It's a bitch of a malevolent spirit that picks John up and tosses him through the sliding glass door of the old vacation home and into the bitter January air. He hits the frost-hardened porch in a shower of glass, colliding headfirst with the hard edge of a cement stair leading down to the water. The pain that erupts in the back of his skull nearly blinds him but he sees the spirit—a wiry apparition in a long blue bathrobe of all things—bearing up on him so he shoves himself up on one elbow, swinging wildly with the shotgun he's somehow still got in one hand. The iron of the barrels swishes through the ghost and it disappears in an angry puff. But John knows it'll be back and so he rolls to his knees then stumbles up, pressing one hand to the gash as he staggers back into the house. He knows the spirit's attached to some memento its long-dead wife left on the fireplace mantel and so he splashes lighter fluid on everything he sees, the old pipe, the carved box, the little model ship in the bottle. He lights a match and tosses it at the mantel just as the room goes cold again, then falls back against the nearest wall, panting, as it all goes up in flames. The unnatural chill leaves the room as the knickknacks burn but it's all swirling a bit, the outlines of the plastic covered couches and kitschy lake decorations wavering together dizzily. His head hurts like a mother and he squeezes his eyes shut against the pain and climbing nausea, folding over and bracing himself with his hands on his knees.

A concussion's just what he needs. After a few minutes he pulls himself upright, double checks with the EMF that the spirit's gone, then makes his way across the living room, through the unused kitchen and out the front door where the Impala's waiting for him. His head is pounding but he's managed to stay upright so far so he figures he's good to drive.

He unlocks the driver's door and slides into the cold leather seat, careful not to rest his head back so he doesn't bleed on it, and turns the key in the ignition. Immediately the radio blares at him "—SLEEP ALONE TONIGHT, SENDING ALL MY LOVE—" Breathing hard he thumbs it off before the noise can intensify the pain in his head any more or Steve Perry can remind him that what he's chosen to do with his life most people consider an unusual form of insanity. He slumps back in the blessed silence that follows, pressing his palm to the rising lump again and breathing shallowly until the nausea recedes. He has to get back to the motel because Dean was expecting him hours ago and in any case, he's got a full day…today. The clock on the dash reads 3:48.

But it's a two hour drive through winding, snow-covered mountain roads and he has to pull over twice to retch, the headache so bad he can barely think. He hasn't had anything to drink tonight but he can imagine how some well-meaning cop might view a guy doubled over heaving just outside the town limits in the predawn hours, and he's off-balance enough they might cart him away in an ambulance even though he's done nothing wrong. At least, he supposes, if anyone does come by he's remembered to stow all the weapons in the trunk compartment. The only things sliding around on the backseat are a few of Sam's toys and a copy of some damn book about a puppy Dean was supposed read for school this week. John feels a minor stab of regret that he's been driving around with it since Thursday, but it's Dean's problem for not taking it out of the car when he had the chance. In any case, Dean's reading fine. John's had him trawling the newspapers for cases and his boy can already pick them out without much help. Hell, if Dean did what he was told John'll have a few possibilities lined up for him when he gets back.

That's less an exciting prospect right now than it had been when he'd left for this damn hunt, though, and he knows he has a busy day ahead of him no matter what Dean's found. He loves the Impala—one of the few reminders of his life with Mary, aside from the boys, that survived the fire—but she guzzles gas like a real sonofabitch and between that and the motel and the constant need for food and ammo and medical supplies and clothes for growing boys they're perpetually short on cash. He knows plenty of hunters get by without working, but the small-town mechanic he once was never learned credit card fraud or how to hustle a pool game and so those are just two more items on his to do list. Lately he's picked up a job at a local warehouse moving boxes to pay some of the bills. He used up the last of his and Mary's savings, and the boys' college fund, two months ago, and things have been damnably tight since then.

At the moment, he's not thinking much past getting back to the motel, downing a handful of aspirin, patching himself up and making just enough at the warehouse to cover the room and food for the next few days. Dean and Sam are both growing like weeds and he looks forward to the day they'll help him put food on the table, not just eat it all. After work, he's got plans to drill Dean on some knife fighting techniques, plus the Impala's been having trouble starting some mornings and he's got to check her out. Most times, working on the car is one of the few things he can still really enjoy, but right now not knowing what he might have to find a replacement for out here in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania is just another source of stress. There's something else he feels like he has to do, too, but it's escaping him and he figures, hell, it can't be that important if he can't even remember what it is.

By the time he rolls into the motel parking lot, the sun is coming up and he wants nothing more than to curl up on the bed and let sleep take him over. His head pounds relentlessly. But it's not the first time he's come home beat to hell and he knows it won't be the last.

The first thing he notices when he opens the door is that it's cold in the motel room.

The second is that it's empty.

"Dean?" he barks. The boys' belongings are strewn about everywhere but that's not unusual considering he's long since given up on trying to make them pick up after themselves, aside from the reminder that anything they leave behind gets left behind. There are clean dishes in the drying rack by the sink, because Dean knows that while shoes on the floor don't hurt anybody, food brings bugs and John won't stand for that. He stalks across the cluttered floor, stepping around a pile of pajamas and army men and untouched school papers that tell him more or less what his boys have been up to since he's been gone. Except they're not in the main room and they're not in the bathroom and they're not in the closet or under the bed, either, though he hardly knows why he bothers to check. The heater unit is off, which is why it's so damn cold. But the salt lines are intact and there's no signs of entry, forced or otherwise.

John paces, forcing himself to remain calm though his heart is hammering in his chest. They have to be somewhere. They can't have disappeared. But it's too early for them to be at school and he told Dean in no uncertain terms that they weren't to leave except for that. He slams the door behind him, the noise cutting through his panic and sending enough pain through his head to make him swear. Then he heads toward the motel office on the other side of the building to ask if they've seen anything.

He stops short and feels his knees go weak when he sees the familiar outlines of his sons, bulky in winter coats, rolling a ball in the snow to add to a growing snowman in the small yard between the highway and the motel. They're making a damn snowman. He presses a hand against his head, grimacing, before letting it drop and putting on the sternface he always uses when his orders come into question.

"Dean!"

His eldest pivots at the sound of his voice, straightening to face John like a little soldier.

"Dad," he greets him, looking at Sammy and at the snowman as if he's not sure how John might be taking this new development.

"Daddy!" Sam exclaims.

John is still too shaky with relief and remembered fear to care why they weren't where they were supposed to be. "Damn it, I told you to stay in the room," he says gruffly, not allowing the stern expression he's giving Dean to change even as little Sammy runs up and wraps his arms around John's leg. He places a hand absentmindedly on the top of Sam's head as the boy babbles a hello, Daddy, do you see what we made? and keeps addressing Dean. "You could have-" he swallows and clenches his teeth, "You understand, I didn't know where you were?"

"Sorry Dad." Dean's head hangs. "We didn't go far. I promise. We just saw the snow outside and it was cold anyway and Sammy's never made a snowman so I thought—"

"You disobeyed me," John reminds him coldly. He can still feel his heart pounding from thinking they were missing, his headache beating in time with it. This is unacceptable.

Dean bites his lip and nods, though John doesn't miss his sad, covert glance at the half-finished snowman. "Yes sir. Sorry, sir."

That's better. "Now, come on," he says, taking Sammy by the mittened hand and gesturing to Dean with the other. "Why isn't the heater on?"

"It broke. I tried to fix it," Dean tells him seriously. Sammy nods.

"How long has it been out?" John had been on the road for two days and the temperature hadn't broken freezing on either of them.

"Just since yesterday," Dean assures him. "I'm sorry. I couldn't fix it. We were just staying in the room like you said."

"It was cooold," Sammy informs him, making Dean looked ashamedly down at his sneakered feet.

"Damn it," John mutters with another sigh.

This isn't what he wants to hear. He wants his boys safe, and if they can't even be free of danger in a locked and salted motel room he doesn't know what he's going to do. In any case he'd been looking forward to a hot shower and some time to tend his wounds before he goes to work, but this of course will have to take precedence. So he clamps down on his growing frustration and leads them instead into the motel office, hoping that his head's not bleeding enough to cause a scene. He supposes it doesn't matter.

He rings the bell a little harder than he should and is waiting with one arm leaning on the counter when the clerk—a plump, dark-haired woman about John's age—appears. "Can I help you?" she asks.

"Yeah," John says roughly. "Heater's been out since yesterday. We need a different room."

It takes the better part of an hour for them to gather their things and move them three doors down, to a nearly-identical room that smells of old smoke but is thankfully warm as can be. John's headache is still splitting when they close and lock the door, satisfied that their belongings are safe and sound. As they've worked he's lectured Dean on what to do in the event of something else like this—go to the desk, or call maintenance, but don't let your brother freeze to death overnight for God's sake—and his eldest is quietly cleaning his handgun now, clearly ashamed of himself.

John collapses into one of the cushioned chairs, pressing his palm to the back of his head again. He can feel where the blood has congealed and grown crunchy in his hair and it's swollen and tender to the touch, plus it feels like someone's jamming a spike through it repeatedly. The nausea's come in waves and the lines and edges of the room are still blurring together if he moves his head too fast. He allows himself to grimace until he notices Dean's watching him, then lets his hand fall.

"You okay?" Dean asks him. The boy's too perceptive for his own good.

"Fine, kiddo," John lies easily. "Just gotta get ready for work."

"Okay." Dean nods approvingly and turns back to his gun.

Realizing the truth in his statement, John stands and—once the room has stopped spinning—grabs his bag and heads to the bathroom. He's got about fifteen minutes so he turns on the shower, shedding his dirty clothes and stepping in as the room begins to fill with steam. The gash on his head burns as the water hits it, searing until he can barely focus on what he's doing, but he grits his teeth and washes it out carefully, then moves on to the rest of his body. As he soaps himself he notes half a dozen new bruises and a few cuts from his dramatic exit through the glass door that sear as the soap gets in them. Everything aches, his back and shoulders are stiff, his right knee twinges every time he bends it, the rib he cracked three weeks ago has yet to get back to normal and, not for the first time, he feels like he's thirty-three going on seventy.

He steps out of the warm spray with minutes to spare, toweling off as gingerly as he can and pulling on boxers, jeans, a T-shirt and a thick flannel shirt to combat the chill outside. He judges he's got a couple of gashes that could use a stitch or two, but he's already been late twice this week and doesn't want to chance losing this job before it's time to move on. Anyway it's his head that's really killing him. Just bending down to lace up his boots sets it pounding harder, and it doesn't stop.

"Take Sammy to school then come straight back," he commands Dean as he grabs his keys and jacket. He's got Sam enrolled in an all-day preschool program, which costs a little extra but means his boys leave at the same time. "And stay here. Don't let anyone in. Clear?"

"Yes sir," Dean nods, still contrite from earlier. Good, John thinks. The worse he feels today the safer he and Sammy will be tomorrow.

"I'll be back after five," John tells him, and heads back out into the frigid January air.

The day in the warehouse crawls by. He's still unsteady on his feet and the constant echoing and knocking of crates and machinery has him gritting his teeth before a full hour's passed. But he throws himself into the work because, well, what else is he going to do, and by noon they've unloaded several crates. He spends his lunch break on the bench around the side of the building with his head buried in his hands. He wants a drink but settles for downing another four aspirin and not opening his eyes or moving his head until he absolutely has to. He goes back when the break runs out, ignoring the suspicious looks he gets from his coworkers—they've sensed there's something off about him since he started here, but he hasn't offered any explanations for himself and can't really be bothered to give a shit either—and starts moving boxes down the ramp again. The headache thunders on but it's the residual dizziness that almost gets him, as he stumbles with one side of a heavy box in his arms and nearly takes out the careful stacks they've spent the last hour making. He spend the rest of the shift paying such close attention to each footfall it's doubly exhausting, and by the time he's allowed to clock out he's ready to collapse.

In the parking lot he slides into the cold Impala, resting his head back against the chill leather of the seat and closing his eyes as the cold seeps into the ache. He feels tired, so bone-deep tired the very idea of raising his arm to turn the key in the ignition makes something in him rebel. But he does it anyway and soon he's on the road, again. When he glances into the backseat he realizes he drove off with Dean's school book, again.

This time he finds the boys where they're supposed to be. Sam's on one of the beds, coloring fastidiously, while Dean sits up in one of the chairs with John's sawed off across his lap, though it's clear he's been nodding off from the way he jolts up as John opens the door.

"Boys," John greets them, locking the door behind him and sinking into the cushioned chair opposite Dean. "All okay here?" he asks quietly.

"Yep," Dean nods. "We stayed right here after school, like you said."

"Good," John says. He still wants a drink but remembers their fridge was nearly empty when they moved everything into this room, though he's pretty sure he's still got a bottle of cheap whiskey stashed somewhere. "You boys eat?" he asks.

"Yeah but we're out of cereal now," Dean says, "and Sammy took a nap." He yawns widely as if the thought of it's making him tired too. John guesses neither kid got much sleep last night if the heat was off, and feels a surge of anger—at shitty motels, at the job, at Dean for doing nothing about the broken heat and, mostly, at himself for not preparing his boys to deal with something so simple. He can only think of what Mary would say, and it makes his stomach flip in a way that for once has nothing to do with the concussion.

But Mary's gone and so it's up to him to do what has to be done, and that means keeping his boys safe in every way he knows how until he finds the thing that killed her. No matter how much he'd rather be sitting back with an ice pack to his head and a bottle of whiskey to numb everything else. "You ready, buddy?" he asks Dean, who perks up.

"Knife practice?" Dean asks.

John allows a smile to show at his son's enthusiasm. It's one of the few things that bring him through the doubt, the fear and the pain—Dean is a natural, and he honest to God seems to love the job. Hell, any time John suggests a one-on-one training session Dean's face lights up like it's Christmas.

He watches fondly as Dean scrambles to grab his boots and coat, telling Sammy proudly where they're going, and doesn't let himself consider the possibility it's just John's attention that Dean craves. They have work to do.

Dean takes the passenger seat and they drive out to a small clearing nestled a few miles into the woods spreading out from the motel. They could do it in plain view, of course, but over the years John has learned it's better to avoid questions about why he's teaching advanced knife fighting to his elementary school-aged son. They leave Sammy in the room with the TV on and strict instructions to keep quiet, stay away from the doors and windows and the stove and all of John's weapons, and not to answer the phone or the door. Usually if he has to leave his youngest totally alone he finds a neighbor—in this motel, an elderly woman for whom he's completed a thorough background check—who'll babysit for a small fee, but they're only going to be gone for an hour he figures it'll be fine. He had Dean watching his brother when he was hardly older than Sam is now.

He walks Dean through a handful of new moves and drills him on those along with a variety of hand-to-hand techniques the boy is picking up quickly. They spar and if it wasn't for his sleepless night and the persistent headache—the former not helping the latter—he thinks he'd actually be enjoying himself. As it is he's probably a little shorter with Dean than he means to be, especially when Dean makes the same mistake, leaving his side wide open, four times in a row. Still, Dean takes the criticism well, with quiet yes sirs that tell John he'll do better next time. By the time he's judged Dean proficient enough to call it an evening, they're both red-cheeked with exertion, he's finally feeling the beginnings hunger and his head is still killing him.

"So what did we learn, Dean?" he asks as they take their seats in the cold Impala.

Dean's brow furrows as he thinks. "Don't leave myself open. It's all about the footwork?" he guesses.

John nods, then immediately regrets the action. "Good," he grunts, and turns the key in the ignition.

The engine turns over weakly, once, then stops. John swears and tries it again, with no better results. "Damn it." In the frigid evening air it seems the battery has finally given up the ghost. He jumps out of the car without explanation, leaving his door wide open, and pulls up the hood. A quick check with the voltmeter from the trunk tells him what he already knows, and he curses himself for not replacing it the first time he noticed a weak start, job or no job. His hand finds the gash on the back of his head again and he grimaces.

"What is it, Dad?" Dean asks, joining him outside.

"We're gonna have to walk," John tells him, letting his hand fall, and it takes all the discipline he has not to heave a giant sigh.

They lock the car and start down the gravel road together, saying little. He'll have to find a new battery, which means more time and more cash, passing on buying those boots for Dean and stretching their groceries another couple days. In the old days, with Mary, he'd never've let something so simple go wrong, but life on the road is taking its toll on more than just his body. Doesn't matter how often he works on her—the Impala's going to need all the TLC he can give her if he wants her to last until the boys are grown. At least Dean seems to be picking up on that, too. If there's one thing his eldest likes more than training with John, it's helping him tune the engine.

"Hey Dad?" Dean says after several minutes have passed. He's hugging himself for warmth as he walks and his lips are bluish in the moonlight reflecting off the snow. The sun has long since disappeared behind the trees.

He looks down at Dean, whose teeth are chattering. "What?"

"How far is it?"

John halts, Dean looking at him quizzically, and shrugs out of his coat. He wraps it around his son with a tight smile. "We got a ways to go," he says honestly. A stiff breeze cuts through his flannel and he suppresses a shudder.

Dean smiles slightly. "Thanks." He hugs the coat around himself as they start marching again. It swallows his small body, hanging down almost to his knees. His eyes are big when he looks up at John. "Will Sammy be okay alone?"

"Yeah," John says with a small smile, feeling an unexpected surge of affection for his eldest that warms him despite the biting wind. "I think he will."

"Good." Dean nods sharply, and John has to swallow the emotion threatening to bring tears to his eyes. He loves how Dean loves his brother, and if there's one thing he never regrets it's making sure that that will always be the case. They walk on.

It takes them a good hour and a half to make it back to the motel, and by the time they do the temperature's dropped another ten degrees and John can't stop shivering. The light and warmth of the motel room is sudden and all-enveloping and he sinks down on the bed closest to the door. Dean goes over to his brother, who's on the floor with the army men, and talks to him quietly to make sure he's as okay as John promised, then nods at John, satisfied. John gives him a pale smile in return before grabbing the bag he's fairly sure contains his last bottle of whiskey and pulling it over to him. "Make your brother something to eat," he tells Dean, then unscrews the bottle and takes a long swig.

He lets himself relax, finally, as he watches Dean pull Sam over to the kitchenette and question him on what he wants, then open a box of spaghetti and set a pot of water boiling on the stove. They're out of anything but butter to put on it, but if that's what Sammy wants John's not going to stop him. His own stomach growls, but they're running low on food, he's got a battery to replace, and last he checked he had $63.80 to his name. He keeps his mouth shut. This damn day is as over as it's going to be.

Another swig of whiskey burns its way down his throat and he's feeling warmer and a little better, the alcohol taking the edge off the headache in a way the aspirin never did. He'll figure out the Impala tomorrow and see what jobs Dean picked out and whatever the hell else there was to do. He still not sure what he felt like he'd forgotten that morning, the thing niggling at him on his way home from the hunt. He figures it can't be important if he still doesn't know what it is.

He's made a good dent in the bottle by the time Dean brings him the bowl of buttered spaghetti he never asked for, setting it on the bedside table when it becomes obvious John is a little too far gone to take it or even to refuse. John's already drifting off, sleep and whiskey dragging him away to the only real reprieve he's known for years.

Still, he can hear his boys talking quietly as he drifts off, the words running together sluggishly in his mind.

"No, Sammy, you have to finish, we can't waste it."

"Don't want it."

"You have to listen to me. You wanna grow up big and strong right?"

"But I don't want it. Daddy didn't say I hafta finish."

"Dad's asleep so I'm in charge. I'm nine now, you know."

"Nuh uh."

"Yeah huh. Today's my birthday, remember?"

Of course. Of course that was what he'd forgotten. He knows he should open his eyes and acknowledge it, apologize and maybe figure out what he has in the trunk Dean wants enough to make a birthday gift of. Dean deserves that much, at least… But he's hazy and tired and it's too much effort to move, and the thoughts are still swirling in his mind as sleep takes him over.

He wakes the next morning before either of his sons and goes to the grocery store down the street to get Dean a cupcake and a candle, which he leaves unlit on the motel kitchen table when he goes out to inquire at every auto shop he can walk to about a battery for a '67 Impala. He's almost able to forget his guilt until he comes back hours later to find Dean sitting at the little table, the cupcake untouched before him and a huge grin lighting his face.

"Thanks Dad," Dean says as soon as John shuts the door behind him. "I told Sammy you didn't forget."

"Course I didn't," John lies, and swears to himself and Mary's memory he'll never forget again before producing a fake smile and pulling a lighter from his pocket to light the candle. It's too little and too late, and he knows it and he's not sure it makes him sad or happy that Dean doesn't seem to notice.

He means to keep his promise and the next year, Dean gets a cake and a new knife of his own, the next year a much-needed coat, and the next year a shotgun he saws off himself. The next year John's away and remembers but doesn't make it home in time, but Dean's happy enough to get his phone call. Two years after that, he's on Azazel's trail and forgets it completely.

"It's okay," Dean says from the passenger seat days later, now fourteen and cocky, sporting a leather jacket just like John's. "Birthdays are for kids."

"Yeah," John agrees, but can't quite justify how Dean isn't a kid anymore, except they both seem to know it. "Found us a new hunt."

"Awesome," Dean says.

It's later, when Dean tunes the car radio to that damn song that had blared at him on his way home from the lake house—THEY SAY THAT THE ROAD AIN'T NO PLACE TO START A FAMILY—that something clicks and he remembers making a promise at all. But it's been years since a salt-and-burn was enough to send him home hurting, he's got four fake credit cards and a health insurance scam to boot, the Impala's running smoother than ever, Dean and Sam are growing up to be skilled hunters in their own right and those hard, early days seem so far away he can barely believe he lived them at all. The promise that had seemed so important then feels just as distant.

And so they head back to the motel together, spread John's maps and newspaper clippings over the table, and spend the rest of the night planning their next gig while Sam reads from a school textbook on the bed. Still, he can't help thinking about the broken promise and how grateful he is that somehow, Dean not only understands but forgives. Of course, if there's been one constant through the years, it's been Dean.

"Hey," he says impulsively, meaning to tell him some of that, but as soon as his eldest's eyes turn on him the words catch in his throat. He pauses, a little too long, then gestures at an article across the table. "Pass me that clipping, will you?"

Dean sends it his way.

John takes it, then looks at his son again. "Thanks," he says, but doesn't add for everything.

"Sure thing," Dean shrugs.

And John lets the past slip away.

I wanted to write a story 1) in which John was sympathetic but Dean still had a horrible birthday, and 2) that showed a glimpse of John's transition from the generally clueless nice guy of the flashbacks to the hardened hunter we meet in season 1. How'd I do?