The familiar purr of the Impala's engine was drowned out by the radio, which emitted some equally comforting classic rock music from one of Dean's many cassette tapes. Dean wasn't consciously aware of which song it was, or even of the singer, just that it helped him find temporary peace in such dark times. It was one of his many ways of coping with the unbearable problems he was forced to deal with on a daily basis, other than drowning his sorrows in strong whiskey and pushing away the people he loved most, and who thought of him in very much the same way. The newly replaced tyres screeched like tortured parrots as the Winchester burned rubber down the highway in the late afternoon. He wasn't in a particular rush, however he wanted this stage of agony and pain to be over as quickly as possible; plus, he knew that, despite having a couple hours maximum disadvantage, Sammy would soon catch up.
At around quarter to twelve at night, Dean had arrived at his destination: Lawrence, Kansas. But he wasn't quite at the right place yet. Driving rather leisurely through the streets of his childhood town, he relived a few of his happiest memories, back when their mother was alive and there were no demons or monsters or evil – not to them, at least. He drove past the park where John had first taught him the rules of football, where they had had picnics once a week together as a family; he drove past the diner where John had treated him to his first burger, the day he had first fallen in love with food; he drove past the hospital in which Sam was born, where Dean had burst into tears of joy at seeing his beautiful baby brother and sworn to protect him for the rest of his life. Finally, he reached his true location. His childhood home, in which he had lived for the first four years of his life with baby Sammy and their wonderful parents. There it stood, currently uninhabited, the pale green paint peeling away from the foundations, a couple of windows boarded up due to the reckless and destructive actions of mindless vandals, the creepy old tree looming intimidatingly over the overgrown lawn. Yet the front door remained exactly the same as Dean remembered – sturdy and resolute, the russet overcoat intact, seemingly no rust tainting the metal door handle or letterbox, not from a distance, anyway. After a few minutes of reminiscing and falling into the inevitable pit of nostalgia, Dean realised there was no point in delaying. He had to get this over with.
Stepping purposefully out of the car, the creaking of the door pursuing him, Dean approached the house, confidently at first, then somewhat more tentatively as he got closer. It was only when his face was centimetres away from the door when he noticed every single blemish, every crack and mark on the front door. But still he managed to find comfort in his old house; after all, it's the little flaws that make something perfect.
There was no need to pick the lock – the door was already open, as no-one lived there. Dean gently grasped the handle and strode in, closing it shut as quietly as possible behind him. He stood still for a moment, breathing in abandoned house musk, yet he detected an underlying scent that he recognised from his time spent living there from twenty-six years ago. Feeling himself slip back into nostalgia, the Winchester straightened up, snapping back to reality as his mission came flooding back. The actual plan was to drive back to his old house, knowing that John would hitch a ride too (he figured the object keeping him there as a spirit was on Dean somewhere, since he appeared anywhere where he was), and hoping that all the good memories of their happy family years due to supernatural nescience would neutralise him somehow. The unexpected familiar surroundings certainly irked the spirit's curiosity; John materialised in front of Dean just as he stepped into Sam's old nursery. This time, Dean addressed his father first.
"Dad. I was hoping you'd follow me here. Counting on it, actually." His son stated anxiously, carefully studying his dad's expression as he swept his gaze around the room. He didn't have to wait long for a verbal response. Surprisingly, it was one of utter bewilderment.
"Why are we here, son? Do you think the cure for your brother's addiction is here?" John's tone soon turned forceful again, yet with an undeniable hint of admiration and disbelief at the idea of his son finally obeying him and finding a way to help Sammy. Dean's face fell immediately as he realised that as soon as he admitted he had no cure, his dad would turn all vengeful spirit on him again. However, he knew he had to answer to John, or he would get even angrier.
"Uh, well… No, but-"
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, NO?" At that outburst, the lone light bulb swaying above Dean's head erupted in a violent spark of orange and every door in the house slammed shut; the sinister clicking sound of the front door locking could clearly be heard. There was no way out. Dean's head whipped from side to side as he spun around, searching for another exit, but the window was also securely locked. As he turned back to face his father, the most malicious grin began crawling across John's face. A chuckle that could turn milk sour rumbled inside him, and soon exploded from between his lips as a fully-fledged bout of purely evil laughter. The younger Winchester of this situation was now irrevocably terrified as he stared at the spirit (he could hardly be called his dad now) with eyes as wide as fearful saucers and his mouth hanging open slightly in utter helplessness. After an eternity filled with terror and dreaded anticipation, John spoke in a scarily calm voice, one corner of his mouth still turned upwards in a malevolent smirk.
"So, you mean to tell me that you dragged us both a couple states over, for nothing? That you completely ignored my orders and still haven't found a way to help your brother?" A moment of silence ensued (Dean assumed the question was rhetorical), until the ghost chuckled darkly once again, sighed, tilted his head to one side and continued. "Oh, Dean… When will you ever learn?"