And so was the passing of Brom.

Tell me again. What do you remember? We were at Grandma and Grandpa’s… Which ones? Deanna and Samuel Campbell. Good. What happened while you were there? The house was surprising cozy and normal looking for it being owned by two never retiring hunters. There was a ranch-style feel to it- something to be expected of couple born and raised in Kansas. The room that always stuck out in Dean’s mind was the guest room that he shared with Sammy whenever they stayed over there. It was like the rest of the house with the old western feel, the touch of antiquity and grandparent style softness of it all. Every visit left Dean with a hazy, blurry feeling- even after ‘the incident.’ Safe to say, Dean- much to his embarrassment- had many a night for the following eight years where he woke up to the damp discomfort and fetid stench of piss stained sheets that could only be the result of a nightmare about a very traumatizing incident from the past. Back to the room. It had a thin yet heavy tan ranch style quilt with matching pillow cases on the pillows and the sheets were a broken in, baby soft brown. There were nightstands on either side of the bed. Along the wall next to the door to the room was a large vanity style oak dresser with a mirror just as long as Sammy, at the age of 8, was tall. There was another taller oak dresser on the wall opposite the bed that sat in a little cubby like space thanks to the closet that jutted out from the wall behind it and was closed off by two large mirrored sliding doors. On the wall above the bed, slightly off center, was a very old, very expensive painting of Jesus Christ holding a sort of amulet dangling from the hand level with his eyeline and a rosary dangling from his other hand that clutched at his robes. There was a window to the left of the painting that was lined with salt. Three large plush, mock persian rugs of the same design covered most of the visible wooden floors, under each was a devil’s trap. The wall opposite the door had squat but abundant and overflowing bookshelves with different knick knacks and toys decorating the top. This was Dean’s favorite room in all the world. Dean was haunted by a weekend that he’d spent at his grandparents home. Everyone said it was amazing he remembered the night at all since he was only two when it happened. Mommy had already died but Dean couldn’t remember it. Sammy said it was a fire in his baby brother’s nursery- which made sense since the younger Winchester had an indescribable fear of fire from before he could truly remember. Since Sammy was four years older than him, Dean was inclined to believe his big brother and trust his memory. Daddy wouldn’t talk about it, nor would he discuss the events of ‘the incident’ at his in-laws’ home. It had been late at night and two year old Dean awoke to his big brother Sammy snoring and his own wet diaper. Memaw had warned him about drinking too much before bed but he was two and he wanted his sippy cup of warm milk, like Sammy always gave him as he explained that Mommy used to do that for them. Dean was not very happy to be awake and therefore quite close to tears as he hugged his stuffed moose with a scrap of Daddy’s plaid shirt tied around its neck like a winter scarf and patted his brother’s shoulder until the giant slowly awoke with a sigh and slurred ‘what’s wrong, bud?’ It hadn’t taken the older Winchester long to figure out that his baby brother was in need of a change. As Sam swallowed a moan of frustration and cooed nonsense to his brother, he slipped out of bed and looked around the room before remembering that Memaw had given Dean a bath before bed and the diaper bag was left in the bathroom down the hall. “Can you walk, De?” Sammy croaked, turning toward his brother as he stood next to the side of the bed closest to the door, the side Dean preferred to sleep on. As Dean reached out to Sam with his moose dangling from one hand by an antler, Sam frowned ever so slightly- despite how it actually warmed his heart and turned him to a pile of useless mush. They moved down the dark hallway, Dean tucked comfortably tucked into his big brother’s arms and sucking on the pacifier he refused to give up (that John only allowed to keep his youngest calm and quiet since he was a bit more sensitive than his stubborn, thick headed eldest son), towards the bathroom with its open door and faint glow from a soft nightlight. Once Sam had his brother in a better state and in a clean diaper, he opened the door and turned back to Dean. He paused when he heard voices- angry, low toned voices hissing at one another. Dean toddled closer and hugged his big brother’s pajama clad leg, looking up at his brother with fear in his eyes. Sammy felt bad for his baby brother, but he was also about as curious as a cat with all nine lives- very. He led Dean towards the kitchen where only sage scented candles cast their dull glow to allow any sort of light. There sat who they assumed to be Deanna Campbell, their grandmother. In front of her sat two Doberman-like dogs with glowing red eyes and tribal patterns in neon blues, greens and yellows adorning their fit frames. Looking in their eyes and the way they held themselves, Sam swore the two hounds looked familiar. “Look familiar, Sammy?” The woman questioned, turning to look at him and his baby brother with a sick pleasure on her face. The voice was their grandmother’s but the eyes were cold, dead, and black as midnight when they were cast on the boys. “Who are you?” Sam warily asked, resting a hand on his brother’s head as the younger started whimper. “What the hell do you want?” “It’s not so much what I want as what Hell itself wants.” The demon controlling Deanna spoke. “And what it wants is you and your brother.” “Well good luck with that. You’re already stuck in a devil’s trap, stupid.” Sam pointed out, tensing as her pleasure faded to annoyance and malice. “Oh, don’t you worry, Daddy and Papa are gonna take good care of both of you.” She spat, pursing her lips in distaste.The two hellhounds straightened up and any familiarity they held prior to her statement and the following snap of her fingers vanished. “Shit!” Sam breathed, roughly yanking Dean into his arms and dashing towards the guest room. Dad and Papa- no, the hellhounds were hot on their heels the whole way, snarling and foaming at the mouth for taste of the children in front of them. Sam practically tossed Dean on the bed, forcing himself to ignore the toddler’s screeches of fear, and slammed the door, barricading it as best he could with the most empty but still solid and quite heavy dresser beside the closet. He went to the nightstand below the painting of Jesus and ripped the two drawers out, dumping their contents onto the bed. Sam paused for a second to slip Dean’s pacifier back into his mouth to lessen the younger’s cries- not that it did much- and began to dig through all the little pieces of jewelry, amulets, charms and tiny herb bags. Just as the hellhounds were starting to make progress on scratching and ramming through the door and dresser blocking it, the distinct sound of the front door being kicked in sounded through house and reverberated through the structure. Sam looked up as the sound of the snarls retreated and a familiar voice was heard shouting near the front door. There was only one person that voice could belong to. “Get outta her, you black eyed bitch!” Bobby Singer’s voice roared through the house. Sam sighed in relief as he found the amulet he was looking for. It was the amulet of Christ, the one from the painting- the painting done by Jesus’ very first disciple. He clutched it in his fist and carelessly shoved the dresser back in its nook. Then, he took Dean in his arms and ran out the kitchen where their Uncle Bobby had barely managed to tie down their possessed Memaw and was wrestling with the two hellhounds, one of which he proceeded to shoot with a specially made bullet that was filled with holy water and made from melted down demon blades, which they had collected off the bodies that had formerly been inhabited by various demons. The hellhound collapsed to the floor and morphed back into Samuel Campbell, their beloved Papa, who began to sputter and cough up blood as the wound in his chest bled out. “Uncle Bobby! Stop!” Sam shouted as Dean wailed in his ear and the bitch inhabiting their Memaw cackled gleefully. “That’s Dad!” “For fuck’s sake, Sammy! Get back in the goddamn bedroom with your brother!” Bobby shouted, grunted as he used his shotgun to hold the remaining hellhound off. “DON’T SHOOT HIM!” Sam hollered once more, freezing as the hellhound turned its attention towards him and his screaming baby brother, staring long and hard at the amulet dangling from the older’s hand, after being thrown back by their uncle. “RUN GODDAMMIT!” Bobby bellowed, reloading despite Sam’s argument. The elder Winchester booked it out the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. The hellhound that was formerly their father growled and snapped as it lurched forward in attempt to nab one of the brothers- flinching away from the amulet when Sam used his free hand to hold out behind him to protect himself. He scrambled up to the top of the slide connected to the swing set and perched on the topmost support beam with Dean hugged to his chest. He said a prayer under his breath and swallowed his own panic as he wiped his baby brother’s face with the sleeve of his pajama top. Over the barking and snarling of the mad hound that so far seemed incapable of climbing up to get them, they heard screams of pure agony from inside. Uncle Bobby had to be exorcising the Demon. His gruff deep voice could barely be made out over all the other sounds that broke through the once peaceful midsummer night. After what felt like an eternity, the screams stopped and the hellhound became utterly docile and calmed until it laid on the ground in show of submission. Their uncle came out to fetch them, warily eyeing the former John Winchester as the patterns on his fur glowed softer than before. Once they were sat down in the kitchen, across the table from their dead Memaw and beside their dead Papa on the floor, with Sam in a chair across from Bobby who held a sniffling and clingy Dean in his lap while the John-hound lay quietly at their feet. Once Dean was sufficiently calmed, Bobby cleared his throat and stopped as Dean whined in distress when the John-hound nudged his foot with his cold, wet nose, who was rewarded with a good kick to the snout for his efforts to comfort his son. “He ain’t gonna hurt ya no more, Duckie.” Bobby soothed, bouncing the toddler on his knee and kissing his forehead. “And if he tries, I’ll shoot ‘im.” “Uncle Bobby?” Sammy hesitantly prompted, hugging his knees to his chest. “Yer Daddy will be just fine. Just a spell. He’ll back to ‘is old self in a couple days.” Bobby responded, wiping a few tears from Dean’s chubby cheeks. “Me an’ the fellas looked into all this before I got here. Had a feelin’ them black eyed bastards had somethin’ in mind. Didn’t hurt that a similar incident happened about a month ago.” “So he’s just gonna be dog for awhile?” Sam asked, an uncertain look on his face as he eyed his morphed father. “There’s no safe way to turn ‘im back far as I know.” Bobby affirmed, looking down at his fellow hunter and friend with a huffed sigh. “Ya sure know how to get into some messed up shit, ya idjit…” The John-hound whined and huffed. “Yeah, yeah, quit yer bitchin’.” Bobby teased. “Ya think you and yer brother’ll be able to get back to sleep?” Sam shook his head as Dean fussed and rubbed at his eyes. “Didn’t think so. We’ll call the authorities and say it was a home invasion. That way no one will go snoopin’ or come lookin’ for no one.” Bobby voiced, grabbing the landline and dialing 911. “After that, we’ll head back to my place and wait things out till yer Dad’s back to normal.” From there it played out just as Bobby Singer had promised it would. The authorities accepted the story of the home invasion and Bobby’s heroic arrival- claiming he had been coming over to pick up the kids for some bonding time but arriving late due to car trouble (the mechanic cringed at that particular part of the lie). They then headed back to Bobby’s with Sam and Dean dozing and cuddled up in the backseat while the John-hound sulked in the front passenger seat, curled up into a ball, occasionally huffing, whining or softly yipping in response to whatever Bobby said. A few weeks later, the Campbell property and all its contents were sold off to one Robert Singer since none of the designated recipients of that part of the estate were still alive to claim them. The shabby but impressive for a hunter savings was put aside for the brothers whenever they came of age. No one knew that Bobby had purchased and deep cleaned the property to one day hand over to the brothers if either ever managed to retire. You have excellent recall for being so young when it all happened. I didn’t want to forget so I had Sammy and Bobby re-tell it over the years. We do it once a year on the day that Deanna and Samuel Campbell died. Why would you want to remember such a horrible night? Wouldn’t you rather have them remind you of all the other visits where you were simply a toddler playing at his Memaw and Papa’s? No. That’s not who I was, who any of them were. Interesting… What? When your brother recalls that date, it’s a very different story. What do you mean? We’ll get to that in just a moment. First, do you remember what I had you recite when we first started? Yeah? Say it for me one more time. My name is Dean Winchester. I am the son of Mary Campbell and John Winchester. My older brother is Sam Winchester. I was born on May 2nd, 1983. My grandparents died as result of a plot by demons and a family friend and fellow hunter’s attempt to save them and us. I am a hunter of the supernatural and vessel of the archangel Michael. I am told to be the Righteous Man. The way your brother tells it quite different in some aspects. Like what? You are the older brother to Sam Winchester. You were not born on May 2nd, 1983 because that is your brother’s birthday. Your birthday is January 24th, 1979. You never met your grandparents and neither did he because they died the night your mother eloped with your father and were allegedly left vulnerable to the yellow eyed demon that your brother names as Azazel. He states that the entire incident you have recited to me never occurred. So which one of you truly remembers? Are you who you say you are? I… I am Dean Winchester… and I… You what? I remember…?

"Eh, I wouldn't mind some good company, so long as I don't have teh move." He gave a weak chuckle and rested his head back against the wall, still looking at his friend. "How yeh been? Farm handlin' well? How's yer ram 'n' sea horse?"

With shock and surprise, Bonely dropped his tools and galloped to Bronté's side. "Yuki?" he asked, gingerly taking her from her spot in Bronté's arms. "Hey baby girl..." Holding her close, the indigo caster tucked her under his chin, murmuring and hurgling gently in hopes of easing what was clearly fear and possibly exhaustion.