So... lesson learned the hard way. Back your all of your work up in case... idk your computer crashes and takes with it all of the documents that essentially make up your life. I know its been years (literally) since I updated this story, and it had something to do with losing the last few chapters and being too frustrated/annoyed/etc. to sit back down and write them. But since I've had a bit of time lately, and motivation, I've re-written them and I'm going to finish this up! Hope you enjoy.

TWO DAYS IN (JOHN'S POV)

John was staring out the window of Dean's room, it was gray and rainy outside, cold too. Kinda like his son, John mused as he shot a sweeping glance over his oldest.

"I'd be willing to bet you haven't seen the rain in a while." Johns voice was low, melancholy as he watched the water run in long trails down the window.

Dean shrugged, noncommittal, "I guess." His voice still sounded off to John, unfamiliar.

John straightened up, clearing his throat. This kid, no, this man, in front of him had never before been so distant in his life. John had always been so lucky in the past to know exactly how to extort emotional information from his kid (something unfortunately for Dean Sam had also picked up on fairly early on in his life). It wasn't hard after all when Dean had always been his shadow, practically falling over himself to gain his approval. But this… the way Dean had been acting was… uncharacteristic to say the least. Here and now—this wasn't the same version of Dean and John wasn't convinced he stood a chance at breaking him down. "How's the leg today?"

"It's fine."

"You wanna tell me how that happened?"

"Not really."

"IED?"

"No."

Well, then. John sighed, "You wanna throw me a rope here Dean? I'm drowning."

After a few moments of silence, he watched Dean shake his head as if he were trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind.

"You just as well say it." John stood, moving in and pressing Dean for more information, "I can take it."

Dean looked restless, edgy.

John knew whatever it was, was on the tip of Dean's tongue.

Again Dean shook his head, scrubbed a hand over his hair and scowled. "I called you before I deployed."

John felt his chest tighten. Suddenly it felt as if all the air had been let out of the room. Shit, time to man up and take it. "I recall. I got the message." That message was still on his phone.

"Yeah, well, surprise!" Deans tone was sardonic, "You didn't call me back."

"Wow." He countered, because well, it was the only thing he could think to say. Shaking his own head, John nodded, a reckless grin crossing his face. Dean was definitely pulling the 'Sam card' right about now; attitude and blame directed squarely at him. Again, John thought, this version of Dean was so much different- very uncharacteristic. "You're right."

"That's it?" Dean's eyes widened, disbelief written plain as day across his face. "I called asking you for advice and you couldn't possibly be bothered?"

John hesitated, thought for a moment and exhaled, "What do you want Dean? Would it make you feel better if I say I was busy on a hunt? Out of cell phone range?"

Dean nodded. His expression was angry, confused. "No, you know, screw you. It doesn't really matter anyway. I just want to know why you're here now."

I USE TO HATE THE RAIN

Dean stared hard at his father. After two plus years it was hard not to look at his father in a different light. Not long ago he would have done pretty much anything the man would have asked of him. Right now, he didn't even know how he felt about him.

Exhaling Dean swallowed hard and stared up at the ceiling above him, avoiding any eye contact. Honest to god, he had missed his dad, but he was pissed. Angry that he was laid up in a hospital, livid that his friends were back in a war zone fighting without him, damn near falling apart at the seams knowing he'd missed Hanson's funeral, and frustrated at the man who had reappeared and instantly made him feel like the past two years of his life hadn't mattered.

"I use to hate the rain." John mused softly, sitting down, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his thighs.

Dean almost couldn't believe what he was hearing as he looked at his father, "Are you serious?" he asked, shifting uncomfortably, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice, "We're back to the rain? That's what you want to talk about? The goddamn rain?"

"There's a smell the rain carries." John replied starring at the floor as if he hadn't heard Dean at all. "I still catch it every now and then."

"You know— just stop Dad." Dean could feel his hands begin to shake, a flood of disappointing memories cascading over him, "I called you because I wanted you tell me what to do. I wanted you to tell me that everything was going to be fine. I wanted some fucking advice. That's it." Dean's voice nearly cracked as he stared in disbelief at his father. "And you couldn't even do that."

John turned and looked at him for a long moment, a sad tired smile crossing his face, "My only advice, and the reason I didn't call you back, Dean, was because the only thing I could think to say to you was 'just don't go'."

"Well that's awesome." Dean snapped, "You know, considering I didn't really have a choice in the matter at that point."

"Listen to me, son," His father's voice was quiet as he rested a hand on Dean's knee, patted it twice, and then retreated. "I don't know if I ever mistakenly gave you the impression that war was heroic. I don't know if you believed that killing monsters was anything like taking a human life or watching your friends slip away, but if I did I'm sorry for that. I feel like sometimes I failed to make a few points clear to you. Hunting is and will always be black and white. Good or evil. War is equivalent to shades of gray that are never clearly defined."

John cleared his throat and looked straight at Dean, "You should have seen your old man once upon a time Dean-o." John smiled after pausing for a moment, "I was eighteen and fresh out of high school when I decided to join the Marine Corps. Looking back I don't really know what made me do it, I just… did.

"I could have gone to college, and believe me I should have. But instead I went to Vietnam," John was staring intently out the window and Dean felt himself start to straighten up as he listened to his father's words. "If I could describe to you my idea of hell it would have been that place. I remember stepping off that chopper, taking one look around and I realized I had never wanted to go home so bad in my life. Maybe it was because I got there during monsoon season so the rain never seemed to stop. Half of my tour I was wet and miserable. Even still, that was still somewhat tolerable. What I never got used to was the way the rain smelled. It clung to you and carried the smell of death." John shook his head his voice dropping an octave, "To this day when it rains I sometimes catch that scent and it throws me right back in time."

Dean watched as his father sat motionless at the edge of the bed, dropping his gaze to the floor for a long moment before exhaling and looking back up at Dean, "So you're right I didn't answer your phone call. I didn't call you back. There was nothing I could say that would make what you were about to walk into 'fine'." John inhaled, his face changing, darkening as he spoke, "Because the way the rains smells right now, Dean, if I let it, it still has the power to make me sick. So those nightmares you've been having, those moments where you don't know where the hell you are; whether I called you back or not I could have never made any of it 'fine'."

Dean wasn't entirely sure how he was supposed to respond to that bit of revelation. His head was pounding, nightmarish visions of his own time in his own version of hell scrolling through his head.

John drug in a slow deep breath, returning his hand to Dean's knee, " Your friend Hanson, he didn't make it, did he?"

Dean exhaled, raising his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, "No."

John nodded, squeezing Dean's leg, reassuring and comforting as his eyes rose to meet and lock on Dean's. "I am sorry Dean."