Title: In the Shadow of Your Heart

Disclaimer: I do not know or own Supernatural or any other affiliated character, nor is any money being made. The show and all recognizable characters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW.

Rated T for minor violence, brief descriptions of violence, blood and guts, and coarse language

In an old abandoned steel mill, at the edges of Pittsburgh under the veil of darkness on her 19th birthday, Mary became a real hunter. Crouched behind a sooty furnace, the smell of mold and ash assaulting her nose, Mary laid in wait, a blade held tightly in her fist. . That night her father and cousin were supposed to lure a vamp back to the mill. She was backup, there to assist only if necessary. Except the monster found her first. Alone in a cold, dark warehouse, Mary tangled with a vampire and came out the victor, a disfigured head her trophy.

Her father came running in, just as the blade finished sliding through flesh and bone. Together they watched it fall into the thick layer of dust, dirt and grime covering the floor. That moment, Mary got her first real lesson in how truly disgusting humans could be when her proud father wanted her to keep the head in a jar as a memento of her first kill. Disgusted by the mere suggestion, she ran from the building with nothing but the clothes on her back, a few twenties in her pocket and a knife in her boot. And she didn't turn back. For months she travelled, from the warm beaches of Miami, to the foggy shores of Maine and to the rainy mountains of Seattle, the open road her only companion. Despite the voodoo charm she picked up in New Orleans, her father tracked her down in a little town in Arkansas, ending her 'little adventure' as he liked to call it.

Forced back into hunting, she tracked down black dogs and wendingos, vampires and ghosts and sent back to Hell demons escaped from the darkest pits of hell. Yet none of those monsters disgusted her more than the evil some men were capable of. Her father always used to tell her that 'hunting was the way of life.' Mary thinks that maybe she understands what he meant now, and that maybe he was right.

It was the eighth month of her pregnancy with Sam when Mary was firmly assaulted with exactly what man was capable of. It was just another ordinary day, albeit she was eight months pregnant, carrying 20 extra pounds with hormones that made her bitchier than a pmsing teenager and bladder that felt smaller than pea, lugging around a four year old, and running errands all day. In the best of moods, she was not. Sitting in the Doctor's office, with a cheerful toddler who had a bright smile and green eyes that warmed the cockles of her heart, Mary was reminded of exactly why this was worth it, though, and so much more. In her biased opinion, her little boy was the most well behaved four year old to ever exist. Dean didn't throw tantrums, didn't whine, didn't complain, and never cried unless hurt. Though almost as stubborn as his Daddy, he always listened to her. And he always wanted to help, not just Mary or his father, but anyone that needed it. Dean was her perfect little angel, her gift from god, more than enough reason to wake up every morning with a smile on her face even when John was being, well to put it mildly, an ass. Blessed again, she was, with the bundle sitting contentedly on her bladder, kicking up a storm.

A bleached blonde nurse with a sincere smile of perfect white teeth administered a shot to her little boy after the Doctor left. It was his four year checkup today. On the day of his fourth birthday he walked down the stairs, with his daddy's cap engulfing his small head and a little plastic tool belt tied around his waist, proudly declaring himself a 'big boy.' Part of her wanted to laugh, the other part of her wanted Dean to stop growing.

"Big boys don't cry when they get shots," he told the pretty nurse whose eyes twinkled with mirth in response.

"How about a lollipop for the brave big boy?" she asked after throwing out the needle, holding out a green and red sucker for her boy to choose from. "Which one do you want, sweetie?"

Little chubby cheeks dimpled with a broad smile. Bright green eyes stared up at awe at the pretty little blonde nurse, looking as if this was the first time her little boy had ever seen a lollipop. She saw the moment the nurse melted under the charm of her little boy, chocolate brown eyes softening, lips twisting in a slight grin, ensnared by Dean's charming spell, almost as if it was commanding her to obey.

"Why don't you take both?" the honeyed voice of the nurse suggested. "As long as it's okay with your mother," she politely added.

Mary wanted to say no, she really did. She wasn't entirely sure she believed this innocent act of Dean's. But one look into the pleading green eyes of her little angel and she caved faster than the nurse.

Dean's face lit up even more, when Mary grudgingly nodded her assent. She couldn't deny her baby anything. He was the light of her life.

She wondered where his apparently ceaseless charm came from. Dean could warm the coldest heart, bring light to the darkest eyes, make anyone say yes to his chubby like cheeks and happy little smile. Even their grouchy old neighbor, Mr. Stenson, who said an angry no to absolutely everyone else with an extra door slammed in your face just so you got the point, buckled faster than a chair under an elephant when it came to Dean. And yet he was a serious as any adult, and always knew when Mary needed cheering up.

He certainly did not inherit this enchanting charisma from his father. His father was tall, dark, and handsome. The air of mystery that surrounded the ruggedly handsome young man was what first drew Mary towards him. But charm? Charisma? Those flew out the window before they even had their first date. Good thing Mary found his awkwardness adorable.

Dean was entirely an enigma that both amazed and worried her.

She wasn't stupid. She saw the way some people looked at her beautiful baby boy. With those pouty lips, green eyes, and dimples the size of Texas, Dean was too pretty. A heart breaker, she knew for sure, when he finally reached his teenage years. But until then her baby would be just fine. Mary would make sure of that.

With a cheerful toddler, happily sucking on a green lollipop, Mary left the Doctors and headed to her last stop of the day, the grocery store. A cold feeling of unease settled in her stomach as they headed into the store. It felt like she was being watched.

Mary knew better than to ignore that instinct. It saved her life many times on a hunt before. She looked up and scanned the entrance to the store, but there was no one there. She grabbed a cart, but suddenly stopped and tensed as a tingle tickled her spine. It was the kind of feeling one got when there was someone right behind you, so close you could feel them. A shudder wracked her tense shoulders. She spun around, subconsciously stepping in front of Dean.

The smell of BO assaulted her nose, as the stranger neared her cart. Long stringy hair framed his fat greasy face. Holey blue sweatpants covered his short stocky legs and the faded grey t-shirt he wore was taut across his giant beer belly and held more stains than clean fabric. His face was frozen in a long frown, eyes sunken in his head above two puffy cheeks with skin so pale he looked as if he hadn't left his mother's basement in years. A spark of interest flashed through his dull eyes as he caught site of Dean. Her mommy senses tingled as the fat greasy man passed their cart. She fought not to gag as he slinked past her into the store.

The twisted feeling in her gut intensified, warning Mary to keep a close eye on the toddler yapping excitedly at her feet with a lollipop still dangling between his pouty lips. Briefly, Mary contemplated leaving the store all together. She looked down at Dean, and he stared straight back up at her. I'm not leaving, she decided and scoffed at her initial panic. She was a hunter. She could handle one fat greasy old pervert.

Nevertheless, it didn't hurt to be safe.

"Dean, why don't you ride in the cart today?" she asked with fake excitement, trying to con her stubborn little boy into acquiescence. Dean may be a big boy now, but she wanted to keep him close to her as possible.

Her little boy proudly shook his head no. "I'm a big boy, mommy. I can walk."

"Dean, please baby, let mommy push you in the cart." His defiant eyes stared into hers, the beginning of another argument on his lips. And then something changed. The idea was ludicrous. He was only four years old for god's sake. But it felt as though he sensed her panic and fear. The defiance fled his little chubby cheeks, a calm seriousness darkened his eyes for a moment, as her little boy quietly agreed with a short nod.

"Okay mommy!" he agreed and flashed a brilliant smile, the light in his eyes returning.

"Thank you, baby." Her heart instantly lightened and her panic eased a bit. But the sick feeling of dread still twisted in her gut like a parasite as she watched the man disappear down an aisle.

She felt eyes on her back. It made her skin tingle with fear and disgust. She walked quickly down the aisles, speeding through the store in an attempt to flee the dark eyes and dangerous intent of the greasy, disgusting man. Every time Mary turned a corner, he was there. Watching silently, waiting for his chance to snatch her little boy.

Dean was quiet, contemplative, trying very hard not to draw attention to himself. It was almost as if he sensed the danger.

She walked away for a second, barely two feet from the cart to browse the store's vast soup variety, Dean's small body still visible in her periphery. The baby kicked then. A powerful kick aimed straight at her ribs. She chuckled softly, glancing down at her full belly, a hand gently rubbing over the bulge. For just a brief moment she forgot about the greasy man with the dark intent, lost in the happy prospect of her unborn baby.

"Hands off, stwanger!" her little boy's voice demanded with more command than any 4 year old should ever have. Mary tore her eyes away from her round stomach and turned panicked eyes just in time to see the dirty man grab her son by the arm and lift him from the cart.

"Stop!" she desperately called out as the man hurried away, with a wildly kicking Dean authoritatively demanding that the stranger put him down right now! "Dean!" she cried out and looked around wildly for help. There was no one else in sight, no one but her to help her child. Mary was a hunter. She would not let some human walk away with her child! She looked down at the can in her hand and did the only thing she could think of to stop her son's kidnapper in her heavily pregnant state: she threw the can of soup at him.

It whacked off the greasy head with a sickening, yet satisfying, crack. Surprised and clearly stunned, the dirty man dropped her son to the floor with a thud and stumbled off attempting to flee the scene empty handed.

Mary stumbled over to her son and nearly fell to her knees next to her stunned child.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" she asked checking his limbs for any breaks and his head for any lumps. Finding none, Mary gathered her little boy into her arms hugging him tightly to her chest. "I'm so sorry, sweetie, I'm so sorry," she whispered into his blonde hair as Dean shook in her arms.

"Mary, are you okay?" an alarmed voice asked as a man knelt next to her, a warm hand placed gently on her shoulder. Mary tentatively released her tight hold on her son and let the man help her to her feet.

"I'm fine, Carl," she shakily answered, instantly recognizing the man as one of her husband's poker buddies.

"How are you little man?" Carl crouched down and asked the frightened toddler still sitting on the ground. "Are you hurt?"

"My arm hurts a little," came the timid reply as he stuck the arm out and let Carl carefully look it over. A deep purple hand-shaped bruise was already starting to show on the tiny forearm, the offending limb swollen from the elbow down. His little lips trembled threateningly. Tears and distrust shone in his eyes as Carl looked over his arm.

"The paramedics can take a look at it when they get here," Carl told the toddler as he gently placed Dean's arm down on the little boy's lap.

"He's gonna be just fine, Mary," Carl said and stood to his feet, placing a warm hand on her shoulders. Mary could only nod, afraid to speak and let lose the tears threatening to fall. Someone had just tried to kidnap her child, someone had wanted to harm her baby! Even with all the monsters and horror Mary had witnessed in her life, it was still almost too hard to believe.

She never did understand humans quite like she did monsters. Monsters made sense, in an asinine way, they had patterns, they were predictable, and they could be killed discreetly. It was people that were crazy.

"Don't worry, Mary, they got the guy trying to flee. I had the store call John for you. He'll be here soon. Mary, are you sure you're okay?" Carl asked again when all Mary could do was stand there in shock. "You're not going into labor or something are you?" he joked.

She shook away the last vestiges of panic. Her little boy was safe. She had protected him and she always would. That was all the mattered. "I'm fine, Carl, really."

Carl looked her over and nodded before plastering a smirk over his face. "Well, that was one hell of a shot with the soup can!" he grinned. "John would be proud."

Her cheeks blushed bright red with embarrassment. "Yes he would."

The paramedics pushed their way towards the scene, Mary finally noticing the crowd that had gathered during the commotion. A middle aged man and a pretty little brunette settled next to her son.

"It doesn't look broken, but we should take him to the hospital and get x-rays just in case," the man said as he wrapped Dean's arm with ice.

"How about that little man? Want to take a ride in an ambulance?" the woman said and Dean instantly perked up. Mary saw it then and almost, almost smiled. The minute the fear slipped away and he smiled his little dimpled smile, turning his charm on full blown like only Dean knew how.

Definitely a heart breaker for sure, she thought as she followed the stretcher out to the ambulance.

"I heard about the soup can," the paramedic jovially conversed with a wide, amused smile as the ambulance sped away. "Brilliant!"

She smiled back at the man and just shook her head. After the shock wore off and Mary and John put their son to bed that night, the incident would jokingly be referred to as the soup can incident. From time to time, they would bring it up as Mary's startling ability to throw soup with authority, and not to mess with Mary when's she angry. But never as the day they almost lost Dean to a pervert.

"This place gives me the creeps," eight year old Dean whined, uncomfortable with their new surroundings.

"It's only for a few more days, kiddo," John responded trying to reassure his eldest son. John was creeped out too, though. They had stayed in far sketchier places before, motels with cockroaches crawling in the walls, cabins piled high with dust and rotten food, and trailers and apartments with rats the size of cats. But this place felt dirty, it felt wrong, it felt dangerous. And he didn't like the way the guy living in the room two doors down kept looking at Dean, as if his son was a piece of meat, a prize for the taking. The lust he saw in those dark eyes disgusted him. It was the only motel for miles, though. There was no place else to go.

Besides it was only for a few days. Nothing would happen to his children in the meantime. And if it did, he had confidence in Dean to handle the situation.

Despite his confidence, John intentionally did everything in his power to keep his sons out of sight from the pervert and watched them like a hawk when they went outside alone, just to be sure the creep stayed away.

John still vividly remembered the call from the grocery store nearly four years ago. He panicked. John, the ex-marine, tough as nails, man's man, panicked when he was told the news about how some greasy pathetic excuse for a man tried to walk out the store with his son.

Mary and he had talked about it once or twice, about how handsome Dean was going to be, about his boyishly good looks, almost effeminate at his young age. They'd worried it would get him teased.

They'd never thought it would get him nearly kidnapped until it happened.

John joked about the incident after the fact, joked about his beloved wife's prowess with a soup can of all things. It was an avoidance tactic. He didn't want to talk about it, about the fact that someone had thought his son beautiful enough, or an easy enough target, to kidnap. He'd pushed it to the back of his mind, except for the small part of him that pushed Dean harder than he did Sammy, trained him harder, tried to make him perfect, so if it did happen again, his son would be prepared.

He certainly never expected this.

He almost called off the hunt. In the jungles of Vietnam, where your number could be up any second, John learned to trust his instincts and his gut practically screamed at him not to go. It's just paranoia, his mind insisted and so on the hunt he went.

Afraid to leave his boys alone for too long, John left for just a few hours, just long enough to waste the poltergeist in record time.

As he parked the Impala in the seedy hotel parking lot, his sixth sense instantly kicked in. Something was wrong. His gut instinct, that feeling deep in the pit of his stomach, warned him that danger awaited him. He drew his gun and cautiously and silently approached the hotel room, keeping his footsteps light and his mind alert. The front door to their room was splintered, kicked in at the handle, the old rusty lock easily caving under pressure. His shoulders tensed, a shiver of apprehension crawled down his spine. He could only hope he wasn't too late.

Quietly, he toed the door open. It quivered on its ancient hinges, opening wide to a trail of destruction. Shattered pieces of glass, ceramic and wood lay scattered about the floor like fallen soldiers on a battlefield. Overturned furniture and clothes and blankets were thrown about like toppled buildings in a war torn city. It smelled like blood and gunpowder. A bullet was embedded into the wall mere inches from his face. A body lay prone on the floor in a puddle of its own blood.

Holy shit! Holy fucking shit there was a body on the floor! Bloody footprints, too big to be either of his children's, led deeper into the combat zone that their hotel room had become.

Weary and disillusioned, John saw the enemy first. His long black hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail. A receding hairline made his thin face look gaunt and emaciated. Two thick black eyebrows covered his sunken eyes. A tongue darted out and licked chapped lips.

It was the man from two doors down, the man with the dirty eyes, Dean once called him.

His eyes finally settled on his boy. Dean's face was bruised. The tension in son's shoulder and the slight tremble of his small body exposed his fear, but his eyes were defiant, lips pursed in anger. One bony hand was wrapped around Dean's throat, squeezing mercilessly as the other held a knife that trailed the smooth skin under his son's shirt.

John yelled out in rage. No one touched his boys. No one! He shifted his gun, aimed, and did not hesitate to pull the trigger before the intruder even had time to register John's scream of rage. The bullet ripped through his skull, tearing through brain and bone before hitting the wall with a splat of flesh and blood.

Dean fell to his knees, one hand holding his throat, the other barely holding him up as he gasped for air.

"Where's Sammy?" John asked as he hurriedly shuffled around the room, grabbing clothing, weapons, and books from the destroyed room and shoving them haphazardly into his duffel bags. "Dean!" he yelled harshly when Dean did not answer.

"He's…he's in there," Dean weakly responded and pointed to the bathroom. His hoarse voice was punctuated with hacking coughs as his son struggled to regain his breath and draw enough air into his starved lungs.

The bastard had tried to suffocate his son, not to kill, but disorientate long enough to have his way. If they weren't at risk of being caught any moment, John would bring the scuzbag back to life any way he could, tie him to a chair and then torture the son of a bitch to death, before salting and burning his body out in the woods.

Fucking fucker deserved it.

"Sam, come on. We have to go!" he urgently commanded, hoping his young son would get the picture and get moving. Someone had to have reported the gunfire. In this small southern town, it was amazing the cops weren't there already.

"What's the password?" Sam stubbornly demanded with more bravado then he'd ever heard any four year old have, except Dean. Kid must have picked it up from his older brother. He just knew that was going to be a bitch to deal with as the kids got older.

But that didn't help his current predicament. John had no clue what the password was. He had no idea Dean even set that kind of system up, just in case something like this happened. He had a sudden rush of pride for his young son for having the kind of intuition his own father didn't. Kid was going to be a damn good hunter one day.

"Roger," Dean croaked out, barely loud enough for John to hear.

"Roger," John repeated loud enough for Sam to hear, knowing Dean didn't have the strength yet. The bathroom door opened barely an inch, as tentative hazel eyes peaked skeptically at him. John must have passed the toddlers cursory test, for seconds later the little boy cautiously left the room, quickly hurrying over to his brother's side.

It wasn't until years later that John would know just how much that tiny choice really meant. Sam had gone to Dean first for comfort, and not his father. Even at only four, the little boy trusted his older brother more than his father. And maybe that should have stung him a little more than it actually did, maybe that should have been his wake up call that he was pushing his boys too hard.

Too bad life doesn't work that way.

John slung the duffel bags over his shoulder and walked over to his sons. Gently he pulled his oldest son to his feet as he scooped Sam up into his arms. Dean didn't protest, just numbly walked towards the door.

The body on the floor by the door stopped Dean dead in his tracks. He turned back to see Dean's eyes widen in panic and shock. His son ripped his arm from his grip, clasped both hands over his ears and fell to his knees on the ground by the body, staring at the sightless eyes.

"I…I killed him," his voice hysterically said. "You said shoot first," he turned to look at John, not with accusation, but seeking acceptance. "You said shoot first." He repeated over and over again.

"Sammy, go to the car," he commanded, settling the toddler on the ground. The toddler gravely nodded and silently followed his order.

John placed both hands calmingly on Dean's small, fragile shoulders. "You did good, son," he said reassuringly to his oldest child. "You did good, Dean." He pulled the frightened child into his arms, and picked him up as gently as he could.

Dean protested slightly, but caved almost immediately when John shifted his hold, jostling the boy, earning him a groan of pain. He worried Dean may be seriously injured.

The sound of sirens quickly closing in, gave him no time to check Dean's condition.

"Get in the car, Sam." The toddler silently nodded once more.

He laid Dean down in the back seat and tucked Sammy into his car seat. Tires screeched across the pavement as John threw the car into gear and floored it out of there as if the devil himself were hot on his tail.

"Where are we going?" Dean mumbled from the back seat, as he leaned heavily against the door, head resting on the window, eyes clenched tightly shut.

"Bobby's. We'll be there soon, Dean. Just hang on for a little bit and then we'll get you patched up. Okay?"

Dean didn't respond. John floored it, hurtling as fast as he could towards Bobby's place and the relative safety it could provide.

Dean didn't talk for weeks after it happened, and John, the coward that he was, never asked.

There was nothing special about the third time. No cans of soup, no dirty motels with sketchy clientele just two doors down, no creepy feelings, and no gut feelings that something was about to happen. And this time, there was no one to protect Dean.

It was the east side of Chicago. They'd been in the same apartment for almost four months, a record by Winchester standards. Their temporary home was close enough to a college campus that the neighborhood wasn't all that dangerous, but they were far enough from campus for it not to be all that safe either. Only drunken college students wasted enough to get lost stumbled down these streets. All in all, though, it was a lot nicer than some of the other places John had abandoned them at.

This time the man even looked normal, not like a 40 year old virgin who hasn't left his mother's basement in years, or a Vietnam veteran with PSTD. Just a man of maybe 30 with short brown hair styled into a fohawk, a douche sweatshirt in Dean's opinion and faded blue jeans. He had an easy smile and oozed charm from his pores like grease from a burger. But a rich guy like that in a neighborhood like this, easily had Dean's nerves frazzled.

When Mr. Cool glanced over with barely concealed interest, Dean knew that look. He'd seen it plenty of times in his short life to know what it meant. The man eyed him from afar for days, until one day he finally grew balls and approached Dean in the parking lot to their apartment.

"Sammy, go ahead," Dean sighed and resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he ushered his brother forward. Sam hesitantly left after a reassuring look from Dean. The douche hardly noticed Sam leaving, eyes intent on Dean with an arrogance that said he would get what he wanted.

"Let me guess," Dean said when the man was close enough to hear him, "hey kid you want some candy? Or how about I got a bike in my windowless, rickety van?"

"Aww, don't be like that. I just want to talk." Mr. Cool smiled and leaned casually onto a truck in the parking lot, his hazel eyes soft and open as he smoothly invaded Dean's personal space. Everything in his posture spoke of being calm, relaxed, and casual.

But Dean wasn't stupid enough to fall for the act. He knew better than to trust anyone. "No thank you," he scoffed and took a cautionary step back. Warily, he sized up the potential threat, calculating his odds if things got ugly. He would not be caught unawares again. "Go away."

Dark, hooded eyes raked over the teen. A tongue darted out to lick his lower lip. He took a threatening step forward, lust hazed eyes intent on their prey. "It's just you and your brother, right?" the man asked, a hint of a threat laced in his words. "I can help you," he suggestively purred and reached out a hand towards Dean.

He took another step back towards the apartment, cringing away from the offending hand. If he couldn't talk his way out of this one, Dean wanted to make sure he had enough room to escape without being vulnerable to an attack from behind. "We don't need your help," he cautiously replied, slowly backing up.

"I can pay you," the man persisted, matching each of Dean's steps backward with a step forward of his own.

"No means no, dude, get lost!" Dean snapped.

In an instant, the calm façade melted in a heat of fury. The man lunged forward, grabbing Dean's arm and throwing him against the side of the truck faster than the teen's gangly limbs could react. Hands fisted in the front of his shirt kept him pinned to the cool metal of vehicle. "You don't get to say no, kid," the man sneered, his handsome face twisted into a snarl. "Why don't we go to that apartment of yours and see if your kid brother wants to play with us?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. He had a penchant for being able to talk himself out of the numerous sticky situations he often found himself in, but no one threatened Sammy. No one! This guy was just asking to get his ass kicked.

Grabbing the man's right wrist with his left hand, Dean stepped back as far as the vehicle behind him would let him. It gave him just enough leverage to jam the bastard's elbows with a right upward block. A shout of pain punctuated the air as he swung his arm up and struck down with as much force as he could manage on the man's arms, freeing himself from the tight grasp. A shuto to his throat abruptly cut off the older man's attempt to scream, before Dean smashed his fist into the pervert's jaw, the delicate bone satisfyingly cracked on impact. Hoping to mutilate the son of a bitch for life, Dean threw a knee into the man's groin, and as the older man hunched over in pain, a right rear kick to the chest sent him flying on his ass.

Mr. Not-So-Cool didn't rise after that. He withered in pain on the ground, crying out, past his broken jaw, for help that wouldn't come, not in this neighborhood at least.

"Don't touch me," Dean ground out through clenched teeth. He brushed his hands down the front of his shirt, trying to erase the feeling of disgust and turned to walk away without a second thought. This guy wasn't getting up anytime soon.

He was surprised to find his father sitting on the hood of the Impala a few yards away. He hadn't even heard the Impala approach, despite the loud roar of the classic beauty's engine.

His father simply pat him on the back, and after Sammy hugged the life out of Dean, took them all out for ice cream.

They never talked about it again.

For weeks after the last attack, Dean refused to respond to anything less than a direct order. John Winchester was never a man of many words. With Dean so quiet they forget he existed and almost left him at a gas station, the only sound in the Impala as it soared down some backwater interstate, was the roar of its engine.

Sam knew something was going on in that thick head of his brother's, but figured Dean would work it out himself in time. But as days grew into weeks, Dean didn't get over it, like Sammy thought he would. He withdrew further and further, until he wouldn't talk to Sam at all.

Their father, as per usual, never noticed anything was wrong. The man was oblivious to his own sons' needs.

It was a blessing when their father decided to stop by Bobby's for the weekend. Dean blew past a concerned Bobby into the house and then disappeared out back. He was gone for hours. Nobody went looking for him.

It was later that night, with Dean still god knows where and nowhere in sight, that Sam stumbled on the two older men in the house talking about the incident in Chicago. It was more like John laughing and brushing it off, and Bobby looking out the back door hoping to make Dean materialize with the power of his eyes.

"What's up with Dean?" Bobby asked. "He's awful moody."

"It's just kid stuff."

"Don't give me that bullshit, John. Dean hasn't been a kid since long before I met you. "

"It's nothin', Bobby. Some pansy was fool enough to try and snatch Dean, again. "

"Remember what I told you after last time this happened?"

Last time?

Sam had a brief flash of memory. Cowering in the moldy bathtub of some rundown motel, he remembers the sound of splintering wood followed by what his four year old brain thought was an explosion. He remembers an ominous thump as something heavy hit the floor, shattering glass and cracking of wood and other vague noises he can no longer distinguish. Too afraid to call out to Dean, and too afraid to move, Sam sat huddled in the porcelain tub with his hands fisted over his ears and tears in his eyes. The rest is lost in random images of splattered blood, bodies with faces he cannot remember, images of shattered glass and a broken door and a vague sense of urgency. He knew something bad happened, but at the time he couldn't quite make out what.

There are a few hazy images after that of Bobby's worried face, his father looking haggard and worn down, and Dean shaking and crying in panic. If he delved deeper and thought about it longer, Sam is sure there is more to remember, more to the story that he doesn't want to know. He's nine now, and he's pretty sure he can put the pieces together and solve the puzzle of what really went down that day.

Sam doesn't want to know though. Dean is his big brother and the strongest person Sammy knows. Dean is his hero. And Dean is always okay.

John snorted into his beer. "Yeah. 'If you ever let anything happen to those boys, I'll kill you myself,'" he says in his best imitation of the older hunter. "And that was right after you tore me a new one for letting it happen."

Bobby grunted in reply before draining the last of his beer. Setting the bottle on the floor, he glared sternly at the younger hunter. "Something like that not's something you shake off easily, John. And Dean's is a hell of a lot better than burying things than hunters three times his age."

"Ah, don't worry about it," John dismissively replied. "Dean can take care of himself. You should have seen it! He broke both of the guy's arms and his jaw. Pretty sure he sterilized the guy for life too," John laughed. After taking a long sip from his beer, he continued, "bastard deserved it." Either they are not remembering the same event, or John is an oblivious asshole because the kind of thing his older brother went through is not something any father should make light of. Anger ignited in Sam and he was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. His father might be able to treat Dean's trauma with callousness and obliviousness, but Sam actually cared.

There was a long silence after that. Bobby said nothing, but Sam heard his unuttered reprimand in the tense quiet. That's not the point, you idjit, Sam could hear the hunter saying with his stiff shoulders and intense gaze, the point is Dean shouldn't have to know how to take care of himself.

Much to Sam's chagrin, instead he asked: "You sure he's okay?"

"He'll be okay, Bobby." If Sam wasn't so pissed at his father, he might not have missed the soft, worried look his father gave the older hunter. But he was pissed. Was he the only that thought it at least a little bit strange that a 13 year old kid had to defend himself against the dredges of society? Did no one else think it weird that Dean even knew how to take down someone twice his size and that no one thought twice about it?

And how many times was this going to have to happen before his father pulled his damn head out of his ass?

He was only a kid and even he knew there something more wrong with Dean than the two older men in the room were willing to admit.

Sam walked into the room, straight up to his father and stared him down, right into surprised eyes. "Problems don't go away just because you want them to," he angrily told him.

"Dean's gonna be fine, Sammy," his father told him in a placating tone. Sam knew that tone. It was his father's was of saying he didn't think Sam knew what was really going on, that Sam just needed some reassurance and everything would magically be better. But he was smarter than his father thought, knew more than the older man gave him credit for.

"Saying it over and over again, doesn't make it true." He turned away before his father could respond, stomped out of the room and trampled up the stairs like his shoes were made of lead. He heard Bobby gruffly say 'he's right, you know,' right before he slammed the door shut to the room he shared with Dean.

"Feel better?" a voice casually asked from the darkness. Startled, Sam tripped over his own feet and fell back against the door with a hollow 'thump.'

His eyes sought out Dean lying on his bedroll, starring at the ceiling and obviously having heard Sam's little outburst.

"Not really," Sam sulked and laid down in his own bedroll.

"It's okay, Sammy."

No, no it's really not, Sam wanted to say. There was nothing 'okay' with living in seedy motels and sketchy apartments. There was definitely something wrong with moving so much you never had time to make roots, or even friends. Travelling the United States, hunting monsters, seeking out things that wanted to kill you was plain crazy. There was nothing normal, there was nothing all right, there was nothing fair about the life forced on them.

But he didn't want to argue with Dean about this anymore, at least not tonight. Dean was the one constant in his life, the only person in his life he could count one, the only person he could trust and as sad as it was to say, Dean was his only real friend. He needed Dean to be okay, needed Dean to keep them both going, and if this was how his brother wanted to cope, this one time, Sam was going to let it slide.

"You'd tell me if it wasn't, right?" he hesitantly asked, searching for his brother's face in the dark. "I'm not some stupid kid. You can talk to me."

Dean's sleeping bag rustled in the quiet of the room. Crickets loudly chirped in the still of the night. A light breeze swept through the junkyard, and an eerie whistling echoed through the old, broken cars. His slight form barely illuminated by the full moon shining through the dusty window, Sam saw Dean turn away from him.

"I know," Dean whispered, just barely discernible above the sound of crickets. "Thanks."

Bitterly, Sam let the conversation rest there. He would get nothing more from his stubborn brother who could never admit when something was wrong. He cursed his father, and this life, he cursed the demon who took his mother, the monsters they fought, and the people who made their life even more miserable.

Sam never wanted this miserable life. And he was gonna make damn sure he escaped the second he could.