Disclaimer:

Yeah, no. Still don't own anything remotely related to supernatural... except you know, deep, deep obsession. Have fun, and remember that thing we talked about, how you don't sue me, and I keep writing? (We never did, but it applies from now.)

Ps. I'm aussie, so their may be what seems like spelling mistakes to you, but to me are actually the correct way of spelling things.

Peace.

1. Promises Are Whispered in the Age of Darkness

Is it weird in here, or is it just me?

- Steven Wright

Your daddy was dead on the bedroom floor, and your brother Scotty had tried to avenge him, leaping up and picking up daddy's gun, levelling it at the thing that had stolen your father's life. The thing had killed him too, sending the gun spinning across the floor, two inches away from your hiding spot.

Where was the man who promised you? Where was the man who said he'd come back? The man with the trustworthy eyes, the man who'd believed you when you told him about the thing that kept trying to come out of your closet – the thing you had to keep sending back, with recitations of Hail Mary, and smoke from your rosemary candle. The man you'd believed when he said he'd come back tonight, because you knew it was growing stronger and you wouldn't be able to keep it back again.

He said he knew what he was doing. That it wouldn't come out until he came back, until midnight. But he was wrong, and now your daddy and your brother were dead. And the thing was still here.

It was going to get you.

Your mommy was out at Auntie Sue's house, with your little brother. They were safe. For some reason, the thing had only started coming out when they'd gone. So, there was only you now. Only you.

Crying silently, you picked up the gun, hoping that the thing wouldn't see you. The weapon hadn't helped your daddy or Scotty, but you had nothing else. You aimed it at the thing standing in the middle of your room, and saw that it was turned towards you, and you knew suddenly that it was mocking you. It knew where you were, it knew you couldn't hurt it, and it was laughing.

Wiping the tears away with your jersey sleeve, you cleared your vision and prepared to go down fighting. You cocked the gun again, and just as your finger tensed to squeeze the trigger the man came in.

He ran in, shotgun levelled at the thing's midriff, a little boy running behind him with a container and a box of matches, and suddenly you were on the floor, a body on top of you, and your daddy's gun skittering across the floor out of your grip.

You were winded, the body holding you down on the floor, heavy and solid, and you couldn't move anything but your eyes, which watched the scene in front of you with a removed, numb feeling your mind recognised as shock.

The man who had promised shot the thing, and it disappeared. It hadn't when your daddy had shot it. The little boy came forwards, offering the container and the matches to the man, who took them, giving the shotgun to the boy who held it with an easiness that amazed you. He couldn't be more than twelve – a year younger than you – yet he was completely at ease with the gun, and you knew by his stance that he could shoot it properly too. Their movements all looked so practiced, like they'd done things like this millions of times before.

The man stalked towards your cupboard, and you watched him from the floor, the body still on top of you. He opened it, and placing the container and matches on the floor, unstrapped the axe attached to his back. "Sam," he said, not looking over his shoulder, "Keep an eye out."

"Yes sir," the little boy answered, and stood at attention, eyes continuously scanning the room for a reappearance of the thing.

The man started hacking at the back of your cupboard with his axe, and all you could do was watch. What was he doing?

You got the answer to your unasked question finally, when the man cleared away all the plaster and a black bag fell out onto the floor with a thunk. You could tell by the shape of it that it was a body. A dead body. A corpse. In your cupboard. Three dead people in your room – two of them your family.

Detachedly you wondered why it hadn't started to smell, to permeate your room. Then you felt bile rise in the back of your throat, and hid your face against the neck of the person on top of you as the man cut the bag open. Your arms slid around the neck above you and you clutched tightly. Dead. Dead. Your fault.

You heard something being done, something shaken, that sounded vaguely like a rattle snake warning, and then the hiss of a match being struck. And then the scent of barbeque filled the air.

Finally the body got up, and helped you to your feet. You stared up into saddened green eyes, and the boy who owned them asked, "So, I'm Dean…and you are? And…are you okay?" He looked to be about sixteen – Scotty's age. And, even in your state, you noticed he was beautiful.

"Lauren," you answered. "And, no." Then, at the sight of the burning corpse on your bed, and the disembowelled ones of your father and brother on your white carpeted floor, you vomited on the front of his shirt.

Author's Note:

I am begging for reviews here. I love reviews. They are officially my fave new thing - bar the winchester brothers. And that is saying something. So yeah. A happy writer tends to write more... :D