Disclaimers: I do not own John, Dean or Sam but I do borrow them from time to time…

Set during the scene in "Dead Man's Blood" when John is keeping watch in the cabin while the boys sleep. What if John found the box of photographs Dean and Sam were given in "Home?" A trip down Winchester memory lane…

Things Remembered

The leaves of memory seemed to make

A mournful rustling in the dark.

(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

Moonlight filtered through the gauzy curtains of the cabin window. A lone figure sat hunched in a chair, police scanner in one hand, a small wooden box in the other. Across the room two double beds revealed motionless inhabitants. The figure's eyes looked up from the box and rested on each of the sleeping silhouettes. If the light had illuminated the man's face more clearly one might have read the look of anguish on it and taken a step back, aware on some deeper level that standing too close to such pain might be somehow contagious. The man's gaze returned to the box which now lay open in his lap and he reached in hesitantly, handling the contents reverently as if afraid they might dissolve into dust at his touch. A solitary tear escaped and traveled the length of his cheek as he bit his lower lip, loathe to make a sound that might awaken his fellow occupants. He squeezed his eyes shut and flinched as a wave of memories crashed over him…

John Winchester sometimes wondered if he was truly human. Years of hunting had honed his senses to razor-sharp accuracy. He could go days without sleeping, longer without food. He sometimes had to remind himself to do both when the hunt consumed him. The Mission was one that he had unwillingly accepted when flames destroyed the life he had planned, but it was a jealous mistress. Whenever anything, or anyone, else threatened his focus, The Mission snaked a barbed tentacle around his throat and yanked him back.

Even now, as he watched over his sleeping sons, his every instinct told him to bolt, to go it alone. Just knowing the Colt was out there, within reach, made sleep impossible. His eyes rested on the sleeping form of his eldest son. John knew from Dean's posture that he was in his own version of sleep: resting but ready to move at a moment's notice, almost an alert sleep state. He also knew if he were to check he would find the hand under Dean's pillow gripping a knife. Some children put lost teeth under their pillows in hopes that the Tooth Fairy might come and leave them a treasure. From the age of four Dean Winchester had slept with a hunting knife under his pillow in case the evil they hunted found its way into their home again.

John wondered if Dean had any idea how proud his father was of him. Probably not, John thought. How would he? Dean was the perfect soldier, the perfect son. His loyalty was unwavering, his devotion complete. From the time Dean was five John knew that if he gave his firstborn an order, it would be followed without hesitation and without question. Sometimes it unnerved John, the idea that Dean seemed to put him on a pedestal. He had failed his sons in so many ways and the thought of Dean's willingness to overlook that fact only added to John's guilt. John knew the choices he had made, the path he had laid may have been extreme, but the fact of the matter was that their situation had been extreme. In this way he had justified his actions for so many years. But lately doubt had gotten a foothold in the bedrock of his conviction. He found himself second guessing, looking backwards instead of moving ahead.

He was close, so close to finishing it, to closing the book on the evil that had taken his Mary, his life. The evil that had stolen his children's innocence, their chance for a normal life. The evil that had shattered his youngest son's attempt at happiness.

His gaze wandered to the adjacent bed. Sam looked so peaceful, so young. John felt the familiar combination of pride, regret and frustration that always accompanied thoughts of his youngest son. As a Marine, as a hunter, he had always been confident. He had never wavered in the belief that he would succeed in his objectives. When it came to his relationship with Sam, however, he found himself on slippery ground. He never knew what landmines lay under the surface, waiting for the both of them. He never seemed to be able to say what he meant with Sam.

John had never been one to abide uncertainty. As someone who saw things in black and white, his youngest son's constant need to explore shades of gray made him crazy. Even as a child Sam had questioned everything, had needed to know the "why" behind every order. John wished he could have viewed Sam's inquisitive nature as a positive, could have encouraged it, even. He wished he could have told Sam that he was proud of him when he was accepted at Stanford instead of reacting out of fear at the idea of his baby going it alone. Lately the road not taken had risen up to mock him more frequently. The shadow of regret fell over him and he looked down at the box on his lap.

He had been looking for the journal after the boys had fallen asleep when he stumbled across a small wooden box. The sight of it knocked the wind out of him and left him gasping for breath. How the hell…? Lawrence. The boys must've found it when they were in the house. The mere thought of Lawrence sparked a surge of guilt at his decision to hide out at Missouri's while his sons struggled with their past. Listening to the anguish in Dean's voice and choosing not to respond had cost him a piece of his soul. At the time he had felt he had no choice, but looking back he wondered if he had been blinded by fear.

He had been sitting in the chair now for over an hour, the box like a weight in his hand. He drew a ragged breath and began to raise the lid, ignoring the slight tremor in his hand. Mary's face smiled up at him and he felt his chest constrict. He wondered, not for the first time, how different things might've been if the love of his life had died of cancer or in a car accident. Would her death still have shaped him into the man he was today, or would time have healed his wounds? Violent death, especially violent death that goes unpunished, has a way of eating at survivors. Hatred and revenge had fueled John and kept him from capsizing in a sea of despair, but at what price?

He lifted a finger and traced the contours of Mary's image. Her smile was so genuine, so full of joy that for a moment he felt the weight pressing on his heart lift. He squinted to make out the background, then flipped the photograph over and read "First House, 1978." He allowed himself to experience the memory of that day, trying not to think of the horror that was to come.

"A little to the left. There, perfect," John said. He held the camera aloft and grinned as Mary struck a pose in front of the new house. "Our first house! Can you believe we're old enough to do this?"

"Speak for yourself," Mary teased as he snapped the photo. The second he lowered the camera she twirled around with her arms in the air. "Home, baby. We're home."

John lifted her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist and leaned in towards him. A lock of silky blonde hair tickled his cheek as their lips met. John knew he had to be the luckiest bastard on earth. A beautiful wife who thought he hung the moon, a new home, a baby on the way… This was the stuff people dreamed about and he had it all.

He lowered her back to the ground and knelt in front of her. He placed a hand on her expanding belly and pressed his lips to her navel. "Hey, little dude. I know you can hear me in there. It's your daddy and I just want you to know how much I love you."

Mary smiled down as John lifted his gaze to meet hers and without saying a word they spoke volumes to one another. "You're going to be the best daddy ever," she whispered as she stroked his hair. He rose to meet her and she clasped her hands behind his neck and kissed him again. "It's time to christen the house. Take me inside, John."

John tilted his head back and closed his eyes. God, it seems like yesterday. Mary, I swear I will end this. I will bring this bastard down. He cleared his throat and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He often wondered what Mary would think of the life he and the boys had led. Would she be proud that they fought evil and saved lives, or would she be angry with John for leading Dean and Sam down this path? He tried to convince himself of the former but the latter kept tapping him on the shoulder.

He considered himself lucky to have known Mary, much less to have been loved by her. He had never known anyone with a heart so open, with so much love to give. It shattered him to know that Dean had only a handful of memories of her and that to Sam she was merely a photograph and a collection of stories passed down. It was the hardest part of losing her, knowing that her sons would never truly understand the kind of woman their mother was, never feel the full effect of being loved by her.

The police scanner crackled static and broke John's reverie. He brought Mary's picture to his lips and pressed his eyes closed, then shifted it to the back of the stack of photos. John held up the next photograph. In it, four year old Dean held his newborn brother on his lap, his hazel gaze focused on the infant's face. His arms encircled Sam protectively and his expression was one of utter concentration. The look on his face reminded John of a time just a few months after Mary's death.

John awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in bed. The clock on the nightstand glowed 3:27am. His breath came in quick bursts, his heart galloped in his chest and his t-shirt was drenched with perspiration. He'd had the dream nearly every night since Mary's death… Mary, pinned helplessly to the ceiling, reaching out to him, blood marring the front of her nightgown. Then flames erupting, engulfing his wife, his life…

He drew several deep breaths and wiped sweat from his brow. His mouth felt like he'd eaten cotton and he swung his legs over the side of the bed, intent on getting a drink of water, when a soft sound from the other room caused fear to prickle on his scalp. The boys! He dashed from the room and skidded down the short hallway to Dean's room. At the sight of the empty bed he felt panic, sharp as a blade.

He moved towards Sam's room and stopped short as the barely audible sound caught his ear again. Peering around the doorframe he saw a scene that made him feel as if someone had clamped a vice on his heart. Sam slept peacefully in his crib, blissfully unaware there was anything to fear of the dark. Directly in front of the crib a chair had been centered and in it sat four-and-a-half year old Dean. He shifted in his seat and the chair creaked softly. His eyes faced the door and in his hand John caught a flash of silver. John shifted into the doorway and whispered to Dean. "Son, what are you doing?"

Dean blinked slowly and John could read the exhaustion on his tiny features. "Couldn't sleep," the little boy answered after a beat.

"Why didn't you come get me?" John asked.

"Didn't want to bother you."

"Did Sammy wake up?"

"No. I just needed to be in here," Dean answered as he turned to look at his sleeping brother.

John swallowed hard. "Dean, come to bed, son."

Dean looked back at John, his eyes wide, his mouth a thin line on his pale face. "Will you stay with Sammy?"

"Dean, Sammy's fine. He's sleeping," John said, feeling fatigue and the beginning of frustration gnawing at his brain.

Dean nodded but made no move to get up. "He needs me here."

John rubbed his forehead and shook his head. "Why, Dean?"

"'Cause if the bad man comes back Sammy can't protect himself. He's just so little, Dad."

John squinted at the object in Dean's hand. One of John's hunting knives. "Son, put that knife down! It's sharp. You could get hurt."

The look on Dean's face was weary and when he spoke again it was as if he were talking to a small child. "Daddy, I could get hurt if I don't have it."

John knew then that Dean's innocence was lost forever. This child had grown up the instant their life had gone up in flames. "I'll take over your watch, Dean. You go get some shut eye." He reached out a hand to take the knife.

Dean looked down at the blade, then back up at John. "I think I'll hang onto it if that's okay."

John hesitated, knowing full well that any sane, rational parent would have already confiscated the knife. Then again, he wasn't sure he was either sane or rational anymore. "Alright, son. Just be careful."

Dean nodded and stood, stretching before he looked back at Sammy and then moved towards the door. "'Night, dad."

John started to ruffle Dean's hair, then drew his hand back. He knelt and brought himself to Dean's level. "You're a great big brother, you know that?"

Dean's expression reminded John of combat veterans he'd known. "That's my job, dad."

John looked over at Dean asleep with one knee up, body tensed even in sleep. He wondered if he would ever really understand the price Dean paid to keep his family safe and together. John knew that Dean would always place a higher value on Sam's life than his own. He knew that the burden of the older brother would always be Dean's to bear. John also knew that his own actions had forced Dean to take on responsibilities that were far beyond his years from an early age.

Sam had been ripped away from the normal life he craved, but at least for a time he had been able to lead one. Dean, on the other hand, never even appeared to consider it an option. The blinders he had put on as a child with the help of John remained, guiding him forward. He never looked backwards at the past, never looked sideways at the life he might have led. John knew deep down that if Dean ever lost his father or his brother it would tear him apart. Sometimes Dean's intensity frightened John. Dean's focus was so complete that John was afraid if anything ever caused it to waver that Dean would be lost.

John felt a sharp sting in his palm and realized he had been gripping the photo so hard that the sharp corner of it had drawn blood. He smoothed out the wrinkled picture and slipped it behind the photo of Mary.

He chuckled softly at the next photo. It was obviously Halloween and three year old Dean posed in his Superman costume, arms straight out in front of him, cape waving in the air behind him where John remembered Mary had stood holding it up just outside the frame. Though it was obvious Dean was attempting to look serious, a smile worked at the corner of his mouth and his eyes sparkled. John tried to remember whether he'd seen Dean with that look on his face since. A superhero. Of course you wanted to be a superhero, Dean. Who knew how close to the truth that childhood fantasy would lie.

Halloween. John's memory hurtled forward five years to the first time Sam had experienced the holiday. In the interim years the family had always been on the road at the end of October, a time of year when the dark side seemed to want to come out and play. But for some reason that year was different.

"I look like a baby," Sam whined, gesturing at himself as he looked in the bathroom mirror.

"No you don't, little dude," Dean answered with a straight face. "All the cool kids are rabbits this year." Truth was, John had waited until the last minute after finally being worn down by the persistent efforts of his eldest son and all the costumes had been picked over. Dean had been adamant that this year Sammy should get to dress up and trick-or-treat like other children his age and after much grumbling John had acquiesced.

Sam looked skeptical but his face lit up when Dean explained that the object of the evening was to gather as much candy as possible. The three Winchesters trailed out the front door and into the neighborhood. It was already dark and the streetlights shone down to light their path. As they walked they passed by other trick-or-treaters dressed in various costumes: witches, ballerinas, princes, vampires.

Sam remained silent, tiny hands gripping his plastic orange pumpkin so hard his knuckles turned white. John glanced down at his youngest son as they passed another group of older children dressed up for the evening. The look on Sam's face stopped him dead in his tracks. "Sammy? You alright?"

At these words Dean wheeled and leaned down to peer into his brother's face. Sam's face was pale, his eyes wide and darting from side to side. "Sammy," Dean said in a worried voice, "What is it?"

Sam just shook his head and pointed to a passing group. One child bore a skeleton mask and a long black cloak, another sported elaborate face paint and was obviously supposed to be a zombie. John couldn't remember ever seeing such a look of terror on Sam's face. "Son, they're just dressed up, like you are. You aren't really a bunny, and they aren't really what they're dressed up as. It's all pretend."

Sam just looked up at him, tears welling in his eyes. "Home, please," he said tightly, an undercurrent of panic evident in his voice.

John and Dean exchanged a glance and Dean nodded. "It's okay, little man, we can go home if you really want to. Sure you don't want some candy?" John asked, sure this last bit would change his son's mind.

To John's amazement Sam was resolute in his decision. His small hand traveled up to meet John's large one and John had trouble swallowing for a moment. Sam moved his plastic pumpkin to his wrist and gathered Dean's hand into his free one. The three moved as one and returned to their apartment.

When they were safe inside Sam reached up and locked the door. John shot him a quizzical look as Sam's small frame began to shake. Dean put his hands on either side of Sam's face and looked directly into his eyes. "Sammy, it's okay now. You're safe at home with us."

Sam stared back at him, his face a mask of fear. "Dean, I know. I know they're real. Daddy said so."

John flinched as Dean looked over at him through narrowed eyes. "Dad?" Dean said, the question left unsaid.

John knelt beside Sam and took his hands. "Son, I won't lie and say that there aren't things out there to be afraid of. I need you to know that so you'll stay safe. But tonight was supposed to be fun, and those people you saw were dressed up and pretending just like you were. I promise."

Sam furrowed his brow and pinned John with his gaze. "But daddy, how do you know the difference?"

John stole a glance at his youngest son whose long legs reached the length of the bed. Always could stump me with your questions. He wondered if he'd been wrong to respond to Sam's childhood fears with the truth. After all, weren't parents supposed to tuck their children in and tell them there was nothing in the closet to be afraid of? Then again, most parents hadn't had their lives torn apart by an evil that was very real and very much something to fear. How different would Sam's life have been if he'd been able to retain his innocence, if he'd never learned that the dark held dangers most people couldn't begin to imagine? The fact was, that had never been an option as far as John was concerned. Ignorance left you vulnerable, period. What you didn't know could hurt you.

John moved the Superman picture to the back of the stack and moved his head back an inch as if he had been struck. Dean looked to be about three or four years old and stood wearing John's battered combat boots. Mary sat on the floor beside him, head titled down and eyes looking up at Dean through her lashes. Dean's pudgy fist was raised to his forehead and he fixed Mary with his hazel eyes; he was saluting her.

John could hear Dean rustling through the closet. He smiled over at Mary who responded in kind. Their son was proving to have a penchant for the dramatic and loved to dress up in John's clothes.

Clop, clop, clop. The slap of leather echoed down the hallway. John and Mary sat with their backs against the wall, fingers laced, waiting. Dean strode up to them, posture rigid, wearing nothing but his Batman underwear and John's boots and hat. He spun around as Mary clapped and cheered. John laughed and jumped up to grab the camera.

When he returned Dean stood beside Mary, head bowed. The little boy looked up at his mother with utter adoration written on his face, then took one of her hands in his tiny one and graced it with a kiss. Mary's delighted laughter was like a balm on John's soul. He lifted the camera and as he did his son straightened his spine, looked up at John and back at Mary then lifted a hand to his head in a salute.

Mary's smile wavered slightly and she glanced at John. He knew she had always had reservations about his military background and had expressed concern about their son following in his footsteps. But he could not deny the pride that filled his heart at the sight of his little man showing Mary respect like that. "You're my little dude, Dean. You know that?"

Dean turned sharply and raised his hand a second time, saluting John. "I know that, Daddy. And I'm going to be just like you someday."

John pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. I'm afraid you were right, son. John suddenly felt bone tired. He rolled his shoulders and turned his head from side to side, attempting to release the tension in his neck. The perfect soldier, the perfect son. Sometimes John thought of Dean like a statue, standing strong and true no matter what life threw at him. The thing about statues was that once a fissure started, the entire sculpture would eventually crack and fall apart.

Dean had always been the one who comforted both John and Sam, who cleaned John up after evil took a swing at him, who made sure Sam was fed and tucked in. He had been the glue that held their family together after Mary's death. He had been the buffer between John and Sam when things got ugly. He had believed in John long after John stopped believing in himself.

At times John recognized a certain anger and intensity in Dean as his own and it sickened him. He had taken a child with a hole in his heart and he had filled it up with his own brand of twisted love. He had been so damaged, so lost after Mary's death that he had selfishly allowed Dean to take on a role that stole any chance at normalcy.

One of the boys tossed in his sleep and John glanced up at the sound of the scratchy comforter rustling. His eyes returned to the photos in his hand. Though looking at them felt akin to having a hot knife plunged into his heart, he couldn't stop himself from peeking at the next one in the stack. Sammy? When was this? The young man stood beside a black Impala, leaning on the hood with a look of sheer happiness on his face. John started as he realized the young man wasn't Sam after all. Holy shit. It's me…

He was startled by the resemblance. Maybe it was the way the light hit him in the photo, maybe it was the way his lanky frame leaned casually on the car. Whatever it was, John couldn't deny that he and Sam looked eerily alike. Whether he cared to admit it or not, John realized that they shared much more than surface appearances. They were both damn stubborn, they both knew what they wanted and went after it with a drive that left no room for alternative outcomes. Maybe they were a cliché, after all: the father and son so alike they constantly butt heads.

John knew that Sam had something special, a passion for life that most people were missing. He knew that that passion was what led to Sam's attempt to break free of the life John had carved out for his children. Sam had only wanted to make a life of his own, not a crime under normal circumstances. But theirs had never been normal circumstances, after all.

John pulled the truck over to the curb and killed the engine. He slid down in the seat and pulled the collar of his jacket up to his ears. He'd always been extraordinarily skilled at surveillance. He had the ability to blend into his surroundings. But this was no ordinary target. He couldn't be too careful.

After fifteen minutes the object of his attention exited the large stone building, a backpack slung over his shoulder. John would've known that long-legged stride anywhere. The subject reached a hand up to brush back a lock of shaggy brown hair. John shook his head. "Get a damn haircut, Sammy," he muttered under his breath.

It had been four months since Sam had left. Four months since John had said the words he knew he'd never be able to take back. Four months of watching Dean struggle to appear unaffected by his brother's absence.

It was John's third visit to Stanford. What Sam hadn't understood, what John hadn't been able to say out loud, was that there was danger in going it alone. John had been so proud of Sam for getting in, for the full ride. He had wanted to hug Sam tight and tell him so, but instead the cold fear that gnawed at the base of his spine sent a signal to his brain to do whatever it took to stop Sam from leaving. And it had driven Sam farther away.

John watched as his youngest son crossed a grassy area towards a beautiful blonde girl. Sam's face lit up with that 1,000 watt smile of his and John swallowed and looked away until his vision cleared. He wanted so badly to go to his son, to tell him how sorry he was, to see forgiveness in Sam's eyes. But this would have to do. Seeing Sam safe, seeing him happy, it was enough.

John leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Being here together with his boys, sensing the possibility of closure, of a way to end the demon, it was all surreal. His life had been about the hunt for so long he hardly remembered how to live without it. And he doubted he could. But maybe, just maybe, there could be another life for Dean and Sam. A way out. An escape from the prison he had unwittingly built around them.

The police scanner jerked him back to reality. He instinctively snapped to attention. A young couple calling 911 about a body on the highway then disappearing before the cops get there? Sounds like the vamps. He exhaled loudly and put his hands on his knees to steady himself. It was time.

He stood abruptly, grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and jostled his sons to wake them. "Sam... Dean... Let's go."

Footfalls echo in the memory

Down the passage which we did not take

Towards the door we never opened.

(T.S. Eliot)

Thanks to Amanda for the beta - as always, you rock! I hope you all enjoyed this little trip down memory lane. Please take a moment to review. I welcome constructive criticism and certainly don't mind hearing a little positive feedback if warranted. Until the next time the muse hijacks my brain...