Prologue - Part 1Mature

Supernatural Fanfic - just read it, 'cos I'm not really sure what to put here :-p

Of course I don't own any of the actual characters who appear in Supernatural etc.

I crept through the dark hall, treading slowly and not making a sound. Just the way it had been taught to me since I was old enough to run. I knew that on the other side of the wall to my right, Uncle Dean was doing the exact same thing. The only difference between us was the age gap, the slight difference in height (I may have been a lot younger but I was already an inch taller thanks to my Dad’s genes) and the fact that while he had a lifetime of hunts under his belt, this was my first without my Dad watching protectively over me. I thought it had become annoying recently but now I could hear the absence of his footsteps behind me – he never was as good at walking silently as his brother – and it made me feel nervous. Vulnerable. Not a good feeling to have on a Hunt in a Vampire nest.

For some reason Dean was being even more cautious than normal. We had come at midday when the sun was highest, as well as rubbing the ashes from a fire where he had burnt skunk’s cabbage, saffron and trillium onto our skin and clothes. But he had also brought along several knives doused in ‘Dead Mans Blood’ (he had given me five) and several large vials of what he called ‘Vamptonite’ – human blood that was poisonous because it included the food additive the Leviathans had used when they escaped from Purgatory. We had hardly any of it left, so I knew this must be serious.

However, it seemed like all this was pointless – this place seemed deserted. All the vampires were either sleeping, or were out while wearing Factor one million sun block. So far, I couldn’t see why Dean was being so cautious. Just because it was only him and I didn’t warrant this kind of over-the-top preparations. I tightened my grip on the pistol Dean had given to me as my thirteenth birthday present and crept round the next corner.

I wasn’t surprised to see that Uncle Dean was already waiting for me at the T-junction where our two hallways became one, leading to a pitch-black room where Dean’s torch couldn’t illuminate anything.

“See that?” he whispered, glancing at me as I came to stand beside him. “Vamps have something freaky going on. This is more than their level of weird…"

“Demons?” I asked, hand straying to the only knife I was carrying not doused in Dead Man’s Blood. Instead, it was covered with symbols.

“Maybe. Probably. This is more your Dad’s area. He ever tell you ‘bout anything like this?”

“Nada. This is new.”

“Crap” he muttered, then stepped into it. I waited for a second, and then a hand reached out of the darkness and beckoned. So I followed my Uncle into the cold, crisp darkness.




“Jimmy, don’t tell your Dad I took you into a bubble of darkness that we knew nothing about on your first Hunt. He’d be mega pissed.”

‘Bubble’ was the right way to describe this. As soon as I had stepped into it, everything inverted. Everything inside became clear, but everything behind me faded to black. We were in an atrium, with sunlight streaming in through the glass roof. Plants were growing wild, and the only thing of interest in the centre of the place was a pedestal supporting a box. Plain mahogany, but in places it looked like it had been clawed by an animal – sets of four deep grooves appeared like a pattern over its surface. Dean took a few slow paces forward, then snatched it from its resting place.

Nothing happened.

“Expecting a trap?”

“Always, Jimmy. The vamps wouldn’t leave something like this unguarded.”

“You’re right. We wouldn’t.”

I span around, and found myself face to face with a tall, bald African-American man with long fingernails in a pinstripe suit. The Vampire Alpha.

"Son of a bitch..."



Four Months Later…

I didn’t hear the roar of the Impala’s engine as it tore down our long driveway, or the screech of it’s brakes as it skidded to a halt. I didn’t hear the doors slam and my Dad and Uncle running full pelt to our front door. The first idea I had that anything was going on was my Dad shouting at me from the front door, knocking my bedroom door open and pulling me out of bed.

“James! Grab your stuff, now!”

I was awake in a second, and raced downstairs only two steps behind my Dad.

“Sam! You start on the traps; I’ve got the salt! Jimmy, help me!"

He ran up from the basement, a huge bag of salt under each arm. He threw one to me, and I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and cut a hole in it. Uncle Dean didn’t waste time and tore it open with his teeth. He started pouring lines of salt over all the windows, while Dad pulled iron chains in an ‘X’ across the front door and then started painting symbols all over the place.

“Dad! What’s happening?” I asked while franticly pouring salt everywhere. “What’s going on? You built the house with salt in the walls and even in the wood itself! We’re protected!”

“Not well enough” my Dad said, finishing one tin of paint and reaching for another. “Go get Grandma and Grandpa from their room. We need them.”


The End

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