A/N: So, this chapter reveals Sam's last moments. All I can say is this. The whole story will come out-don't judge anything based just on this chapter.

There were two days on the calendar that John tried to avoid. May 2nd and July 15th.

When Sam and Dean had been younger, the only date on the calendar he felt could be pushed to the edge was November 2nd. While he still felt intense guilt and regret around that time, May 2nd and July 15th were a thousand times worse now.

May 2nd was Sam's birthday.

July 15th was the day he died.

And today was July 15th.

The problem was, with Ronnie here, John couldn't indulge his feelings the way he really wanted to. He'd never entirely stopped drinking, no matter what Dean thought. He simply saved up his drinking for those two days. But now he needed something to distract him.

John knew it was a bad idea the moment he'd started to do it. Ronnie finally trusted him. Not completely, but her extreme anger from their first day together was gone. She was still a little snippy when he attempted to get close to her, ask her questions about her past, but John certainly understood the impulse to hide what happened to her. He wasn't all that eager to discuss his either.

The idea came when Ronnie asked if she could go to the movies. John was fine with it. Something told him that Ronnie was, deep down, a good kid. All she needed was a chance to prove it. So while she went to the movies, he started his search.

Her belongings were sparse. She had a few days worth of clothes, a couple of books, and not much else. There was an envelope in which Ronnie kept her birth certificate. The only thing he really learned from that was Ronnie's full name. Veronica Anne Wells. John suddenly felt guilty that he'd forgotten to take her out for her birthday like he promised. Reminding himself to keep that promise, he moved on. One of her books caught his attention. It was a large, five subject, spiral notebook, on which she'd written notes about my life-my eyes only.

John shook his head. No way would he look through that. He wasn't sure he was prepared for what it contained. Just as he was about to put everything away and put it back the way he'd found it, something else caught his attention. At the bottom of her bag, tucked into the corner, was a pack of cigarettes.

At least I can justify this now, John thought.

He pulled the cigarette pack out of the bag, went to the kitchen, threw it in the trash can, then changed the bag. He'd told Ronnie to do it when she got home, but he didn't want to chance her seeing the cigarettes in there and pulling them out. With nothing else much to do, he sat and waited.

There was a photo on the wall that got his mind working again. It had been taken at Sam's eighth birthday party. The part was pitiful, but Dean had insisted on throwing it. Sam was wearing a million watt smile, with birthday cake all over his mouth, but that wasn't what John could remember. His guilt wouldn't let him. The only memory that came to mind was the last time he'd ever seen Sam.

Fifteen Years Earlier

Bobby was dead.

Bobby was dead, and Sam had been the one to shoot him in the head.

But that was the least of John's concerns right now.

Dean was tailgating the ambulance in the Impala. John had worried a couple of times that Dean would crash into them, causing them to have to slow down even further, and he wondered if he could somehow communicate telepathically with Dean and tell him to slow the hell down. But the second he thought it, John heard a sound he'd dreaded the entire ride so far.

The heart monitor went flat.

The beeping was shrill, but John's own heart beating in his chest was louder. The paramedic in the back with him worked on resuscitating Sam, and John did his best to stay out of her way. He wanted to scream for Sam not to do this, not to die on him, to just open his eyes and come back to him. They could work everything out. Sam could do whatever he wanted. Quit hunting. Get an after school job and save up for college. Hell, if it guaranteed Sam's survival, John would quit hunting and work to put Sam through school himself.

All Sam had to do was wake up.

But all the wishes went unheeded. They pulled up to the hospital and Sam was taken inside, John holding a hand on the stretcher the entire way. He heard the paramedic that had been resuscitating Sam tell the doctors "fifteen year old male, self-inflicted gunshot would to the head, flatlined in transit" and wanted to scream that no. Sam didn't shoot himself in the head. Sam didn't do it.

But, in a way, he had.

As the doctors worked to bring Sam back, Dean was in a state of panic beyond which John had ever seen. Even if (when, John reminded himself to think, when not if) Sam woke up, Dean would never be the same.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze. John would never what the doctors had said to him and Dean when they told them Sam was dead. John somewhat remembered Dean letting out a scream, a primal one that came from deep inside, and running into the trauma room and attempting to bring Sam back himself. He remembered Dean having to be sedated, and having to tell Dean when he woke up that no, it hadn't been the worst of dreams. Everything had happened just the way that Dean remembered it.

The poltergeist had possessed Sam.

The poltergeist had controlled Sam's every move, making him lift his arm and shoot Bobby in the head.

Dean had hit his brother with the piece of iron in his hand, knocking the poltergeist out and giving John an opening to shoot it with the salt gun.

John shot it with the salt gun.

Then, in a moment that John would have sealed into his memory forever, Sam had raised his gun and shot himself.

Now, they had to figure out what to do. Where to go from there. They'd taken Sam's body out of the hospital that night, burned it, taken Bobby's body and done the same, then climbed in the Impala and just drove.

Where the hell did you go when your entire world had been shattered in the space of five seconds?

The front door closed and Ronnie walked inside. She found John sitting on the couch and staring into space. "Hey."

"Hey. Come sit down. You and me need to talk."

Ronnie felt herself immediately get disappointed. She knew it was all too good to be true. No way had she met a foster parent who was actually good to her. She couldn't figure out what she'd done to earn the punishment she was sure was coming, and wondered if she'd ever find out.

"I'm fine standing."

"I didn't ask if you were fine standing. I told you to sit down. So sit down. Now."

Ronnie sighed. Compliance was always the easiest way to move this along. She tried to stop the shiver, but it was impossible. She sat on the couch, as far away from John as she could get, and waited for whatever was coming to start.

"I think I've been pretty good to you." John said. "Would you agree?"

Ronnie shrugged. "Yeah. So?"

"The answer is yes, sir." John snapped, and felt a bit of self-satisfaction when Ronnie jumped and appeared rattled.

This is stupid, Ronnie thought, but answered anyway. "Yes, sir."

"Then would you mind telling me why you're smoking?"

Ronnie's nervousness turned immediately to anger. She knew right away what had happened. "You snooped through my stuff?"

"Yes, I did. And I found the pack of cigarettes in there. Now tell me what you're doing smoking."

Ronnie jumped up and ran to her room. She pulled out her duffel bag and tore it apart looking for that cigarette pack. When she didn't find it in there, her heart sank. It couldn't be gone. It just couldn't. She turned to run back to the living room to confront John only to find him standing in her doorway.

"What did you do with it?"

"I threw them away. Now answer my question."

Ronnie, surprising herself, kept her rage in check. She was ready to take John apart piece by piece. She knew what he thought, and she didn't care. She had to get that cigarette pack back.

"YOU WHAT? TELL ME YOU DIDN'T, WHERE ARE THEY?"

"Don't yell at me, young lady. You're on dangerous ground here."

"Did you open them?"

"What?" John asked, thrown by the unexpected question.

"Here we go with this deaf crap again. Did you OPEN them?"

"No. Why would I?"

"Because there weren't cigarettes in there, you asshole. I've never smoked in my life!" Ronnie shouted. "They belonged to my mom. I kept the only picture I have of her in there. Now where are they?"

John's heart sank. He felt sick to his stomach. He was more than willing to go dumpster diving to get them back out. With the way Ronnie was reacting, he could tell she wasn't lying.

But the garbage truck had come by just moments before.

"I'm sorry, honey. It's gone. The garbage truck came just a few minutes ago."

Ronnie felt her eyes fill with hot tears. Her mother had been dead eight years. That cigarette pack had been the only thing she had to survive all twenty plus moves. Now it was gone. Her mom was gone all over again.

"Get out."

"Ronnie, I'm sorry…"

"I DON'T CARE! I SAID GET OUT!" Ronnie took her pillow off her bed and chucked it at the door. "I was so stupid! I thought I could trust you!"

"You can…"

"I SAID GET OUT! GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!"

Defeated, John closed the door and listened to Ronnie jump on her bed and start sobbing. He'd screwed up big time before, but somehow this felt like one of the worst. How in the hell was he going to fix this?

Suddenly, having a drink didn't seem like a bad idea.