Chapter 1: The Boys Who Lived

Mrs. Martha Bedford of Hinton, Hampshire, first noticed her new neighbors when she heard the baby cry. The cottage next to hers had been unoccupied for years, only periodically tended to by a bad tempered gardener employed by the cottage's constantly absent owners. Whenever Mrs. Bedford had shown any interest in the place, the surly old man would simply carry on clipping the hedge and mutter,

"It's a family place."

The cottage surely wasn't looking its finest when the new family moved in, though, Mrs. Bedford thought. The Novembers in Hampshire were mild in temperature, but were wretchedly wet. The little stone cottage looked particularly dreary with a few roof tiles missing and no doubt water seeping into the cellar. Certainly, Mrs. Bedford thought, it was no place to take a baby.

It was a pale grey afternoon when Mrs. Bedford first heard the baby cry. Puzzled, she eased herself out of her armchair and slipped on her wellies. She tottered outside and crossed the treacherous path of slippery stones that led out of her garden. The garden gate of the other cottage had rotted away years before and she had no trouble reaching the door and peering around.

Mrs. Bedford was a well-meaning woman, but she was prone to a self-righteous sense of duty towards her fellow man. Thus, she saw no problem with letting herself into the cottage, calling out to the owners that she'd come to welcome them to town.

"Hello? Is anybody home? I've just come from across the way," she called in a high, reedy voice. There was no response but the baby's continued crying. A spike of tenderness touched Mrs. Bedford's heart and she followed the sound of the infant into the back room. She pushed open the door, blue paint flaking off onto her hand, and she saw a spartan room containing nothing but a crib and another small bed.

"What are you?" A voice whispered from behind her. Mrs. Bedford spun around with a start and was met with the gaze of a little boy, no more than four or five. His face was pale and wan, framed by overgrown blond hair, but his green eyes were fierce.

"Well I'm your neighbor dear. Just came by to introduce myself and cause I heard the baby. Are your parents home?" Mrs. Bedford asked, collecting herself and smiling warmly.

"My mom died. Last week. She burnt up. My dad made us move out here where her parents lived. But he's always gone. He's busy," the little boy murmured moving over to the crib and standing atop his own bed to reach in and comfort the baby. The boy's accent was clearly American.

"I'm so sorry about your mum dear. When will your dad be back?" Mrs. Bedford said, fidgeting with her cardigan and trying to think how to act.

"Late tonight I think," the boy said flippantly, obviously more concerned with the baby's cries. "He cries all the time and I don't know what to do. Maybe he misses mom. It's okay Sammy."

"Is his name Sammy? That's a lovely name." Mrs. Bedford moved over to the crib and saw the baby, face red and wet and strained. "What's yours?"

"Dean," said the boy. "Winchester."

"Winchester? Is that where your family comes from?"

"No," Dean smiled a little without a trace of shyness. "We're from Kansas."

"Well Dean Winchester, how would you like to have some tea with me and maybe I can calm your brother down a bit?" Mrs. Bedford offers. Dean's eyes narrowed in suspicion for a moment, but eventually he seemed to judge her fit and he nodded.

"They tried to burn our house down before, you know," he added, almost like a warning. "But we got out. We both lived."

Mrs. Bedford felt her eyes get a bit damp. She reached for the crying baby, instincts still intact from when her own children were small, but Dean brushed past her and lifted the infant himself. He carried the baby protectively, improbably able to hold the weight. A strange child, Mrs. Bedford thought, must be older than he looks.

He tried everything she served him at tea, seeming particularly fond of the scones with copious amounts of jam. The baby Sammy stopped crying after he'd been changed and fed and soon fell asleep in her arms.

Mrs. Bedford walked the boys back home that night. For a moment she thought she saw Dean, silhouetted in the window, float slowly up to the level of the crib to put the baby back in. But it must have been a trick of the light. Still, they were strange boys.

The Winchesters moved out in another few weeks and the cottage in Hinton fell back into perpetual disuse. Occasionally however, Mrs. Bedford awoke in the night and saw strange figures standing out in the yard. Half asleep she tried to remember their conversations, but in the morning she only ever recalled one phrase.

"They were there. The boys who lived."