A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you for reading. Extra thank you if you read my other fic, The Strange Case of Sam Winchester. I love you guys! Anyway, I promise this will not be entirely depressing. After all, Sam and Dean as kids! Yay! Anyway, I promise to update often, and I want you guys to promise to give me lots of reviews and stuff. Do we have a deal? Good!

I do not own Supernatural or it's characters. If there is a background character I invented that you like and want back after it's departure, let me know and maybe I'll give them more time. *Wink. Review. PM. Wink.*

Chapter 1

John sat on the roof of his Impala, trying not to look at the flames shooting into the sky. He couldn't. If he did then he would have to remember who was still in that house, and if he thought about that... well, he knew he would have to go in after her. That would do nothing but kill him. All he could do was hold onto Sam as hard as he possibly could, because if he was holding the baby, he couldn't go in after Mary. His numbed mind barely regestered four-year-old Dean standing beside him. He just kept playing the scene over in his mind. He couldn't even manage to cry, because he was still in shock. He only knew one thing for certain, there was no way Mary got stuck to the ceiling, bleeding and on fire, by herself. Something must have put her there, and it was enjoying it's last days on earth.

John didn't go back to work for a while. No one would let him. They said he needed to rest or something stupid like that. They didn't understand, he needed work. Some chance to take his mind off the pain and distract himself for a while. Still, it gave him time to think, to plan. Mary's parents had been- something. He couldn't quite remember. He could remember her telling him. They were in the car, and he was frightened and angry, and for some reason it was important. If only he could remember! It was very frustrating.
Dean didn't do much. He liked to climb into Sam's crib and lie there, holding him tightly. He didn't talk anymore, and sometimes John caught him staring out into space, as though reliving a memory. John missed him running around, shouting so that he could be heard down the block. He would have been worried about the kid if he hadn't been so busy. He had been doing research, checking periodicals from the library, trying to find the pieces his memory was for some reason refusing to relinquish. Mary's parents, that was the key. Something about Mary's story of their deaths didn't add up. Dean tugged on his pants leg and he looked down, "Hey, buddy. What is it?" He tried to keep his voice as warm and soft as possible. After all, if Dean talked it would be the first time in weeks, come to think of it, the first time since the fire. "Where's Mommy?" He whimpered. John's throught clutched and his voice broke, "She's gone, Dean. She's not coming back." He looked confused, "But, why wouldn't Mommy come back?" He hung his head and whispered, "Is she mad at me?"
"No. No, she's- she's not mad at you. Look, um, Daddy's kind of busy. Why don't you go watch cartoons or something." He went back to his work, reviewing notes he had taken from periodicals, and didn't notice when Dean watched him for a few seconds, a quizzical look on his face, before sniffling and turning away. He didn't understand, why was Daddy shutting him out? It was okay, he thought to himself, Mommy would be back soon, and everything would be good again, Daddy would smile and laugh and play with him like he used to, and he and Mommy would go to the zoo. After all, she had promised. She wouldn't break a promise.

He wandered into the second bedroom, his and Sam's in this ugly apartment, and walked up to the crib. Sam was waking up, crying, like he usually did these days. Dean climbed in with him, making soothing noises as best he knew how, and curled up around him. Sam quieted and Dean started to drift off to sleep. As his eyes closed he remembered what his mother used to say at night and whispered, "It's okay Sammy, don't cry. Angels are watching over you."

John stared at the paper in his hands. A stab wound? But that meant- Why had Mary told him her father died of a heart attack? He tried to think back to that night, to exactly what happened. He had taken her down to the old bridge and proposed. And then- and then her father showed up, furious. Mary had argued with him, and John tried to get between them, and- it was all rather fuzzy after that. The next thing he remembered... he was lying in Mary's arms? Was that it? But that didn't make sense. He buried his head in his hands and cursed, why was everything so jumbled? What was wrong with him?
His gaze fell on the open phone book in the corner of his desk, and an idea occured to him, a crazy idea, but he was desperate. He pulled it to him and started to flip through the pages.

What am I doing here? He thought, staring at the ramshakle house in front of him. Oh well, he was here, he might as well go inside. He turned around and looked at Sam and Dean in the backseat. He spoke, "Okay, Dean, listen to me. I'm going to go see someone. I need you to sit in the waiting room with your brother, and keep him quiet. Can you do that?" Dean stared at him, wide eyed, then nodded. John smiled, "Good boy," and he got out and unbuckled them from their child seats.

"John Winchester?" He looked up into the eyes of a young black woman. She was standing in front of the bead-strand doorway with a welcoming expression. John handed Sam off to Dean and stood up awkwardly. He slowly walked through the doorway, and stood transfixed. He didn't know what he had been expecting, but it wasn't this. A clean, neat, fairly ordinary room with a table and two sofas lay out before him. The woman motioned him toward one, and she herself took the other. He shifted nervously in his seat. This sort of thing wasn't real. What was he doing here? He should just walk out. Instead he said, "Are you Missouri?"
She smiled reassuringly, "Yes I am. I'm sorry, John, I know how reluctant you were to come to me."
"And you're a..."
"Yes. But you didn't come to ask me that. You wanted to know about your wife. About the thing that killed her."
He looked up, suprised. He had come in on a whim, he hadn't told her any of that, "Yeah...yeah I did. Um, how did you...?"
"Honey, there's a reason I'm called a psychic."
"Right. Sorry, I- I don't really do this sort of thing." Her smile widened, "I can see that, and I understand if you're sceptical. There are so many frauds out there. I can assure you, I am the ginuine article. Now, let's get started."

Dean had been sitting for about ten minutes before Sam's face scrunched up and he began to whimper, a few tears starting to make their way down his cheeks. Dean rocked him gently in his arms, quietly shushing him. Daddy had told him to keep the baby quiet, and he was determined not to disappoint him. Sam was going to stay quiet wiether he wanted to or not. Dean would see to that. Unfortunately, his brother had other plans. Dean stared in horror as Sam let out a loud wail and began to cry in earnist. He shushed him louder, hoping for some sort of results, and started to panic when there was no effect. Sam's face was red and his cheeks were wet with tears as he bawled. Dean glanced around him, desperately searching for something to calm the infant, to no avail. An image of Daddy's frowning face filled his mind. If only Sam would be quiet! Finally his mind grasped hold of something, a memory of his mother, standing over his bed, singing. Softly, he started to sing along with her, "Hey Jude/don't make it bad/take a sad song, and make it better/remember to let her into your heart/then you can start, to make it better..." Dean sang the entire song, and slowly Sam's cries stopped, until he was lying quietly in Dean's arms, gurgling happily. Now, however, it was Dean who cried, silently, tears rolling down his cheeks as he sang. Why hadn't Mommy come back? Why had she left in the first place? Daddy's voice echoed in his head, "She's gone, Dean. She's not coming back." Dean sat, sniveling, in the cold waiting room, holding tightly to the only source of comfort that seemed willing to give him attention.