Sometimes, when they days are dark and rainy, he remembers. Most times he's able to shut it out, and he'll only have flashes of memories - a trenchcoat, soaked in blood and water; a young boy's eyes being burned out of his head; running for his life pumped full with adrenaline, shotgun in his hand. Those are some of the bad ones - but not the worst. Not by far. The rainy, dreary days that make him remember are bittersweet. He misses the good old days, when Bobby and Ellen and Jo were still around, when their biggest problem was finding Dad. He misses his car and prank wars and the thrill of the hunt. He still remembers Hell, remembers losing Sammy - twice (and who says that Hell was worse than that) - remembers monsters and demons and ghosts and the self-righteous dickbags that called themselves angels. He still has a handprint burned into his shoulder and a tattoo on his chest. He almost keeps them as remembrance, but it's really because he has no way to rid himself of them. They're part of him, forever. Like they should be. He mourns occasionally, on these days. He might write down a list of people he couldn't save - bobbykevinmomdadsammybelajoellencas - or people who suffered because of him - everyone - or, sometimes, he just sits. And thinks. Wonders what his life would even be if things that went bump in the night didn't exist. Then again - if they didn't, he wouldn't have a life at all.