and juice from the refrigerator and ate quietly while the two men discussed their plans for Thanksgiving. Stan was excited because he was planning a big family trip to Disneyland. John was expecting his son home from college and was looking forward to seeing him. Apparently he was bringing his girlfriend to meet the folks for the first time and John ventured the opinion that Dean might be serious about this one. He expressed the hope that she might be a steadying influence on the boy. John always spoke fondly and proudly of Dean, but Sam sensed he was worried about his son for some reason. Sam wasn't good at making conversation so he just ate and read the day's news. A few pages in, toward the bottom of the page, a small item snatched Sam's attention. His eyes widened. By itself it might mean nothing, but coming on top of the dream . . .

"What are your plans for Thanksgiving, Sam?" Stan asked.

"Oh . . . I'm planning to go visit some friends upstate."

John gave Sam a searching look. He knew Sam was lying and it made Sam feel bad, but John was the kind of man who'd invite Sam to stay with his family for the holiday if he found out Sam was going to be spending it alone, and he didn't want to intrude.

"Where do your friends live?"

Panicking a little, Sam turned the paper around so the other two could see it. "Did you see this?" he asked. "About the dead cattle? Nobody seems to know what caused it."

John nodded. "Bad business. Jack's insured but the insurance companies never pay what these beasts are worth. It's gonna cost Jack and he can't afford to be out of pocket in this climate."

"Where's Jack's farm?"

"Over at Weatherall"

Sam hesitated. It was an awkward disconnected question, but he had to know. "Have there been any house fires in the area recently?"

John and Stan checked each other for confirmation but returned nothing but a shrug and a puzzled frown. "Not that we've heard of. Why do you ask?"

"Oh I just thought . . ." Sam thought fast. "I think I heard there was a study . . . some connection between house fires and cattle deaths . . . I don't remember the details."

Stan laughed. "Think you must've dreamt that one, kid. Mind you, seems like they'll do a study about anything these days."

Sam put down the newspaper. "I'd better get back to work."

"Hang on, Sam." John pushed his lunchbox toward the young man. Half of a thick chicken salad sandwich remained in the box. "Do me a favour and finish this off for me, would you? Amanda always makes too much but she'll give me hell if I waste it."

Sam knew what John was doing but he wasn't about to refuse. John's wife's sandwiches were always delicious. "Sure, John, thanks." Sam gratefully picked up the wedge. His mouth was already awash with saliva before he took the first bite. Mmm. Home cooked chicken, real home-made mayo. His stomach growled, impatient for him to finish chewing.

The dream, the vision of the young man, hovered uneasily before his mind's eye for the rest of the afternoon. He couldn't stop thinking about it, and as soon as the working day was over he headed out toward Weatherall. Conducting investigations on foot was tiring and time consuming so when John drew up beside him in the Impala on the way out of town and asked if he could give him a lift somewhere Sam was tempted to accept, but it would have invited too many questions.

"Thanks, John, but I'm fine. I enjoy walking; I like the exercise."

John's gaze flickered to the pack on Sam's back and back to his face but he let it drop, returning instead to the subject of Thanksgiving. "You know, I meant what I said earlier, about you joining us," he insisted. "It would be good for you to meet Dean. He could show you around the area, introduce you to some of his friends in town. Wouldn't you like to meet some young people your own age?"

"Yeah . . . yeah, I would . . ." Sam replied awkwardly. He was less convinced than John seemed to be that his son and his girlfriend would enjoy having a third wheel tagging around with them. "But my friends upstate are expecting me so . . ."

John regarded him evenly. "Well, if your plans fall through, you'll let me know, won't you? You'd be more than welcome, Sam. I mean it." John smiled warmly. "See you tomorrow." As Sam watched the Impala drive away a slight crease furrowed the flesh between his eyebrows and an odd, vague ache settled in his chest. He wondered what it felt like to truly feel welcome somewhere.

…

None of the buildings around Weatherall looked familiar but it was hard to be sure since he hadn't seen the house from the outside. He established the site of the cattle deaths from a local and took the opportunity to ask about the young man at the same time, but the man didn't recognize him from Sam's description. "How about in town?" Sam persisted. "He'd stand out. He's . . . like a TV star or something."

"Which one?"

Sam was momentarily derailed. "I mean he's good looking," he elaborated. "I mean . . . really good looking."

The man regarded him impassively for several moments before responding with a voice that dripped sarcasm. "I wouldn't know," he drawled unpleasantly. "I don't go around noticing if young men are good looking."

Sam felt the heat of a blush beginning to tinge his cheeks and he disengaged himself from the conversation as quickly as he could. His investigation of the fateful pasture was more conclusive but less than reassuring. His first sweep of the field turned up a residue of yellow powder, and a quick sniff of the acrid substance confirmed it was sulphur.

Sam's anxiety was tempered by a strange, dark emotion that was almost like eagerness. Finally, after all these years, Sam had found the demon. It was here.

. . .

His initial excitement soon dissipated into fretfulness and frustration. The day's discoveries had filled him with ambivalence. There was, as yet, nothing to suggest that the fire had already occurred, which led him to hope that it might still be prevented. Surely, after all, he wouldn't have been granted the vision if it were not in his power to stop it being fulfilled? But the discovery of the sulphur made the threat more immediate and he was no closer to knowing where the house was, or who the would-be victims were. He felt he was running out of time and he had no clue where to search next.

The sun was setting over the lake as he finished washing the previous day's clothes and settled down in front of the fire. He'd found the remains of a Snickers bar in his back-pack and that had been his dinner since he'd left it too late to visit a store, and it had only served to awaken rather than satisfy his appetite. More to take his mind off his hunger than anything else he took out a pad of paper and tried to sketch whatever he could remember of the interior of the house. It didn't amount to much: a couple of bog standard doors; maybe a picture on a wall, the details of which escaped him. In the end, it was only the young man that he could visualize with any degree of accuracy. He began a detailed portrait that he was still working on assiduously as twilight closed around his camp, and when darkness descended he continued to sketch by torchlight.

His pencil was lightly brushing the outline of the man's lips when his attention was caught by the sound of a motor in the distance. As the car drew nearer Sam was picked out in its headlights and he realized he'd camped too close to the road. He wasn't too concerned until he heard the engine slow, but as the wheels crunched on the gravel at the verge a short distance away Sam put the sketch pad away in his back-pack, and his hand automatically reached for and cradled the gun in the inside pocket.

The base beat of some rock track could be heard thumping from the car's interior, and as a door opened the strains of AC/DC assaulted the clear night air. Sam's grip on the gun loosened slightly. He was familiar with the number; he had heard it playing at the auto shop many times in the last month. A moment later the sound of John's voice simultaneously quelled his fears yet filled him with a different kind of anxiety.

"Sam! Sam, is that you?"

Oh, crap.

A torch light shone on Sam's face and he could just make out John's silhouette behind it before the beam swung away and began picking out in turn the bare accoutrements of Sam's life that were organised around the fire. John's imposing figure took form as he stepped within the circle of the firelight. He wore an expression that compounded amusement, exasperation and understanding. "Dammit, Sam! Have you been sleeping rough out here all this time?" Before Sam could frame an answer he continued in an authoritative tone. "Pack up your things and douse the fire, Sam. You're coming home with me. There's a storm coming up from the south. You'll get drenched if you stay here."

Sam tried to marshal an argument. "No, really, John. I'm fine. I have a tarp. I'll be – "

"I said pack up your things, son!" John had already picked up Sam's backpack (an action that automatically raised Sam's hackles) and was marching back to the car with it. Sam stood for a moment with his jaw clenched and his nostrils flaring with conflicted feelings. He appreciated that John was acting out of kindness; still he resented being ordered around. John's tone reminded him too much of his grandfather. On the other hand, he realized that forcing a confrontation with his employer at this time would be shooting himself in the foot and, truthfully, he really would rather not sleep out in a storm. He stood irresolute for only a moment longer before shelving his pride and taking John's lead. He doused the fire, packed up his bedroll, gathered his remaining things and followed the older man back to the Impala.

The volume of the stereo assaulted his ears as he slipped into the passenger seat. John liked his music loud, and Sam was forced to raise his voice to be heard above it. "This is really too kind of you, John," he complained.

John smiled broadly. "It's just until you find your own place, Sam. Amanda and I have the room with Dean at college right now. You might as well have the benefit of it."

Sam could only mutter his thanks and he settled back for the journey. The volume of the music irritated him but, on the plus side, it eliminated the need for conversation and Sam was content to listen to John singing along in a pleasing baritone. When at length they drew up outside John's modest home on the outskirts of the town he parked the car and turned toward Sam. Fishing inside his jacket he pulled out his wallet and took a wad of notes from it.

Sam's eyes widened with alarm. "Oh, John, no, no!" he objected, but John just grabbed his arm and slapped the bundle into his hand. "It's an advance on your wages," he insisted, and it was hard to argue with the man when his earnest intense gaze was fixed on Sam's face. "Don't go hungry for the sake of your pride, son. It isn't worth it." He held Sam's hand gripped in his strong fist for a moment longer, and Sam swallowed as he fought to contain unfamiliar emotions that were threatening to overcome him. Then John slapped his shoulder. "Come in and meet the wife," he said.

Amanda was an attractive woman as warm, friendly and disarming as her husband. She looked vaguely familiar, perhaps because she bore more than a passing resemblance to pictures he'd seen of his own mother, and Sam warmed to her as quickly as he had to John. It appeared that John had spoken of him, and she welcomed Sam as a friend and quickly sat him down to join their evening meal. When she placed a large plate of home-made stew in front of him Sam could have kissed her.

Unlike John, however, she was less careful of Sam's privacy. She was naturally curious of his background and, initially, asked questions he realized he should have prepared answers for. It didn't take her long to discover that Sam was an orphan that his single mother had died when he was an infant, and that he'd been raised by his grandfather. When the nomadic nature of his upbringing came out she asked, with unaffected interest, "Oh, are you Romany?"

A slightly confused furrow appeared between Sam's eyebrows. "Um – "

"You were born in Lawrence, you say?" John interrupted.

"Yessir."

"I met a Samuel Campbell there once. Any relation?"

Sam hesitated. He was reluctant to acknowledge the man he was named for . . . if John knew him . . . "Ah, yes. Distant, I think. I don't know that side of the family well." After a moment he added. "How did you know him?"

"I was there on business years ago." John responded. "We nodded to each other one time." After that he turned the conversation toward work matters and plans for Thanksgiving and, for the first time, it occurred to Sam that John was the one who was now being evasive. Funny, how knowing the Campbells would do that to a person.

But the uncomfortable moment passed as the meal progressed. Amanda pressed on Sam another helping of stew followed by two more than ample helpings of apple pie. It was more than Sam was used to eating, perhaps more than he'd ever eaten at one sitting, but he wasn't going to complain. John broke out a couple of beers and Sam actually started to relax. He was feeling something close to contentment, yet it was tinged with a pang of melancholy at the knowledge that it could only ever be temporary. John and Amanda were a window onto a world where he knew in his soul he would never truly belong. He wondered if the enigmatic Dean Winchester knew how lucky he was. Probably not. People seldom appreciated what they had.

When, at length, John suggested they turn in, Sam welcomed it. He was tired and the excess of food and comfort had made him sleepy. Amanda fetched clean towels from the laundry and he followed her to the upstairs landing where she showed him the room he was to sleep in and bade him goodnight.

Sam felt a rush of warmth toward her, and not just because she reminded him so much of the mother he'd never known. "Mrs. Winchester, thank you so much for your hospitality and kindness. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

"It's Amanda," she corrected, gracing Sam with a warm generous smile, her large green eyes sparkling. "And you've very welcome."

As she turned and walked toward her own room Sam was filled with an uneasy sense of déjà vu. He was suddenly convinced that she was familiar to him for more than her passing resemblance to old photographs. As she opened her bedroom door and entered the light from within illuminated the corridor and picked out a picture on the wall. Recognition came like a blow to the gut. It simultaneously filled Sam with the need to cry out and robbed him of the power to do so. He stood frozen, wanting to run after her, not knowing what he could possibly say.

Mrs. Winchester – Amanda – you're in danger! A yellow-eyed demon is planning to kill you and your son!

She'd think he was insane.

Sam could now hear casual conversation being exchanged between John and Amanda as they prepared for bed. It calmed his helpless anxiety a little and he started to reason with himself. Dean wasn't due back from college for weeks yet, and that surely meant there was no imminent danger. Assuming events happened the way they appeared in his dream he had time to find a way to protect them both . . . Assuming that.

Sam's fingers were trembling as he reached for the door handle and stepped inside the room he now knew to belong to the young man of his vision. He turned on the light and swept his gaze around the room, trying to glean from it some impression of the familiar stranger. It was disconcertingly commonplace, like the room of any young American student. Posters on the walls depicted an eclectic musical taste, from Metallica to Bon Jovi to the Scissor Sisters; lining one wall was an impressive array of sound and musical equipment and speakers, and there were a couple of guitars in one corner. In another corner there was a students' desk and, above it, a stack of shelves that contained a puzzling mixture of text books on law, business studies and music theory. The space on the desk was taken up with an old computer, CDs and more sound equipment and, next to it, a number of large breasted, partially clad ladies pouted at Sam from the pages of a wall calendar. Nearer the bed was another book shelf filled with cheap novels, mostly pulp fiction - some horror fantasy, Sam noted – and, perhaps more surprisingly, some romantic fiction. There were also some DVDs: mainly action movies, some old classics and . . . Sam picked one out and studied the cover; The Lake House? . . . and a box set of some TV show called The Gilmore Girls.

Apart from the space filled by a small clock radio, the entire bedside table was devoted to family photographs and there, right at the front, was Dean himself standing arm in arm with his father, grinning broadly, dressed in fishing gear and holding up a large salmon. He was windswept and looking more rugged than he had in the dream but it was unmistakably the same young man: same chestnut hair now tangled and flying about in the wind, same boyish face, same full lips, same luminous green orbs. As Sam stared at the photo his stomach began to ferment with a turbulent brew of emotions, then a bright blue-white light illuminated the room startling him with a violence that shook him right back to the moment and its pressing threat. He crossed to the window where, on the horizon, he could see the bright glare of the approaching storm then a sharp, jagged fork of lightning. Moments later a shuddering bang rocked Sam's body before settling into an ominous rumble. He didn't have weeks. Whatever the details of his dream suggested to the contrary, it was clear to him: the demon was here now.

But Sam's investigation of the room had given him time to steady his racing mind and start thinking of some practical measures he could take. He dropped his backpack on the bed, took out the holy water and, as an extra precaution, slid his gun into the waistband at the back of his jeans. Slipping off his shoes he crossed to the door and silently opened it, listened for a minute or so to satisfy himself John and Amanda were now safely settled in bed, then he stepped into the corridor and unstoppered the bottle. Murmuring the words of the incantation as quietly as he could he quickly traced the protective symbol of the triquetra, first on Dean's door then on Amanda's, before slipping downstairs to the kitchen. Lightning and thunder continued to alternate as he searched the cupboards and found a large carton of salt. Then his heart sank as the sound of heavy rain told him that it would be useless. A line of salt round the house would be washed away immediately, and lining the doors and windows of somebody else's home was impracticable.

As Sam stood pondering the alternatives he was suddenly riven by the simultaneous assault of blinding light and ear-splitting bang. The storm was now directly overhead. Then, as he tried to steady his racing heartbeat after the shock of the thunderclap, he heard a noise in the next room – a loud bump followed by restrained muttering – and his adrenaline levels spiked. Moving swiftly to the doorway he flattened himself against the wall and unstoppered the holy water once more. A quick glance into the next room revealed a male figure silhouetted against a flash of lightning, about John's height but not as broad, and heading Sam's way. Sam blew out a quick breath to calm himself then, before the intruder reached the kitchen, he stepped out in front of him and threw the holy water into his face.

The only response was a startled "What the fuck - ?" and that coupled with the ease with which Sam swept him to the floor reassured him that his quarry was human after all, and not much of a threat either, perhaps nothing more sinister than some junkie robbing the place to score drug money.

Sam pulled out his gun and leveled it at the man's head. "When I tell you to," he breathed menacingly, "you're going to get up very slowly and keep your hands where I can see them." Sam had only raised the gun for effect. He hadn't even bothered releasing the safety, and that was just as well since his prisoner's response was to make an ill-advised grab for the gun that might well have resulted in it going off in his face if it had been primed. Then he started screaming, and as Sam began to absorb the words he was yelling he started to get the first tiny, uneasy inkling of a suspicion that he might just have screwed the pooch.

"Dad! Dad! We've got burglars, Dad! Can you hear me? DAD!"

Oh crap! Crap crap crap crap crap CRAP!

Sam hastily replaced the gun in his belt and moved to restrain the young man's arms that were now flailing and punching wildly. He was panicking and unpredictable and Sam was loath to let him up until he could calm him down, but that wasn't an easy task.

"Ssh! Calm down. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to – I thought – calm down – just calm down – I'm not gonna hurt you!"

Suddenly the light was on and Sam's heart slammed into the wall of his chest with a force that expelled all the air from his lungs. He was staring straight down into the face of the vision, straight into those wide, bright emerald eyes. And they were angry.

.