"I need to talk to you," Sam said as he entered his father's bedroom, his head down, eyes watching his shoes, "outside."
"I can't leave," John muttered, something in the tone of his voice making Sam raise his head in alarm. The older man was laying on his bed, arms crossed under his pillows, staring morosely up at the ceiling.
"What?"
"I tried to, last night," he said, "I got in the truck after you boys fell asleep and I tried to get out of town. I made it about a mile outside the Clarkson limit before I just couldn't take it anymore. This feeling… like something was wrong back here, like something could happen. I had to come back." He sat up, his eyes wide, staring at Sam. "I can't leave."
"You're imagining things," Sammy suggested, trying on a fake smile, "you've been under a lot of stress lately. Coming home in the middle of the night to find an adult where a preteen was the week before can do that to a person."
John shook his head. "I'm not even sure how I got here in the first place. It's a blur. You think it was the gypsies?"
"I think you need a vacation," Sam stated simply, crossing the room and grabbing his father's arm. He struggled to get the older man off of the bed. "Some fresh air'll do you good. Trust me."
"I can't-"
"We'll stay inside the city limits, I swear. I just want to talk to you."
John finally gave up his struggle and let himself be pulled from the room. Sam caught his brother's eye as he headed out the door and knew instantly that Dean was thinking the same thing he was. Their father was probably drunk. If that was the case, then Sam had been right; some fresh air would so him some good.
"Where we going?" John asked as they walked down the tiny house's compact driveway, past the Impala and a newer-looking version of John's rust bucket of a truck.
"Window shopping," Sam replied, glad that he no longer had to pull his father along. John just shrugged, which his son took as a good sign. If he had, indeed, been drunk, he probably would have mentioned the fact that they neither needed nor had the money to afford new windows.
"What do you want to talk to me about?" John asked after a silence that lasted from the edge of the driveway to the edge of Main Street.
"Just wanted to say that I'm sorry for picking a fight last night. It's not my place."
"You're right. It's not." John admitted as he glanced into the store windows that lined the slippery sidewalks, "but I'm just as much to blame."
Sam nearly fell backwards. "What?"
"It was late, I was tired and confused and… it just wasn't a good time. For either of us."
"Wow," the younger man marveled, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked through the bustling town with his father, ducking to avoid low-hanging Christmas decorations that had been draped over light poles, "never thought I'd hear you say anything like that. Makes me wonder, what is it about Christmas that brings out the honesty in people?"
"Maybe it's not Christmas," John ventured, "maybe it's you."
"Me?"
"Yeah," the older man nodded, "you. You just look trustworthy for some reason. Innocent. You always have. It could come in useful."
"You're saying that people trust me because I look like I can be trusted?"
"Exactly. And it's not just that. No offence or anything, but at twelve, you were a handful. To tell the truth, it's actually kinda nice having another adult to talk to."
"Well, there's Dean," Sam pointed out.
John shook his head. "I don't think so."
"Oh, come on. He's responsible and trustworthy, and as much an adult as you are."
"Usually. Lately, though, I think he's been going through a phase or something."
"What kind of phase?"
His father sighed. "He's just been so selfish lately."
Sam fought back the urge to stop in his tracks, the statement seemed so ridiculous. Dean was the most selfless person Sam knew, no matter the time period. "You're kidding, right?"
"I know the kid's your hero," John said, exasperation sounding in his voice, "but that just blinds you to the truth."
"You're not around him as much as I am. You don't know him the way I do."
"I know that he's willing to do anything to get his way nowadays."
"Wanting to spend Christmas as a family doesn't make him selfish."
"It does when he whined and begged and blocked the door until I promised him I'd be home. It does when I'm planning on running a little late, on finishing up the hunt I'd prepared for because I got sidetracked by some gypsies and their werewolf problem. It does when I randomly wind up back at home with barely any memory of how I got there and he couldn't be happier."
"You think he had something to do with this?" Sam asked, struggling to keep from lashing out at the older man.
"I think he might have. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
"No. And I've spent every day with him since waking up here. He wouldn't have had time to go behind my back."
"What about before you got here?"
"He doesn't have anything to do with this," Sam said again, more forcefully this time, straightening up to his full height and staring down at his father, who look up at him with an unreadable expression.
"You got tall," he commented.
Sam sighed, letting his shoulders slump as he was hit with a painful sense of déjà vu. "Don't think I didn't consider it." Did that make Dean selfish? Or just angry and willing to throw a low blow?
"Yeah. I did." He glanced at his watch, suddenly realizing that he'd never asked his brother what time it was, if he'd had to reset it. "Um…"
"It's getting late," John muttered, "we should head back." Sam nodded his agreement and followed his father as the older man turned and pushed through the crowds of bustling last-minute shoppers.
He had to wonder, as he followed the father he'd lost almost two years before through a year he'd left behind in his attempt to flee his past, if maybe John was right. Dean had had a hand in keeping their father in town for the holidays, so who was to say that he wouldn't try something a little more extreme?
Of course, the young hunter's mind argued with him on that point. This was Dean. He was selfless. He cared too much about others and not enough about himself. He was willing to spend Christmas and birthdays and every days alone in order to do what he believed to be right by his brother and father. He had long ago given up any selfish wants for them. He was bullied by Sam's friends, lied to by his own father. No, he wouldn't resort to extremes to get what he wanted. He preferred to suffer alone and in silence. He wouldn't drag anyone else down with him.