A/N: I was inspired to write this after reading through John's journal at It's just my short interpretation of what might have been going through the mind of pappa winchester after the fire.
The night seemed to drag on forever for Jonathon. Watching the boys sleep, the widower allowed his mind to drift. He thought back to Mary, to her soft voice and inviting touch. Whenever she spoke, John was lost in a fantasy world.
Now he lived a nightmare. Friends reassured him things would get better, his pain would heal and he'd eventually find someone new. None of them realized how one of a kind Mary was. None got to see what John saw. The way she smiled every morning making breakfast, or the way she sang little Sammy to sleep every night.
No one could ever replace Mary, John thought. He rubbed a work-worn hand over his eyes. The clock on the wall read two a.m. John wished it'd stay like that for eternity, and yet waited desperatley for the first sign of daybreak.
Ever since the fire, John felt an apprehension to night. The first three nights after the accident, he lyed in bed, tossing and turning, reaching for an absent body. Eventually, he gave up and chose to watch over his sons instead.
Morning would end the unusual dread, but it brought with it the sorrow of two little boys. John tried everything in his power to get Dean to talk. To say something, anything. But the four year old wouldn't budge. His mouth remained locked and his eyes focused on the ground, never crying.
Sammy, on the other hand, cryed more than any six month old should. From the moment he woke to the second he fell asleep, his little lungs wailed a sorrowful tune. John only tried to calm him half-heartedly. Deep down, he felt Sam's outbursts of pain were reflections of his feelings. And John felt he had no right to stop the child from dealing with the loss, if he didn't have Dean looking up to him, he might have joined Sam.
There was only one way to stop the six-month old from crying.
His older brother.
John didn't get it. He would rock Sammy in his arms for minutes on end, a bottle of milk always nearby, but to no avail. The father would try everything, food, toys, he even held a photo of Mary to his face once, but nothing ended the tears. Until Dean, his four year old feet making soft padding sounds on the wooden floor, would enter the room.
John would always have him sit just like Mary taught him, back straight, arms up high. By that point, Dean had learned the technique, but dared not inform his dad of that, and John never stopped telling him. He'd then place the baby in Dean's arms, which usually had some form of dirt on them. John would stand aside and watch mournfully as little Sam's sobs quieted to gulps, and eventually, content breathing.
As John sat that evening in a wooden desk chair, the clock hand's turning to two ten, he ran through the reasons Dean had the magic touch and he did not.
The truth was, John never spent too much time with Sam. From the moment of his birth, the kid was his mother made over. Mary always joked around and said Dean got all of John's traits, and as the months passed the father began to believe there was some truth in it.
Dean obeyed John unquestioningly. When John's truck pulled into the driveway at the end of the work day, Dean would run outside, ready to do John's every bidding. Whether it be to pick up his toys or help Mary change Sam's diaper, Dean carried out. Naturally, John came to having an unexplained attachment to the son.
Most evenings John would take the football in the front yard and teach Dean how to catch and throw, while Mary watched from the sidelines, at first with a crossword puzzle in her hand, then later, Sam.
Even after Sam's birth, John seemed content to let Mary play peek-a-boo with him while John listened to Dean's hopes of being a fireman. He'd sit in on the side of Dean's bed, surrounded by firetrucks and dalmations on the walls and bed and encourage his son, hearing faintly the sound of Sam's laugh, followed by one from Mary.
John tried to justify with his own mind as headlights passed by the window, illuminating both children's faces for a moment. It wasn't that he loved Sam less. The child just had a temper about him Mary believed came from him. Mary told John one night, wrapped in his arms on the couch after a tiring battle of an irritable baby, that both the guys wanted to be in charge. Sam wanted to have his way, and John wanted to be able to control the crying.
John argued that wasn't the case, Sam was only a few months old, he couldn't be resistant to his father's guidance yet. But as the man watched the fading lights, he knew Mary was right. Sam behaved for Dean because he felt Mary in him. He felt the gentleness she had given him, and he knew Dean was a safehouse for him. There had been times when John had walked past Sam's room in the middle of the night, only to find Dean hovering over Sam's crib. Upon being asked what he was doing, Dean would always answer, "I'm making sure he's okay, Dad. Mommy always says she's tired, and I want to make sure, if Sammy wakes up, I can take care of him, so Mommy can sleep."
John never forgot that statement. It was the same one Dean used whenever John found him there. For awhile he debated moving the two into the same room, and wondered now why he hadn't.
A soft stir from Dean and John was on his feet. The boy just needed to roll unto his other side, John sat back down, feeling foolish. He wanted to do something, but couldn't find the energy. Work seemed a far-off nuisance, just as finding a new home was.
What he really wanted to do was find closure. Search for the answers to Mary's death, search for reasons.
John felt the heartwrenching pain his chest. Memories of Mary filled his mind. The way she looked on their wedding day, with her long blonde hair flowing, and eyes sparkling. He remembered her when she slept, on her side, one arm tucked neatly under her head. He also remembered the way she she loved him, something that made his life complete.
Anger followed those mental pictures. He'd find who had done this, he'd get vengance.
As the early morning light flooded the bedroom, John made his way to the door. Dean must never know he was there, that would lead to endless questions and an angry response from him. But staring at the only things he had left in this world he knew there was only one thing that would keep him from going completely insane with rage.
Those children. Dean and Sam. As much as he wanted to get ahold of Mary's killer, he wanted to keep those two safe. They were the reason he kept grounded, they were the reason he didn't do what he wanted to do the night of November 3rd, when he saw his gun among the remains of his house.
John knew those two were the only thing keeping Mary's memory alive, and he promised himself he wouldn't bring them down with his own self-torture.
That morning, before Sam's crys filled the house and silent Dean followed his dad around, John believed he could live up to that promise. To give his sons a good, normal life. To start putting money back into their college fund, to get Dean enrolled in a sport's team.
He knew it was a farfetched idea, his heart knew he was too deep into his own pain to return to being hopeful, but for that quiet hour he chose to believe it. He chose to pretend for that hour that thirty years from now he'd have a firefighter and a scholar as sons, and they'd have families of their own.
"Yes, my boys'll be something. I'll find Mary's murderer, and raise them the best I can. Mary's the only thing I put before them, so guess now their my top priority," John whispered to himself that early morning, just days before he went on a walk and found Missouri.