A/N: Thanks for reading! And more follows! You people are amazing! pianobookworm18: I KNOW, RIGHT? I'm glad you like it. Stay tuned! CatstielWinchespurr: Thank you. I really appreciate repeated reviews because they give me a clearer idea of how I'm doing. I know, they're sad so often, it's nice to go back and remember when they were happy(ish). :)

I do not own Supernatural or its characters


Chapter 3


To Dean's delight, John was home for Christmas. Of course, the detail that it was a Sunday made the decision easier. Dean woke him at the crack of dawn, running through the house yelling, "IT'S CHRIIIISTMAAAS!" so loudly that their neighbors banged on the ceiling and floors, and Sam woke up crying. John stuffed a pillow over his head. He was exhausted from doing research the night before, and was in no mood to humour an over-energetic four-year-old, "Shut up Dean!" He shouted, to tired to bother softening his words. The noise abruptly ended. Apart from Sam's wails of distress, silence reigned. Soon even that stopped, Dean climbing into his crib to soothe him. John sighed, settling back to sleep.

He got up much later and made his way into the kitchen, yawning. There he found Dean, sitting at the table, smiling, his dishes on the counter by the sink. John didn't even want to know how he had gotten them there. He grunted his approval at Dean, then went to the fridge to get himself some breakfast. He paused as he remembered something, "Did you take care of Sam?" His son nodded furiously, "Good." He got out the supplies for a sandwich and moved toward the counter, smiling as he saw the empty bottle beside Dean's dishes. So he really had dealt with the baby.
Dean hopped off his chair and walked over to his father, "Can we open presents now?" he asked, giving John his best puppy dog face. John sighed, he couldn't say no to that, "Okay..."
Dean's face lit up, and he ran toward the tree, "Daddy, go get Sam. He needs to be here. There's a tree and everything! Sissy and I picked it out." He continued to babble as John sighed and went to collect the sleeping Sam. All he could think of was past Christmases, and how Mary should be at this one. He picked up Sam, who did not wake up, merely curled into his shoulder and gripped John's shirt in his sleep.
They sat around the tree, Dean grabbing presents and handing them to John, who would read the label for him. Sam sat off to one side, watching the proceedings with fasination as he played with his toes. Dean excitedly unwrapped a stuffed animal, and Sam dropped his foot, instead reaching for it and cooing pleadingly. Dean held it out to him, "You like that, huh? Come on, you can get it. Come on Sammy." He placed the toy in the baby's arms and Sam clutched it to his chest, gurgling happily as he bubbled spit onto its fur. John smiled despite himself. It was certainly a lovely scene, the children sitting there in their pajamas ripping wrapping paper off presents and exclaming over their contents. Cindy had even left gifts on her last visit, as they discovered when they found them. John commented that she really didn't have to do that, and Dean had better thank her when he saw her next. Dean nodded, only half paying attention. He was much more interested in the matchbox cars set Cindy's package had contained, leaning down with his head to the floor to race them about, making engine noises with his mouth.
The phone rang and John heaved himself up, walking into the kitchen and grabbing the receiver off the wall, "Hello?"
Missouri's voice came through the other end of the line, "Hello, John? It's Missouri. Look, you know how we were talking the other day, and I said there wasn't any more I could do for you here?" He rubbed a hand through his hair, sighing into the phone, "Yeah. You said you'd get me some information. Some friend of yours."
"That I did. You got a pen?" He grabbed a pen and paper, hurredly taking down the address she dictated, "What about a phone number?"
"I could give you one, but it wouldn't do you no good."
John was confused, "Why not?"
"Oh, he doesn't like strangers on the phone. I'll call ahead to let him know you're coming, and you just tell him your name when you get there."
"Okay. Thanks Missouri, you've been a great help."
"You take care of yourself now."


He stayed in Lawrence for a couple more weeks, as 1983 ended and 1984 began. Every day he got out the slip of paper and studied it, wrestling with his decision. Finally he called Dean. His son left off playing with Sam and walked over to him, "Daddy? What is it?" He looked down at him, "Hey, sport. Um, we're going to go out of town for the weekend. I need to know I can rely on you if I need help. Can I?" Dean stared at him. Didn't he help already? Daddy didn't need to ask that. He nodded, "Yes Daddy, I can do it. I'm almost five, remember?" John chuckled and ruffled his son's shaggy hair, "Yeah, Dean. I remember. You're getting to be a big boy." Dean puffed out his chest proudly and strutted off, glowing at the complement. John walked to his bedroom and started packing, concidering what needed to be done. He didn't need to leave word at the body shop, he wouldn't be gone long enouph. He didn't need to make arrangments for the apartment... basically, they just needed to pack their things and go.


John barely looked at the paper in his hands as he drove into the small town, having already memorized the address in the time he had agonized over wiether to come. They had left early, two in the morning, and driven all day across several states, he could see his kids slumbering in the backseat. He smiled. They were such beautiful children, they reminded him of Mary. He glanced at the map, spread in the passenger seat. If he was right about his location... He turned down a sidestreet ten minutes out of town, and was soon rewarded with a view of a house. It was somewhat run down, in the way of many rural houses, and rusted out old cars were strewn about the property willy-nilly, as though tossed by some massive child in play. He got out of the car and approached the house with caution. He wasn't sure how much he trusted this friend of Missouri's, even more so given the shady look of the place. He knocked on the door.
A man, perhaps John's age, though a little shorter answered it. He glanced over John suspitiously, and barked a surly, "Who the hell are you? Look, whatever you're selling, I'm not buying." John stopped him as he started to close the door, "Hey, um, are you a friend of Missouri Moseley, down in Lawrence?"
"Maybe. Who's asking?"
"John Winchester. Missouri said she would tell you I was coming...?" The man sighed, "Yeah, she did. Come on in. Sorry, I'm not too trustful of strangers." John motioned for Dean to get out of the car and come inside, then stepped through the doorway, belatedly noting, as he did so, the shotgun the man was holding. The man held out his hand in offer of a handshake, "I don't suppose she happened to mintion my name. Robert Singer, nice to meet you, though most people just call me Bobby." John accepted his proffered hand, "Good to meet you, Bobby." Right then Dean shoved his way through the door, Sam and some of the luggage in tow. He paused, unsure what to do with the stranger standing in his path. Bobby looked down in suprise, "Now who are you?" Dean gazed up at him, eyes wide and his mouth slightly open. John spoke, "Dean, go with Uncle Bobby. He'll show you where you and Sam can sleep." Bobby glanced at him. "Oh, so it's Uncle Bobby now," he teased. He looked back down at the small child in front of him, holding a baby and buried under duffles. He was impressed by this boy, with his old eyes and grave face, so unchildlike. He sighed, "Well, come on then." He took the duffles from Dean, and reached to relieve him of the infant. Dean glared and held Sam out of reach. Bobby withdrew, smiling slightly, and led them upstairs. If the kid didn't want to trust him, that was his buisness.


He settled Sam and Dean in a spare room, asleep, then came back downstairs. John stood in his living room, staring out the bay window. Bobby walked up to him and held out a bottle, "Beer?" John took it, then sat down on the couch, the other man moving a chair away from his desk and using that. Bobby spoke, "So, John, I hear you want to be a hunter." John nodded, opened the bottle and took a swig. He wanted to know more about this Bobby, "Yeah. So, um, how long have you been doing this?"
"Pretty near five years now, I guess."
"How'd you get started?" The man looked away, a far off look in his eyes, "We all got into this somehow." Something about the way he said it made John decide not to press the issue. Bobby continued, "Those are some good kids you have up there."
"Yeah, Dean's been a big help. You saw him get those bags, he didn't have to do that. I don't know what I'd do without him, frankly."
"How old are they?"
"Um, Sam's eight months. Dean'll be five on the twenty-fourth."
"Where's their mother?" It was John's turn to study the floor. Bobby nodded, "I'm sorry. That's tough. Um, John, have you ever known any hunters?"
He looked up, "Yeah. My wife was one. Raised into it."
"And what did she tell you about it?"
"Not much. Just that she hated it, that she married me to get away from it... Can't really remember what else."
"Smart girl. Now let me give you some advice. You take those boys of yours, you go back to Lawrence, and you never think about hunting again."
"What?"
"You heard me. You leave here, and you run, just as fast as you can."
John shook his head in bewilderment, inching forward on the couch, "I can't do that! They killed Mary! I'm just supposed to let that pass?"
"Yes! You are, because that's what parenting means. It mean sacrificing your stupid, selfish decisions for your kids, so that they can have good, normal, apple-pie lives. So that they can be happy, with a future. You know what hunting is? It's a poison. It won't make you feel better, vengence never does. If you start hunting, you will ruin your life, you will ruin the lives of your kids, and it's a million to one against you catching the thing that killed her. I should know." He paused, "Just, please, listen to your damn wife, ya idjit." Bobby pleaded with him, hoping desperately to keep him from making the same mistake he had, especially since John had kids. He knew how John felt, and he was fairly certain he wouldn't listen, but it didn't mean he couldn't try. "Look, I'm not planning on doing this full-time anyway. I'll live in Lawrence, and if I get a lead on Mary's killer, I'll take off work for a few days." Bobby shook his head, "You don't seem to understand. Hunting isn't a hobby, something you can pick up and drop as it suits you. It's a lifestyle, a calling. Once you start, there's no going back." John stared at him, then nodded, "Okay."
"'Okay?' That's it?"
"Yeah, okay. If catching this thing means I have to leave my life behind, then sure, I'll do it."
Bobby sighed, "You're a stubborn bastard, you know that? Whatever. We can start in the morning." John stared after him as he started out of the room, "Why did Missouri send me to you? There have to be hunters that get started without help."
"Yeah, dead ones." Bobby snarked John grinned, "She wanted you to talk me out of it, didn't she."
"Yep. Good night, John. Your room's the first on the left, top of the stairs. Your stuff's already there. See you in the morning."