It's cold.

Freezing, actually.

The 1967 Chevrolet impala speeds down the snowy highway, regardless of the speed limit. Even though it's mid-afternoon, the driving conditions are miserable. All you can see is white. Snow coming in from every angle, slamming itself against the glass of the windows and the battered doors of the car. You can hear the wind rushing over the metal roof, threatening to tear it off. It sounds like somebody screaming.

It would be nice if we could blame it on the weather.

Inside the impala there's a family, if you could call it that. An eleven year old and a four year old sit in the back seat, the former leaning his head against the window, the latter playing with a miniature car. A boy just a month shy of sixteen sits shotgun, arguing with a man who looks older than he really is. Their voices are lowered, trying to keep the harder truths from the innocent.

"Dad," The boy whispers. "We can't keep doing this. It's not right."

"Last time I checked Dean, I was in charge, not you."

The teenager, Dean, runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

"I know. I'm sorry. It's just-" He turns around looking at the kids in the back seat. "Adam and Sammy deserve a normal life."

"Dean, there's no such thing as a normal life."

"Stop saying that. You're only saying that because you can't have one."

"I'm saying it because it's true."

"It's not true! You think you can drag your kids around the country because of something you did? Adam isn't on the run from the law! Sam didn't murder an innocent man!"

The man's back goes rigid and his arms stiffen.

"He wasn't innocent," He whispers slowly. "He killed your mother."

"Mom died in a fire dad! You need to let her go. If you had done that before we wouldn't be in this mess."

"You didn't even know her Dean."

"What about Kate? We settled down for two years and then packed up and left as soon as you two had a falling out! You never think of anyone but yourself!"

"You're so selfish!" They are shouting now. "What have you ever done for this family Dean? All you ever do is fuck things up. You're useless and that's all you'll ever be!"

Sam closes his eyes and tries to drive his head farther into the window pane. Adam covers his ears. Dean stares straight ahead. The man shouts. He screams. Adam cries.

The truck hits the left side of the vehicle.

John Winchester died instantly.

The ambulance came at some point, but no one noticed. They were all unconscious.

The snow had something to do with it, but Dean knew what had really happened. The truck couldn't see them, but John could've swerved. It was the argument, the fight. It was his fault.

The nurse talked to Dean about the medical problems, seeing as he was the legal guardian, at least for the moment. Dean broke his arm. Sam broke a couple ribs and got a concussion. But Adam was the worst.

"He's in a coma," She breathed, her voice soft. "I'm sorry, sir, but there's not much we can do for him. He took a large blow to the head, and someone that young isn't meant to take that much force."

Dean nodded. He wasn't really listening. They weren't in a hospital. They were on the highway again, driving to Uncle Bobby's for Christmas. Adam was okay, how could he be dying? He was only four. Dad was fine, too. Dad wasn't dead. It was just a dream. A nightmare. The worst nightmare anyone could have.

Except it wasn't a dream.

It's December twenty-fifth now. Christmas. It's at Bobby's house, just like they'd planned. Sam is sleeping. Bobby's sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. Dean's locked in the bathroom, screaming. It's loud, but it doesn't last long.

"I'm sorry!" He cries. "Oh god, I'm so sorry Adam!"

His hands are on the sink, and he looks up at the mirror. And he says it again: 'I'm sorry,'. But nothing happens. Adam's gone. John is gone. Sammy doesn't have a father.

"It's my fault," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

He grabs the edges of the mirror and he stares at his reflection. 'You killed Adam.' It whispers. 'You murdered him.'

Dean forces his face onto the glass. 'One,' he thinks 'two, three, four.' Over and over again, his face hits the glass. It hurts, but it feels good. It feels amazing. And eventually, he's on the floor. Not dead, not yet. But he feels like dying.