Summary: John comes home late at night after a hunt and finds he doesn't recognize the man in the mirror.

Disclaimer: Preseries—Inspired by something John says to Dean in the second season episode, "In My Time of Dying" (2.1). Some language, though not much, no slash or GWN. Just angsty John and Dean doing what Dean does. BTW: I don't own or make money from SPN or the characters, themes,etc.

The Man in the Mirror

Sometimes, I have to look at myself in the mirror… I mean, really look. I see past the scratchy three-day-old facial hair badly in need of shaving, past the silver-white or pink lines that scar my face—mementos of battles fought and won against human and non-human foes… I look deep into the green eyes of the man staring back at me from the glass.

When did I become this man? When I imagine how I look, this is not who I see and yet who can argue with the evidence at hand? The man I see reminds me of revenant I hunted tonight. The spirit sought revenge from beyond the grave and it looked at me with sunken eyes, deep bruise-colored skin below hollows holding fathomless windows to the soul behind them. I see that same lost soul-emptiness as I look at the man there in the glass in front of me.

I think I must have died that cool, November night so long ago. I died that night with Mary.

Mary.

What I see in the glass is what is left of John Winchester, not a whole and flesh-and-blood human. A revenant of the man I was before.

I lean forward heavily onto the palms of my hands, gripping the almost-white porcelain of the single shallow sink, my face nearly pressed against the glass. I focus on all the pores, each new grey whisker and hair, the bruising, the scars—they all advertise how this life takes a toll on my body. I can't even deny that the reflection is me. In fact, the reflection is so familiar that I could be looking backward in time. I'm not even 40 and the reflection reminds me of my dad in his 50s only harder, more alone and lost and hell-bent on vengeance. I never saw that on Dad. I shake my head and lean back. The difference, I guess, is the miles. Yeah, Dad was in Korea so we've both seen and done things in war. We both know what it means to kill and see others die—sometimes because of us. When Dad came home, though, he didn't lose the woman he loved, that he would do anything for, the one he promised to love and protect until their days were long in the sunset of their lives be killed by something inhuman in a supernatural blaze on the ceiling of a child's nursery. I have to choke back the pain and the threat of a sob. I push it down; hide it in the box with all the rest of my feelings.

"Dad?"

The one word is a soft whisper, but I would be able to hear it in the raging storm of a tornado. I close my eyes and take a breath.

"Go back to bed, Dean." I whisper to my son, equally softly, but I don't turn from my reflection, my eyes are still closed.

I could almost hear the boy nod briefly. He's not even a teenager yet and Dean is a more accurate reflection of who I have become than the damn reflecting glass. The kid had seen awful terrible things—ghosts, shtriga, werewolves, skinwalkers… he's even seen me blow away some of the things that have gone "bump" in the night. I don't need to look to know he's still standing there. I can feel him assessing the situation he sees here in the small tiled room.

"It's late, son." I admonish. I still don't turn to look at him. I know that is what he's waiting for me to do.

I can't bear to look I don't want to see what I have turned him into. I don't want to see the haunted man reflected in the mirror brought to flesh in the child waiting for my attention—insisting on my attention—there in the doorway.

My eyes close once more. I push away that softness a father should feel for his son. I can't use it. It has no place here. I'm a hunter now and Dean… well, he's collateral damage. Together, though, we can try to contain that damage to just he and I. He has to recognize the damage I've done to him, right? He doesn't blame me, though. He doesn't judge me for it. He stands as a firewall between what he knows I am and his younger brother. I shake my head and huff out a soft and short-lived chuckle. God, Dean…. Why don't you hate me as much as I hate myself?

I can't deny him any longer. I turn my body away from the sink and the bathroom mirror to face my true reflection. Dean leans against the doorframe; his dark blonde hair is short but still manages to stick up in different directions. He wraps his long arms around himself folded in front of him like armor… or is it that he is holding something inside of him? He pushes the feelings down and hides them away, just like dear ol' Dad. God… my internal monologue sounds snide even to me.

The question on Dean's eyes—Mary's eyes—is clear. I have to shake my head. I can't believe he wants to know if I'm okay. I can feel my armor weaken. I feel my hardened bitter eyes soften as I look into his not well-guarded face. He's only ever this open with me when he's tired or sick—or with Sam.

"I'm fine, son. Please, just go back to bed. We have a long drive in the morning. I need you to help with Sam."

He's nodding. He knows his place in the chain of command. He knows his standing order. He doesn't need me to remind him to care for Sammy. I do, though. I need to see the confirmation from him. If hr is a true reflection of me… if he still cares about Sam, if he still knows to protect his brother and keep himself safe, then maybe I can hold that part of me in safe keeping inside of him. Then, maybe that part of me can live again. Maybe I can put my sons first again. But, they aren't first. Vengeance is. They haven't been first for a long time. Maybe seeing that reflection of me in my son, I can believe that the revenant can be held at bay and the father I am deep inside is still alive… that maybe John Winchester still exists somewhere in the reflection in the glass—if there is John Winchester somewhere in Dean, maybe he's here inside me, inside my cold, dead heart waiting to be brought back to life.

Dean turns away from the door, toward the room, toward the bed. He pauses for a moment, and then turns back to me.

"It's gonna be okay, Dad." He tells me solemnly. "You need to get some sleep, too."

I nod. I feel the burn behind my eyelids. I blink rapidly, turning away from him and swallow with difficulty. How does he do that? How does he bring out the human when all I want or need is the hunter? How does he manage to stay human when I keep putting this shit onto his young shoulders? How is he able to look out for all of us?

I look fondly at my son as he climbs on top of the covers next to his brother who is buried deep under blankets and sheets. I watch Dean adjust himself against the headboard leaving all but one pillow to his brother. He checks Sam, making sure the younger is breathing okay and not being smothered by the pile of coverings Sammy has managed to pull on top of himself. Dean checks Sam's temperature by the simple expedient of brushing hair from the sleeping boy's forehead. Then, I watch as my oldest child crosses his arms over his chest, cross one foot over the other and close his eyes. I had to shake my head in wonder.

He's a reflection of who I am, but he's also a reflection of who I was. He is Mary. Every touch of his long, slender fingers as he deliberately moves through the simple, every day mechanics is Mary. Each glance my way reminds me of the looks she gave to me, calling me out on some bullshit excuse I tried to pass by her. She used to look at me with those intense blue eyes: assessing, scrutinizing, analyzing.

Dean does that. Somehow, he makes connections of disparate pieces of information or observations. He analyzes situations, reads body language and adjusts strategies based on those observations. I had a staff sergeant like that. I can do it. So could Mary. But with Dean, he can do it with such facility and with such charm that he reminds me daily of his mom. They have a charisma I don't possess. Staff sergeant didn't either. We were never "people" people, staff sergeant and I. I make more enemies than friends. The friends I make are closer to temporary allies than anything else. I used to make friends. I was uncomfortable doing it, but I never actively antagonized people. That was the John Winchester from before—the one who died with his wife. Dean is able to elicit loyalty and friendship, even comfort when he puts forth the effort. The boy could charm the birds from the trees… though, he will more likely to charm the pants from a nun… I feel myself smile slightly.

No. I shut all those feelings down again. I put them back in that cold, hard box and lock it up.

I circle to the second bed in the room. I look at Sam sleeping, his face barely visible to me, the soft whuffling breaths push a corner of the sheet with each exhalation. I sit on the edge of the bed and watch him sleep. That softness in my heart keeps creeping out. It relentlessly refuses to stay locked away around my boys.

My hand moves of its own volition as I lean forward to sweep the stray brownish-blonde wisps of hair off Sam's sleeping face and peer down at the last great creation Mary and I made together. He has Mary's hair and my stubborn will. He's smart like his mother. He speaks his mind like she did, but he's often quiet like me—introspective. He leads with his heart, wears it out there for Dean and I to see, but he can explode in fury… passionate and wild. That is who I was as well, a long time ago. That bit of me was tamed and harnessed by the Corps.

I need to reign in this emotional outpouring and lock them away. The hunter needs to stay at the fore. I have work to do and I can't afford the luxury of the love I have indulged in with my boys. I need to…

I need to…

I look up as I sit back on my bed's edge. Dean is looking directly into my eyes. He doesn't say a word but he speaks volumes with the words he doesn't say. I can see love and wonder as he gazes at me. He has a pride that I'm his dad that I can't fathom.

Then, I remember he is a mirror. He reflects the things I have undoubtedly expressed with regards to Dean. The glass shatters, spilling inside me. I want him to feel that about me. I want to be the man Dean reflects at me. I want to earn it and I want it to be true.

I feel the hot tears fill my eyes. I feel my mouth curve upwards as I contemplate my first-born son. My heart hurts with the effort to keep my true self away from the boys.

As the first fat drop hits my hand lying slack, hanging from a loose wrist resting on my knee, I feel those barriers crash down. I gasp urgently, pulling as much air as I can into my lungs as if I had been submerged in deep, dark waters and only now am I breaking the surface. My hands fly to cover my face as it bows low beneath my shoulders. I sob quietly, struggling to keep them from wracking my abused body too much.

Then, I feel the dip next to me. A warm weight leans against my side; a long slender arm drapes my shoulders and pulls me toward him. I hear soft murmurs and can't process the meaning or form of the words and phrases whispering to me. Dean's tone is almost amused but is also concerned and supportive. It's like he understands how fruitless trying to deny my humanity is and finds it entertaining.

What my son is cooing in my ear is difficult to determine—but, the intent becomes clear as he pushes me gently onto my bed. He pulls off my boots as I struggle to pull myself together, to slow my breath and staunch the free-flowing tears.

I feel the blanket pulled over my body up to my chin. I slowly feel myself calm and my mind becomes unfocused as I feel Dean's fingers card through my hair briefly.

"Good night, Dad." He whispers to me. "See you in the morning."

I hear him resume his place next to Sam. I can hear the rustle of fabric, the scuff of denim over poly-cotton sheets, the whisper of skin folding over skin, the soft creak of mattress springs and the contented sigh of Dean's breath.

"Good night, Dean." I say to my son, my voice peculiarly pitched and nasal as I sniff.

Dean is the mirror of the man I want to be, but I need to watch for the revenant that sleeps inside of me. I have to keep the balance between human and hunter else I become what I hunt. I hope my boys can help me maintain that balance. I feel my breaths become slower and my mind fog even more. I have long drive in the morning. This is a reflection for another time. Now, is the time for sleep.