It was here in the shady discount motel room that John now found himself locked in a battle of wills with a tiny opponent.

"Please, Sammy. Just one bite," John Winchester pleaded with his unyielding six-month-old son, having spent the best part of the past hour trying to force-feed him Gerber's mushy peas and carrots. For his efforts, little Sammy's bib and the tray of his high chair had been generously fed, but not so much as an ounce had made it into his little one's stomach. Sammy pursed his lips and turned his head away from the proffered spoon. John rubbed his eyes, feeling frustrated and fatigued. Unfortunately for both parties, each was as stubborn as the other.

"You've gotta eat something, Sammy," John coaxed, offering the spoon again, and was awarded a petulant stare from his youngest for his efforts. The kid had to be hungry; they had spent the best part of the day driving across two states and none of them had eaten in hours. By the time they checked in, it was long past their usual dinner time—and bedtime, for that matter.

Maybe that was it. Maybe Sammy was too tired to eat. But still, John couldn't very well send him to bed on an empty stomach. Leaving Sammy to stew for a moment, John glanced over his shoulder to see how his other child was faring. His four-year old son, Dean, camped out on the bed in front of the TV, laying on his stomach and devouring what John estimated to be his third bowl of Lucky Charms. Not the most nutritious meal, sure—and Mary would have balked at the sugar content, but John was just relieved to see his son's voracious appetite slowly returning. Now if only the kid would start talking again...

John turned his attention back to his youngest, and, seeing Sammy's mouth slightly open, John pulled a fast one and deposited the spoon in Sam's mouth before he knew what hit him, gently pushing up on Sammy's chin to close his mouth.

"There!" said John triumphantly. "That wasn't so bad, was it, Sammy?"

Ever defiant, Sammy opened his mouth, allowing the mushy green contents to dribble down his chin. Sighing, John picked up the wash cloth and wiped off Sammy's face again. The kid sure knew how to play hardball. Half-a-year old and they were already butting heads.

For the millionth time, John felt himself longing to have Mary here. He was so lost without her—helpless, overwhelmed. Not only was he a grieving widower, but he now had also taken on the role of nurturer, when previously, he had been the breadwinner. He had never anticipated the possibility of ever having to do this on his own.

John had always been the co-pilot when it came to parenting. Sure, he had changed his fair share of diapers and wasn't a stranger to bottle-feeding, but Mary was always so much better at all this than he was. She had been the one who was home all day with the boys—knew all the boy's little quirks and tricks to make their routine go more smoothly. Mary was the one the boys needed. She could give them everything they needed; he was just struggling to keep them alive and fed.

In Sammy's defense, this whole solid-food thing was new to him, too. John had attempted this feat a few other times since Mary's death, all to no avail. Sammy was just beginning to cut his first tooth, which John associated with his youngest son's fussiness, along with missing his mom, of course. Not to mention that up until two weeks ago, Sammy had been almost exclusively breastfed. He wasn't doing so good going cold turkey, turning his nose up at any solids and tolerating formula only to avoid starvation.

In one last, desperate effort, John swabbed his finger around the rim of the Gerber jar, collecting a small sample. "Look, Sammy, it's not so bad. See?" he said, tasting it. A moment later, John was trashing the mushy pea-carrot mess, casting an apologetic glance at Sam. "Sorry, kiddo. Bottle it is, then..."

John went for Sammy's diaper bag, locating a bottle and a can of formula, which felt overly light. He opened the lid to find less than a teaspoon left. Damn. He had meant to stop by a store when they drove into town for some provisions, but it had totally slipped his mind. To say that he had been scatterbrained the last couple of weeks would be overly generous.

There was no avoiding it; he'd have to go on a milk-run—yet another thing that would have been so much easier if Mary was still alive. Before, if they ran out of diapers in the middle of the night, Mary would stay home with the boys while he ran out for supplies in whatever array of dress and consciousness he found himself in when his wife would wake him and hand him the car keys.

But now he was on his own, and John had no other option but to bring the boys with him. He cleaned Sammy up and lifted him out of his high chair, on loan from the motel. He bundled his baby up against the cold, rainy November night—zipping a warm coat up over his sleeper, securing a wooly hat on his head, and finally wrapping him up in a fleece blanket.

Balancing Sammy on his hip, John went over to Dean's duffel bag and retrieved his coat and hat as well. Dean was slumped over on his bed, the flickering lights from the TV flashing across his delicate features.

"Dean," John called, gently shaking Dean's shoulder to rouse him. He felt guilty for waking Dean since the kid hadn't slept in the car nearly as much as Sammy had. But he couldn't leave his four-year-old unattended in a shady motel at night, either. "Wake up, kiddo."

Dean forced open his eyes, looking confused and clearly wondering where he was. His eyes finally focused on his father standing over him, Sammy in one of his arms, the other holding out his coat and hat.

"Dean, Sammy's out of milk. We've got to run to the store," John said as he used his free hand to help a sleepy Dean struggle into his coat. John picked up the remote and switched off the TV. Dean pulled his hat down low, slipped on his shoes, and drowsily followed John and Sammy out of the motel room.

John locked the door to Room 11, casting a nervous glance over either shoulder to see if they were being watched; the things he had seen and learned in the past couple of weeks haunted him more than anything he had ever seen in war, and he was now forever on guard against them; he knew he had barely scratched the surface of the evil that was lurking in the wake out there.

John turned up the collar of his leather jacket against the fierce wind and lashing rain, also pulling Sammy's blanket tighter around his small frame to ward off the damp and seasonal chill. "Come on," John grabbed Dean's hand and the three of them jogged across the damp parking lot, shortly reaching their black '67 Chevy Impala. John unlocked the doors, strapped Sammy into his car seat and Dean clambered into the next seat over, leaning over the side of the car seat to watch over his baby brother. Sammy freed one of his arms from the confines of his blanket, reaching up and touching Dean's face.

John took his spot up front and turned on the engine, lights and windshield wipers, locking the doors for good measure. He checked his rearview mirror to be sure he could see both of his boys, and made eye contact with Dean. "Don't you or Sammy fall asleep, Dean—we'll be there soon."

Dean gave the most subtle of nods to show he'd heard, dutifully holding his little brother's hand. John's heart ached the way it did whenever he thought about how much he missed the old Dean—the one who was always laughing and smiling, who chatted his ear off and told him knock-knock jokes where the punchline made no sense whatsoever, but still made him belly laugh. Now Dean was silent and serious; he hadn't so much as smiled since that night. He kept trying to get Dean to talk, laugh, smile—anything to feel like a normal kid again. John feared that the carefree little boy Dean used to be had died along with his mother.

John drove to a little convenience store he remembered seeing on their way to the motel. There were two other cars in the parking lot and one Harley Davidson. Ever wary, John surveyed the store and the parking lot before deciding it was safe for his boys.

The three Winchesters entered the convenience store. With Sammy tucked to his chest in one arm and a hand on Dean's shoulder, John stopped in the doorway and did a quick surveillance of the store, taking note of the cashier—a middle-aged woman with permed reddish hair, a young couple looking for what appeared to be road trip provisions, and an older biker with more tattoos and piercings than exposed skin. "Uptown Girl" by Billy Joel was playing on the sound system. He felt Dean tense slightly next to him, and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"We won't be long," he promised his eldest, grabbing a shopping basket. Dean nodded stiffly, remaining glued to John's side as they went up and down aisles looking for baby stuff. John grabbed two cans of formula and a spare pack of diapers. Dean mimed wanting to hold the pack of Huggies, and John let him. Dean had always liked to be a helper, and John was glad it was one trait he still held onto after his recent personality change because in all honesty, he needed all the help he could get.

John headed for the refrigerated aisle to get milk, figuring they were now running low after Dean's cereal binge. He only got a quart; they never stayed anywhere long, so getting any more than that would just be a waste. On their way to the checkout, John felt a tug on his jacket and looked down at Dean, who was pointing at a metal wire display lined with plastic boxes, containing individual slices of pie.

John pulled a box down from the shelf. Dean's eyes lit up, and John felt the ever-present tightness in his heart ease somewhat at the sight. "So you still love pie, huh?" Dean smiled shyly, a sight so welcome to John that he swept half of the stock into the basket. He had found something that made Dean happy, so he was going to stock up like it was the apocalypse. "Try to make it last the week, okay, kiddo?" Dean nodded mutely, still with a small smile. John take his eyes off that smile that hadn't shown itself since the fire, hadn't realized just how desperately he'd missed it until now.

Their basket was now overflowing, so John decided it was best to head to the register before they found anything else to buy. They waited in line as the customer before them was helped, and John idly listened to their conversation—a string of friendly, if not slightly prying questions from the cashier—the sort of banter that supposedly constituted good customer service. John braced himself for small talk, which he was in no mood for. Sammy waved his arms, slapping his little hands on the plastic lid of the formula like a drum. The customer before them picked up his bag and exited the shop.

The cashier looked up as they approached. "Oh, now what do we have here? You've sure got your arms full!" John and Dean deposited their groceries on the counter, and John shifted Sammy to his other arm. "Aren't you a cutie!" she cooed at Sammy, in the ridiculous high-pitched voice adults reserved especially for speaking to small children. Sammy looked startled at being directly addressed by this stranger, and, suddenly shy, buried his face in his father's chest.

"Oh, he is just precious!" The woman exclaimed, clapping her gold-ringed hands together. "How old is he?

These days, John didn't especially feel like offering information about his sons up to strangers, but he figured this question was harmless enough. "Six-and-a-half months."

"Oh, that's a fun age! Are you from around here?"

"No, just passing through," said John, bouncing Sammy on his arm as he started to fuss.

"Oh? Where are you headed?" Wanda asked, ringing up the formula.

"Oh, you know—west," said John, vaguely. They were in Nevada; there was only so far west they could go. The cashier, Wanda, John read on her nametag—didn't seem fully satisfied with his answer, but he was saved by having to specify when she noticed Dean. "And who do we have here?"

His expression surly, Dean half-hid himself behind John, clinging to his jacket. "Aren't you a handsome fellow—just like your daddy here!"

Wanda looked from Dean to John, beaming. John quirked his eyebrow slightly, busily retrieving his wallet from his back pocket with his free hand. "I'll bet you're a good big brother, aren't you?" Wanda smiled widely, revealing a gold-capped eye tooth.

"Yes, he is," said John, a noticeable tinge of pride in his voice as he put his hand on the back of Dean's head, smoothing his blonde locks that were badly in need of a good de-tangling.

"Not much of a talker, is he?" Wanda said, considering Dean with her head cocked to one side.

"He's just tired," said John said pointedly, hoping to speed the transaction along.

"Poor little guy must be dead on his feet, out this late!" Wanda tutted, picking up one of the cereal boxes to ring up. Spotting the wedding ring John still wore, Wanda said, "Is your wife waiting in the car?"

"No," said John, hoping this would be a conversation-ender. He placed his free hand on Dean's head. "It's just me and my boys."

"Oh, you mean—" Wanda caught sight of Dean's sad, downcast eyes, John's tone of finality—and her eyes widened as she filled in the blanks. "Oh—I'm so sorry! I didn't realize—"

"It's fine," said John shortly, pulling a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and handing it to her. The sympathy of well-meaning strangers had always made him uncomfortable. How could any of them really be sorry? Wanda hadn't known Mary, or what a wonderful wife and mother she had been, how her death had left their family in ruins.

Discomposed, Wanda's red acrylic nails clicked over a few more keys on the register. "Here's your change, sir," she said, her smile a tad too earnest for John's taste.

"Thanks," said John stiffly, taking his change and putting it in the pocket of his leather jacket. He gathered up one of the grocery bags in one arm, and Dean stood on tiptoe to reach for the other. Wanda watched the three of them leave, a sad smile on her face. "God bless you!" she called to their retreating backs.

John felt something hit him as he stepped out the automatic doors, and realized he'd bumped into a woman on her way into the shop. "Sorry, ma'am," John said politely, looking at the stranger with the blonde feathered hair, gaudy hoop earrings, an Esprit top and black mini-skirt. "I didn't see you—"

"Don't worry about it, sugar," the woman said, showing off a lilting smile with painted red lips. Her eyes flickered to little Sammy. "Keep a close eye on this little one—he's special."

There was something about the way she was looking at Sammy that made John uneasy. The woman reached out to touch Sammy's cheek, but John instinctively held Sammy closer, turning him away and shielding him from her touch. The woman lowered her hand, and when she turned her head to look at him, John could have sworn there was something strange about her eyes; they looked too dark. She brushed past them, but when he turned to look around for her, she was gone. John stared at the place where she had seemingly vanished, telling himself she couldn't have just disappeared—but had went into the store, and that he had just imagined her black eyes—it was just a trick of the light. He worried about what she had said about Sammy—what did she mean he was special—special how? She hadn't even looked at Dean. He found the whole encounter with the woman to be disturbing; she'd made his skin crawl. He just wanted to get the boys back to the hotel as soon as possible.

Still reeling from the brief encounter, John was pulled back to Earth when he felt Dean tugging urgently on his sleeve. "What is it, kiddo?" John asked, looking down at his son. John's eyes followed where Dean was pointing. He momentarily froze as his brain registered what he was seeing, and then reacted instantly, running across the pavement with Dean at his heels. "Hey!"

Two punk kids were standing next to the Impala, they couldn't have been older than sixteen—both rail-thin with ripped jeans, combat boots, patched leather jackets and Flock of Seagulls haircuts. They turned around when they heard John approach. One of them stashed a wire coat hanger behind his back.

John came to a stop, ten feet away from the car jackers. "Get away from my car," he said, his eyes as hard as his voice. The kid with the coat hanger nudged his friend, grinning roguishly. Apparently, a guy holding an infant in one arm, a bag of groceries in the other, and a pre-schooler hugging his leg didn't appear all-too intimidating to them.

The punk with the coat hanger took a step closer to them, sneering. "Oh yeah, pops? You and those rugrats gonna make us?"

Advancing on John and his sons had been a big mistake. In the blink of an eye, John dropped the bag of groceries to the ground and with his lightning-fast draw produced a .44 Desert Eagle from his belt, which was now aimed straight at the car jacker's heart. "I said—get away from my car."

The kid dropped the coat hanger to the ground, and he and his friend both put their hands in the air. The leader's eyes bugged out, staring down the barrel of John's gun and taking note of his USMC t-shirt visible beneath his jacket, previously concealed by a bag of groceries. It was clear to them now that they'd picked the wrong guy to mess with.

"Okay, dude—just chill, we're leaving," the kid said, taking a step backwards.

"Not fast enough," said John, making a show of taking off the safety.

"Let's get outta here, man," the other kid finally spoke, grabbing his friend's arm. The two of them turned tail and ran, practically tripping over their feet as they fled the parking lot.

John watched the hoodlums run down the block until they were out of sight. He holstered his gun, still scowling. His expression softened when he heard Sammy crying softly, clearly distressed by the confrontation.

"It's alright, Sammy," John said, holding his youngest closer. He patted him softly on the back, like Mary used to do to calm him down. "Shhhh," he said, lips brushing against Sammy's ear as he shushed him. Sammy quieted down, resting his head against John's shoulder.

John looked down at Dean, who was already gazing up at him with his wide, innocent hazel eyes. "You okay, champ?" Dean nodded fervently, looking at his father with something akin to awe.

Securing Sammy to his chest with one arm, John bent down and collected the fallen and scattered bag of groceries. He inspected the side of the Impala, breathing alleviated to see that those punks hadn't scratched his baby or done any other damage; they must have caught the vandals early in the act. "Dean, keys."

Dean reached into John's jacket pocket, located the keys and unlocked the car. He opened the passenger side door and deposited the groceries on the seat. Dean clambered into the back of the car, and helped John strap Sammy into his car seat. John had just turned the keys when he heard a voice call from the backseat. "Daddy?"

John's breath caught in his throat at these two precious, now rare syllables. He tried not to look or sound too surprised when he met Dean's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Yeah, pal?"

Dean smiled timidly. "That was really cool, dad."

John smiled to himself, his eyes stinging in the corners. "Thanks, son." Those five words, spoken in a slightly raspy voice from disuse, that smile—meant the world to him. It was a sign that he was on the road to getting his son back.

...

TBC

AN: I hope John was awesome enough in this chapter for everyone ;)

I also read in John's journal that it took him years before anyone was able to convince him demons were real, thus him not recognizing a demon when he sees one here. I also learned from his journal that they were followed by demons everywhere, and we learned later that many of Sam's associations (teachers, prom date, friends, etc) were demon spies. So John certainly was NOT paranoid in moving around all the time to shake them off! I imagine this particular demon was a low-grade grunt who was just curious about Sam, knowing what he was/his association with Azazel.