The case of John and Mary Winchester's disappearance had come to a close, at last.

After months of vanishing into thin air, with no evidence, footprints or bloodshed behind, the authorities were able to locate and track down the bodies. Lifeless. Burnt.

It seemed like a work of the devil himself. It was the talk of the town, conveniently throughout the days that followed. Whispers danced from crowd to crowd, echoing conspiracy theories and mind-blowing thoughts about what really happened.

No one knew the truth. Not the cops, not the journalists, not even the two sons left alone in the large house that now seemed to be haunted.

That's what people said. That's what they kept saying as Sam and Dean Winchester abruptly left their home, and didn't come back for a year.

When they dared to do so, to show their faces, they knew and felt the people's opinion. Some watched with pain, others with suspicion.

Sam adapted pretty well, considering what happened. He found a refugee in school, relieved to be reunited with his friends who so readily helped him in his pool of grief, while he drowned in it. Everyone checked Sam off the list of candidates for his parents' murderer — after all, no soul was sweeter than his.

Dean Winchester's world, however, was haunted by another principle. He didn't show his face immediately, unlike his gentle younger brother. Instead, he busied himself into changing the house and what remained inside to remind him of the past. People looked past him as if he wore the mask, as if they were afraid. Which they were. Dean had an air of dominance and independence around him, which only contributed for more wary gazes and questions along the way.

It didn't help that he stepped back from his relationships either. His friends were no longer his friends; to Dean at least, for they did try to talk to him every now and then. His house was no longer pure; it was darker, not by the wall paint he dirtied himself with, but by its meaning. It was too silent, like his heart.

He changed, not only physically, but emotionally as well. Dean had always been a good looking guy, the heartthrob of the town, with a laid-back type of attitude. But charming, talkative, funny and incredibly daring, too. Now, it was if all of his sunshine was gone, replaced by a heart of stone and an ever-present frown.

It was common, to think he was to blame for his parents' death. A frequent theory.

You didn't know what to believe. Neighbor next door, friends with Sam since the beginning of high school. Your parents were great friends with the Winchesters, participating in dinners and town events together, even texting eachother to gossip about something.

Seeing the boys again was like a beam of light in a dark tunnel. You were afraid Sam would have wanted not to talk to you anymore, but he did. He hugged you and cried and kissed your cheek so tenderly, whispering how much he had missed you and your friendship.

You didn't expect anything from Dean, because he never paid attention to you either. He had always been the cool, popular older brother who didn't care about your existence or your name. And you didn't care about his either.

But looking through your window late at night, watching him as he walked in and out of his house with burnt papers, broken glasses and other family treasures tugged at your soul.

He had to be suffering still. He just didn't cry to cope with it.

Your mother insisted for you to bring him a basket of cookies. It was a specialty of hers, one that you used to share with the Winchesters, years ago. Bringing eachother homemade snacks was frequent.

Your hand shook as you knocked on the door. Shook even more as it swung open, and a pair of impatient, reserved green eyes fell on the basket in your hands.

He was quiet for too long.

"Sam ain't home," Dean grunted, finally looking at your face.