John Winchester runs like hell. His face is hollow despite the fear growing inside him. His flesh creeps and the hair on the back of his neck rises like the hackles of a dog. It's a feeling he's very unused to. He had faced off the most ghastly, twisted creatures in the universe, but nothing compares to the fear he now feels. It's like melting tallow under the surface of his skin, feverish and hot—unlike his boy, who's skin is cold and clammy to the touch as he flops lifelessly in his father's arms, occasionally exhaling a pained groan. The boy's hair is plastered to his forehead with cold sweat. His eyelids drooping, hardly able to keep conscious.

John's leather boots thud against the forest floor, kicking up dirt and shards of rock. In the past few moments he'd managed to put a significant gap between him and the corpses.

"Stay with me, Dean! C'mon, bud! Stay awake!" he orders sternly, voice throaty and breathless. He glances down at Dean. He's pale, lips blue and body fragile. His hands are trembling in his lap, trying to apply pressure to the wound. Crimson blood stains his palms and under his fingernails. It had seeped through the fabric of his Led Zeppelin tee and caked his deep abdominal wound—and goddamn, it looks bad.

The twelve-year-old's head lulls as his father ducks under another thick branch. He can feel the man's rapid heart beat against him and hear his heavy breathing. His vision is blurred and obscure, barley able to see anything at all.

Dean swallows dryly, "D-Dad," he says shakily, struggling to find his voice, "it hurts." he chokes out.

"It's okay, kiddo. Everything's gonna be fine. Just keep pressure on it." John strains, struggling to hold himself together.

This is his damn fault. It is because of him that his eldest is limp in his arms, clinging to consciousness. John internally traces back to the moment he fucked everything up. It was one day prior to the enormous mess.

….

Over the years John Winchester had formulated a few basic guidelines for securing a good stay at a motel—even if he hardly stayed there at all and was typically out on a hunt.

His first rule was to always reserve ahead—under an alias of course—second rule, reserve at a franchise motel if possible—you know, your Holiday Inn, your Comfort Inn, your Motel 6. Third, always get a room on the end, that way you could only get one set of noisy neighbors. It was his system, and it worked well. When pulling into the Cadillac Motel, everything seemed normal. Standard, easy case, average, hyper boys. All was pretty ordinary for the Winchesters.

After John got the key from an elderly man in a red vest, the family shuffled into the motel room and unloaded the few possessions they had. Sammy—his youngest—was the neater of the two. Always unpacking his clothes and books in an orderly fashion. The shirts and pants were even folded too. Dean was significantly messier. He was almost a teenager, and John knew they were like that.

It had only recently registered to John that his oldest was almost thirteen. He was growing up. The boy had gotten a lot older in the past year. His voice had grown deeper, and his face was more mature, losing the remaining baby fat he had. He was strong too—could almost beat his old man in an arm wrestle. Lately, John had begun to think about taking him on a hunt. He'd been training Dean for sometime now, and he knew the boy was eager to help. If he did decide to, this might be the perfect opportunity.

In the past few weeks there had been a number of unexplained disappearances around some woods where there were a number of different trails, and one mangled body had turned up. The various victims had zero connections and there was always the possibility of it being a dead end case—but when did that ever happen? John figured it was a Wendigo, a common being he had tackled numerous times before. It was easy enough, and a good opportunity to show Dean the ropes. It was at that moment that John Winchester sealed his son's fate.

….

John can feel the warm, crimson blood drip on to his hands from his son's wound. He readjusts his grip, one arm is under Dean's legs, the other supporting his back. John had found that it was slightly comforting when Dean groaned in pain, it assured him his boy was still breathing. A low moan makes its way up Dean's throat, and he whimpers something inaudible. At first John ignores it, trying to focus on getting to the Impala and driving to a hospital, but Dean repeats himself, a little louder but still too muffled to understand.

"What's that, Dean?" he breathes.

Dean's transfixed on something over John's shoulder. He stares intently at it, eyelids heavy. His gaze shifts to his father, and he says something that makes John's blood run cold, "Dad, there's a someone behind you."

….

John loosened his tie as he sat in the driver's of the Impala. He heaved a heavy sigh, mentally drained after interviewing some of the family of the victims. The woman he'd just spoken to, who was uncontrollably emotional, ended up sobbing all over his suit. John knew how apathetic that thought sounded, but after doing years and years of hunts, he had little patience for things of this nature. He hunched over against the stirring wheel, resting his eyes for a moment.

Dean sat in the back, smirking, "I take it that went well."

John scoffed, "Oh, just peachy."

"You were in there for a while. What'd ya get outta the brod?"

"Nothing we don't already know." John grunted, "Although she did mention some butcher down the road, knows her husband pretty well. She said he was the one to see the husband last."

"Well, we gotta go talk to 'im!" Dean said eagerly.

"My thoughts exactly."

….

John's heart thrums like a wire, casting his eyes over his shoulder to the apparent presence following him and his boy. His pupils flick back and forth, in search of this unknown enemy. Alas, the forest is vacant other than the two hunters, the deceased monster, and the victims' corpses many yards away. He looks worriedly back at Dean.

"There's nothing there." he breathes, heart breaking as he cradles his injured, delirious son.

"No," Dean persists, "Dad, h-he's right there." he sounds scared and weak. "You have to go faster! He's gonna get me!"

John picks up his pace, "Dean, who's going to get you?"

"The man in the black suit." hot tears blur Dean's vision as he grips his father tightly.

John doesn't know how to respond, "There's no man there. I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you! You're going to be fine. There's no one there, bud."

But Dean keeps at it, crying into John's coat about how the man in the black suit is right behind him. John glances over his shoulder once more. Nothing.