There was a picture John carried in the pocket of his jacket. It was not something he looked at often but it was always there. The edges where faded, the color was going but the image was still clear. It had been taken years ago in a town they had spent a week in. The hunt had been a vengeful ghost, John doesn't remember the details, it had been an average hunt but he remembers that night. Sitting out back of the motel, Dean was rebuilding his gun, Sam reading his book, John cleaning his knives. They had been talking, a simple conversation, a rear type of easy atmospheres. Sam had run back to the room and come back with his camera, he set it up and got them all huddle together. It was an easy night, the hunt had gone well and they still had another day till they moved on. It was summer and Sam didn't mind the moving so much. The picture was one of a series Sam took that night. It was the first or the last John doesn't remember. Dean's smile is bright and effortless, his hair hangs in his eyes, Sam's face is angler and young, his smile wide and something like happy. John doesn't look at himself in the picture. He knows the smile he wore was a rear one.