A/N: THANK YOU to everyone who's been reading and reviewing, you don't know how much I appreciate it and how incredibly joyful it makes me. I am so sorry I haven't been responding regularly to reviews, but I'm still not quite done with my finals (thus the lateness of this chapter), and I've been slacking off with the responses because for some reason my computer takes forever to load the response-thingy on . You could always read me on my LJ (roque_clasique) because I respond to everything there due to technological ease. But know that once finals are done I will be much more forthcoming in expressing my gratitude to you all.

***

The parking lot of the restaurant is full, and John has to cruise around for a while to find a parking spot, while Dean and Sam slide into the handicapped space right in front of the door.

Dean's glad his father's occupied, because it gives him time to get out of the car without John there to watch him struggle upwards and lean against the Impala while Sam reaches around for his crutches. It's not just that John makes Dean aware of every move his body makes, of the trouble he has getting up, of the way he shifts his weight, how he has to grab onto the car or Sam for support – it's more that Dean is all of a sudden far too aware of how he used to move, how he moved when his father last saw him. It's something he thinks about a lot, sure, but it's become an almost absentminded This sure would be easier if I could walk type of thing, and this a completely different story, having his father there to stare, to measure so clearly the gap between the way his body used to work and this parody of a functioning person that he is now.

"You shouldn't even be outta bed," Sam says as Dean pushes himself up from the Impala with a grimace, settles himself on his crutches. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"The hip's getting better," Dean says, which is actually true, the pain less fierce and concentrated and more like the normal ache he'd become accustomed to before a few weeks ago, his range of motion coming back a little. "And Sam, if these aren't extenuating circumstances, I don't know what are."

He tracks the pickup as John weaves in and out of the parking lanes. He had thought, stupidly, like a little kid, that if they could just find their father, everything would be better, magically, would blossom and transform under John's touch. But it sure as hell doesn't feel better – if anything, it feels worse. He realizes that, all this time, however badly he wanted to see his father, he never thought about what it would be like for his father to see him.

"Think I have time for a cigarette before the old man gets that thing parked?" he asks Sam.

"No." Sam nudges his chin in the direction of John, across the parking lot, climbing out of the truck.

John raises his eyebrows as he comes towards them. "How come you boys got the money spot, huh?"

"Handicapped parking," Sam says, and Dean winces a little at his brother's confrontational tone, doesn't look at his father.

As they come up to the restaurant, he – and Sam, out of force of habit – takes the ramp instead of attempting the steep cement steps, and he can feel his father's eyes on him as John climbs the stairs, stops at the top to watch them come up the ramp. Jesus, this is like fucking torture, shit he thought he'd come to terms with a long time ago ripped into the light and re-examined, old wounds torn open. He brushes past his father and brother, shoulders the door open and holds it; it's pathetic, he knows, but he needs to feel like he can do something right now.

The restaurant is a familiar kind of dark-wooded establishment with moose heads on the walls and beer served in huge German steins, the type of place that's going for rustic but gives itself away with the quality of the silverware, the perfectly modulated glow of the chandeliers. May as well have a neon sign flashing overpriced.

The hostess, who's actually a whip-thin teenage boy with too much hair gel, leads them to a booth in the back, half-bows as he backs away after depositing their menus.

Dean can sense John staring again as Sam takes his crutches for him, as Dean slides carefully into the booth, one hand flat on the table, the other gripping the top of the headrest. He and Sam, they've gotten used to these little things (big fucking things), things like ramps, and handicapped parking spots, and a couple extra seconds 'til Dean can get settled in his seat – but it's all new for John, and Dean feels his skin prickle under his father's gaze. It doesn't help that his leg is killing him, a steady, exhausting pound that vibrates through his whole body. The Vicodin will kick in soon, but for now Dean can't help but grimace a little as he tries to get comfortable.

"You okay?" John asks uncertainly.

"Yeah," Dean says, tries not to wince as he shifts to get the weight off his hip.

Their waitress appears, all in black, a little overly eye-linered and concealered for Dean's taste, but she's pretty cute so he gives her the once-over anyway, grins slow as she blushes.

"Hey there, my name's Shawna, I'll be your waitress for the evening, how're you boys doing tonight?" she asks, hip cocked, pencil and pad at the ready.

"Great," John and Sam say in chorus, though she's only really looking at Dean.

Yeah, Dean thinks at his father. This, I still got.

"Can I start you off with some drinks?"

"What's your most expensive brand of Scotch?" Sam asks with a small, wicked smile aimed at John.

"Expensive? Uh… we have a lovely Highland Park, aged 18 years, at 11.50 per—"

"I'll take a double, neat," Sam says, dimples up at her as she writes down the order.

"I'm gonna have to see some I.D.," she says apologetically, and Dean and John both snort as Sam flushes a little, digs around in his wallet.

"And for you?" she asks Dean. "What'll it be tonight?"

"I'll take a Stella on tap," he says, cocks an eyebrow. "Unless you can recommend something better."

"We've got a great Free State Brew," she says. "If you ask me, the local stuff's always the best."

"Gotta agree with you, there," he drawls, flicks his eyes up her body a little. "All right, then, Shawna. Gimme a Free State."

She nods, blushing a little, then says, "And… I need to see your I.D., too. Sorry. Policy."

Now it's Sam's turn to laugh as Dean widens his eyes, feels for his wallet.

John orders a Free State as well, cocks his head at Shawna. "Aren't you gonna ask to see my I.D.?"

"Uh," she stutters, "can I see—"

John laughs, flashes his driver's license mockingly. Or, José Rimbaud's driver's license.

"Appetizers?" she squeaks. "Have you had a chance to look at our appetizers?

"Mozzarella sticks," Sam says. "And buffalo wings. And potato skins with extra bacon."

She writes fast to get it down, and Dean's stomach turns at the thought of all that food. He's hungry, but he just has no fucking appetite. Jesus, those anti-depressant things better do something about this, because he loves food, he really does, and he misses it. Not to mention the fact that he has to buckle his belt tighter each morning, jaw sharper and sharper under his hand every time he shaves.

"So," Sam says when she's gone, leans forward over the table, and Dean realizes that his brother's already a little tipsy. Like Dean said, extenuating circumstances… but he realizes that he can't think of the last day they passed where Sam didn't drink just a little too much. And Dean's been too wrapped up in his own bullshit to really say anything, 'cause he's a fucking selfish bastard who doesn't deserve any of the shit that Sam does for him every fucking day. And he's supposed to be watching out for the kid. Jesus, he's fucking up left and right. John must be able to see it.

"So," John echoes, folds his arms across the table, matches Sam's stare.

"So, what the hell have you been doing since South Dakota?" Sam asks.

John sighs, runs a hand over his face, and for a moment Dean's sure he's just gonna give the standard John Winchester need-to-know-basis bull, but he says, "I've been tracking the thing. Keep picking up its trail and then losing it – every time I get close it's like the path goes dead, clues go cold. Fucker's smart. Real smart. And –" his eyes flick briefly to Dean, "and it's hard, working alone."

"Well, that was your own fucking choice," Sam snaps, predictably.

"Yeah," John says quietly. "Doesn't make it any easier, though."

Dean occupies himself with shredding his napkin into perfect strips, pretending that his eyes aren't suddenly stinging. He and Sam, they make a great team, but when they first left Stanford, he missed working with his father so badly that at times he wanted to scream at his brother for not being John. Because Dean and John, they have – had – what he and Sam are only just beginning to develop; working off one another, picking up the other's ideas and piecing them together into something right, unspoken conclusions being drawn, simultaneous realizations.

And fighting – jesus, the way they fought, together. He was never afraid when Dad was at his back, confident that his father would never let anything hurt him, that he would never let anything hurt his father. They'll never fight like that again, side by side, and that's something Dean's never really let himself think about before, the loss of that perfect rhythm, the only time when he felt his father was really aware of him, proud of him.

"Tell us what you know," Sam demands.

"Not a hell of a lot," John says. "It's a demon. Goes after women, mainly, but sure doesn't balk at killing anything else."

"So there's been other women killed the same way," Sam says. "On the ceiling."

His father nods, strangely hesitant. "Yeah."

"Do you know why he goes after who he does? Why Mom? Why Jess?"

John shakes his head ruefully. "No idea," he says, but Dean sees a shadow cross his face. He's holding something back. Knows something.

"You know how to kill it?" Sam asks.

"I'm workin' on figurin' that out," John says. "I've got some leads, but… none that have panned out."

Dean rubs his temples, wishes he had brought along that fucking nicorette gum.

John looks at him, opens his mouth like he's about to say something, but just then Shawna appears with their drinks.

"Here you go," she says, carefully lowering glasses and bottles onto their table.

Dean smiles his thanks, leans back in his seat a little, Vicodin finally kicking in.

"Okay, we got the mozzarella sticks right here," she says, placing a grease-stained basket in front of Sam, "and the rest should be along shortly. You guys ready to order?"

They haven't even glanced at their menus.

"Maybe give us a few minutes," John says.

"Sure thing," she perks, gives Dean another quick smile then sashays away.

Sam takes a swallow of the scotch, rubs his throat, and Dean sees, for the first time, the livid bruise around his neck, hidden before by the collar of his jacket and the dim motel lighting.

"Jesus, Sam," he says, reaching to tilt his brother's chin up. "What the fuck happened here?"

"Nothin'," Sam says, "don't worry."

"Sure doesn't look like fuckin' nothing. Looks like something tried to strangle you."

"It did," Sam says shortly, gulps his scotch, reaches for a mozzarella stick.

"What? Why didn't you tell me? You all right?"

"Dude, I'm fine," Sam says, shrugging out from Dean's hands. He shoves the basket of mozzarella sticks towards him. "Eat," he says menacingly.

"He's okay, Dean," John says. "Little bruised, that's all."

Dean squeezes the bridge of his nose, takes a sip of his beer. If he'd've been at the house with Sam, this probably wouldn't have happened. But he was lounging around in bed, no doubt watching that stupid wife swapping show or some other shit. Jesus, does his father think it's always like this? Sam out hunting while Dean stays in the room? It's just bed rest, he wants to say, but that sounds lame in and of itself.

The waitress comes back with the rest of their appetizers, holds up her pad and pen questioningly.

"We ready to order?" Sam asks, and John and Dean shrug.

"I'll take the most expensive steak on the menu," Sam says. "With the most expensive sides."

"Okaaaay," Shawna says, lip quirking a little as she writes it down.

"I'll have what he's having," John says calmly, and Sam glares at him.

"I'll take a burger," Dean says. "Cheeseburger." The thought of hacking into a giant slice of bloody steak makes his stomach churn. Wait, seriously? Fuck. There really is something wrong with him.

"Fries or mashed potatoes?"

"Uh, whatever. Mashed potatoes." They might go down easier.

Sam glances at him like he's reading his mind, pushes the plate of potato skins towards him in an unspoken command, and Dean takes one grudgingly, chews a bite and manages to swallow it.

Sam finishes his $25 glass of scotch, eyes Dean's beer. "How's that Free State stuff?"

"It's all right," Dean says, gestures for Sam to try it.

"Not bad," Sam says, licking foam off his upper lip. "I'm going to the bathroom. If you see the waitress, order one of those for me?"

"Okay," Dean says, watching as Sam pushes himself up from the table and makes his way towards the back. He's about to be alone with his father for the first time in eight months, and his palms start to sweat, heart starts to lurch. He stares at Sam's retreating form, thinks about excusing himself to go outside and have a smoke, so he doesn't have to be here with –

"Dean," John says, snaps his fingers.

Dean looks at him with some difficulty, pastes a nonchalant look on his face. "Yeah?"

"Son, you said more to that waitress in three minutes than you've said to me in two hours. Is she cuter than me, or somethin'?"

Dean smirks, wants to make a joke but can't quite remember how. Jesus, if he could just smoke a cigarette in here…

"Judging by your message, I thought you'd be a bit more talkative."

Dean winces, rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah…" he says. "Turns out it's a lot easier talking to a message machine."

John's face falls a little. "Dean… I—"

Dean makes a chopping motion with his hand, shakes his head.

"Don't," Dean says, willing Sam to come back. "It's fine, Dad."

"It's not fine," John says in frustration. "Just talk to me, would you, goddammit? Jesus, I can't get your brother to shut up, but you won't say a word?"

"What the hell do you want me to say?" Dean explodes, too loud, trying desperately to shake the tension curled around his chest. "I told you I forgive you, it's done, it's fine, I'm fine, you're fine, Sam – well, Sammy's fuckin' pissed off, but he'll get over it and he'll be fine, too. What can I say to you, huh? What do you want from me?" He thumps the table involuntarily and the glasses rattle.

John is silent for a moment, then says, "I just want you to talk to me. I thought about you boys a lot, tried to imagine.... I wanna know what it's been like for you, Dean. Hunting. With Sammy, and with…" he gestures awkwardly.

"With my leg fucked up," Dean supplies, all of a sudden completely sick of beating around the bush, sick of feeling ashamed. "Well, we haven't let anyone die yet, so it's goin' all right."

"So you've been… I mean, you and Sam—"

"Yeah, Dad," Dean says. "I've been hunting. I didn't go out today 'cause," he shrugs tightly, shakes his head, "I've got this thing, supposed to stay in bed for a few days. But normally? Yeah. I've been hunting, same as always."

"Except it's not the same as always."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Right."

"How—"

"Look, Dad, if you really wanted to know this shit, you coulda called anytime and asked, okay? I don't think I owe you any explanations. I sure as hell never got any from you." He feels the old anger spark up again, bypass his shame and resignation, and he welcomes it like an old friend, lets it burn through him.

John winces, drags a hand along his jaw. "Dean. Why I took off – it's more complicated than your brother makes it out to be."

"Did I just sprout a mop off my head? Do I look like Sam to you? I get why you left. I even get why you didn't tell me, cause you're right, I would have wanted to come with you, keep hunting. Thing is, I was too fucked up to do anything about it, so even if you'da told me I wouldn'ta been able to follow you, but okay, I get that you didn't want to take that risk. Sorry to fuck it all up, 'cause I came after you anyway, but—"

"Dean," John says intently, leaning forward. "I didn't ditch you just 'cause I thought you'd slow me down. That's part of it, yeah, but only because you make me vulnerable in the first place – if I'm with you, or Sam, I'm that much weaker, that much more likely to make a stupid move based on emotion instead of tactics. And now, with, with, now that you—"

"Now that I can't walk," Dean prompts, "go ahead, you can say it, I'm not sensitive."

"Now that you can't get around like you could, I'd – we'd ­– be even more susceptible. Christ, when I left you, I thought I – I really thought I had it. Had the thing cornered. Thought I'd get the job done, over with, finally, after all these years, and then I'd come back and get you, figure out where to go from there. But it didn't work like that. And then – then it was too late to go back, and then you were at Bobby's, and I – I didn't want you—"

"Didn't want me hunting, right, you've said that," Dean says sarcastically. "But we've been hunting all this time, and you knew that, so why couldn't you have—"

"I didn't know you boys were hunting 'til Bobby told me about a month back," John says. "I knew you were lookin' for me, but I swear to god I had no idea you were hunting. If I'd have known…"

"What," Dean says, "you woulda shown up sooner?"

"Maybe," John says. "Yes. No. I don't know! Dean, tell you the truth, I'm shootin' blind here, Dean. Playin' it by fucking ear. I don't know what to do! I don't."

"You mean you don't know what to do with me," Dean snaps. "'Cause what the fuck are you supposed to do with—" he stops dead when he sees Sam, standing uncertainly before their table, half-full beer in hand.

"How long you been standing there?" Dean demands.

"Like, five seconds, dude," Sam says, placating. "I stopped at the bar and this guy would not stop talking to me." He slides into the booth, movements a little clumsy with alcohol, his bony hip slamming into Dean's bad right side with enough force to make Dean suck in a breath of air through his teeth, bend over a little.

"Sorry," Sam says, pats him on the back and then stuffs a buffalo wing in his mouth. He's used to it, hard to avoid knocking Dean the wrong way sometimes, and they both take it in stride, no big deal. This, this is what Dean wants from John, not the concerned look his father's throwing his way right now.

"You okay?" John asks, and Dean can feel his nostrils flare.

"I'm fine," he snarls. Goddammit he needs a cigarette, feels crazy, head going in a million directions at once. He just needs a minute to focus his thoughts, calm down a little, get some nicotine flowing through his blood.

No, Winchester. He squares his jaw. He can get through this dinner without a goddamn cigarette. First time his family's been together in four fucking years, and goddammit, all they do is fight. He just wants to have a conversation that doesn't involve someone yelling, Sam's harsh voice, his father's steely replies.

"Hey," Dean says, does everything he can to modulate his tone, make it peaceful. "Dad. You wanna know what it's been like, hunting?"

"Yeah," John says, "I do." Sam rolls his eyes, crunches hard on a mozzarella stick.

"Well, we can tell you some pretty weird fuckin' stories," Dean says. "You ever seen a Sauerkraut?"

"Schrekenhaut," Sam corrects automatically, just like Dean knew he would.

"The hell is that?" John asks, leans back with a half smile.

"Yeah, that's pretty much what we wanted to know," Dean says, launches into the story, pauses in places he knows Sam'll want to jump in, and at first his brother resists, but his geek brain can't take all the errors Dean's making, and he starts butting in as soon as Dean claims it's an Irish monster ("Listen to the name, you jerk, does that sound Irish to you?").

This, this has always been something Dean could resort to if he couldn't take the sniping between his father and brother anymore – hunt talk. Innocuous, easy-to-relate-to storytelling. And Dean is a master at this kind of story, can make even the simplest hunt seem interesting and ridiculous.

John soaks it up, laughs in all the right places, offers suggestions on what they should have done, starts telling a couple of his own stories, and Dean can feel Sam's shoulders un-tense beside him.

The food comes and they order more beer, Sam gets another $25 double scotch, but the smirk he gives his father is more toned-down, less malice and more mockery. They both know the money doesn't really matter – it just means John's gonna have to toss one of his credit cards. But Sam's always needed something to make him feel like he's in control, got the upper hand.

There's silence for a while, as John and Sam tuck into their dinners, but it's a companionable we're-men-focused-on-food silence, not the frigid emptiness that Dean's always loathed. Sam reaches out a hand and rattles Dean's plate, and Dean sucks it up and gets down a couple bites of mashed potatoes, some of the burger. The food hits his empty stomach kind of hard, and he has to pause, drink some beer, breathe, before he continues, gets through about half the burger by the time Sam's mopping up the extra gravy on his empty plate.

"Not hungry?" John asks, and Dean shrugs.

"He's never hungry," Sam says darkly, and John looks at him.

"The meds," Dean says, waving his hand, sticks a forkful of gluey mashed potatoes in his mouth and chases them with a swig of beer.

" 'Snot," Sam mutters, and he's drunk, but he's not drunk enough to say anything else.

Dean leans back a little, hopes to god that Sam doesn't want dessert, because if he doesn't smoke a cigarette soon, he might start crying. No joke.

"Can I interest you boys in some desert?" Shawna asks brightly.

"Strawberry shortcake," Sam says, tongue a little thick in his mouth. "You got strawberry shortcake?"

"We have a strawberry-rhubarb pie with ice cream," Shawna suggests.

"That," Sam nods. "We wannit."

Okay, that's about enough. "Sam, scoot over," Dean says. "I'm goin' outside for a minute."

"Huh?" John says as Sam rolls his eyes, moves down the length of the booth. Dean pushes himself up a wince, grips onto Sam's shoulder for balance as he grabs his crutches, doesn't look at his father but doesn't look down, either, because fuck it, this is who he is, and it's not like his father doesn't already know. It's no secret.

"Where you goin'?" John asks.

"Be back in five," Dean says, starts to maneuver himself down the crowded aisle.

"The hell is he going?" he hears his father ask, hears Sam's answering bark of bitter laughter. He hopes to god they don't get into it while he's gone.

He's not used to smoking openly in front of his father, and it makes him vaguely uncomfortable, can't help looking around before he lights his cigarette, leaned up against the wall of the restaurant. It makes him nervous, John and Sam alone in there, 'cause they're either gonna start screaming at each other again, or they're gonna start talking about What Comes Next, and Dean's not sure which'll be worse.

Sam may butt heads with John, but it's only because they're more similar than either of them will ever realize. Same goddamn stubborn streak, same inability to see reason from anyone but themselves. Sometimes from Dean, if he plays it right. And now… now, that they've both lost the woman they love to the same demon, now that they're both bent on the same revenge… And hell, Dean wants to find the damn thing, too, spent his whole fucking life building up to it, it was his mother, after all… But Sam and his father, with their intensity, with their drive to find this thing… if they get to talking… there's only one conclusion they're gonna make. And Dean, he can't blame them, though his chest seizes up at the thought of being alone, again.

He takes a long drag, closes his eyes, shifts so he's leaning more weight off his bad side. He's pretty sure they'll talk to him first, before they take off – at least, he's sure Sam will, Sam, with that guilty, hangdog look he gets… Maybe they'll let him stick around, do some research, small-scale hunts. No. Wishful thinking. He's a liability and he knows it, John just said it, and Sam knows it too. They'll never let him come. And he won't go after them, not this time. He's learned his lesson.

He brushes a hand absently over his eyes, isn't surprised to find that he's teared up a little – these days, he's pretty much the biggest fucking crybaby in the world. But what the hell is he gonna do, after they go? Head up to Bobby's? No, that's too much like defeat. Keep hunting on his own. Little stuff. Do some exorcisms. He's hunted alone before, and he doesn't much like it, but it's preferable to the alternative, which is basically suicide, since he doesn't know what the hell else he'd do. Get a job? Fat chance. He knows himself to well to think he could stay in one place for enough time to keep a job. Besides, he'd probably get fired for sleeping with the boss's wife or something. Huh. Job'd be worth it for that story, come to think of it.

He finishes his cigarette, pretends for a second like he's not gonna smoke another, then gives in and shakes one from the pack, ducks his head to get it lit. The wind is cold, goes through his jeans and curls its fingers around his goddamn fucking fucked-up leg. Fuck. He presses a hand deep into his eye sockets, wills them dry, and they listen, for once. He tries to find a stance that doesn't send that sharp pain up his leg, can't, wonders who the hell designed a restaurant without a freaking bench outside. The world is against smokers. And dudes on crutches.

The door opens and, to his surprise, it's his dad and Sam, pulling their coats tighter against the wind, clutching two Styrofoam containers.

Dean takes the cigarette out of his mouth, breathes a guilty breath of smoke – it's clear it's his second, only just started. He said five minutes. It's been more.

"We got dessert to go," Sam says unsteadily. "An'… an' the resta your burger."

"Thanks," Dean says, takes a drag, doesn't move, gauging their faces, trying to figure out if they've talked.

"Come on," Sam says. He doesn't look anything but kind of drunk.

They pause at the Impala, Dean tossing his crutches in the back to lean on the roof, look at his father over the top of the car. He pulls on his cigarette, winces a little as Sam climbs in and slams the door too hard.

"You smoke those things in the car?" John asks. "I didn't give her to you so you could ruin her."

"Where you stayin' tonight?" Dean asks.

"Got a room at your motel," John admits. "Second floor."

Dean nods, hesitates.

"We'll talk tomorrow," John says, like he knows what Dean wants to ask. What now?

"All right," Dean says.

"Hey," John says, comes around the hood to where Dean's propped up.

"What?"

"I'm – it's good to see you, son."

Dean eases a lungful of smoke out into the air, looks over the parking lot. "Good to see you, too."

John moves forward like he might hug him, but Dean raises his cigarette to his mouth, arm crossed over his body in a pre-emptive block. He can't do that. Not right now. John nods a little.

"See you back at the motel."

"See you," Dean says, watches as his father goes over to the truck.

He lowers himself into the driver's seat, looks over to where Sam's already taken out the flask of whiskey, is sitting back with his eyes closed.

"Go easy, killer," Dean says, reaches and takes the flask, swallows, grimaces, screws the cap back on.

"Nothin's easy," Sam says mournfully, and Dean ruffles his hair a little.

"No shit, dude."

"I wanna hate 'im," Sam admits, eyes still closed, "but I don't."

"Good," Dean says. "He's our father."

"Whatever, man. He's a jackass."

"Maybe," Dean says, starts the car. He's looking forward to climbing back into that fucking bed, putting a pillow over his head, passing the fuck out. But he has a feeling he's not going to get much sleep tonight.

"Hey," Sam says. "You wanna…" he pauses. "You wanna see the old house?"

"What, now?"

"We're inna car."

"That's true."

"Les' jus' drive by it. I want… I wanna look at it with you."

Dean glances at his brother. "Okay."

They cruise through the back streets of Lawrence, and Dean wonders if things would look more familiar in the daylight. Probably not. He was four, for chrissakes. Even with his memory, which is, he'll admit it, exceptional, how much could he really remember?

Except… oh.

"You remember it?" Sam asks, looking up at the house.

"Yeah," Dean breathes, suddenly overwhelmed. For the first time in more than fifteen years, he remembers what his mother smelled like, the hand lotion she used to wear, the hardwood floors of their house, a red toy truck he would send flying under the couch and holler his head off until his father would retrieve it for him. Jesus, the things that stick in a kid's mind.

"Hey," Sam says, jars Dean out of his reverie. "Dean, what's that? What is that?"

Dean squints in the direction of Sam's finger, up towards the second floor window. There's a figure there, hands on the window, what's she doing? "It's…"

"It's Jenny," Sam says, and his voice is suddenly sober. "Fuck, get the fuck out of the car, now! We gotta get in there!"

"What? Sam, we—"

"That, right there?" Sam says, throwing open the door. "That's how I saw Jenny in my nightmare." He slams the door shut, rushes around to the back, and Dean, still skeptical, peers up at the window again.

Oh, fuck. She's screaming.

To be continued…