A/N: Hello everyone! Thanks for reading. Hundley: I really was worried about that scene so thank you for allaying my fears. Yeah, they didn't really have much in the way of good Christmases/Birthdays/Holidays in general. The second Christmas after Mary's death certainly wasn't going to be fun (Mary died in November. Christmas 1983 was way back in chapter three! So long ago. Thanks, and read on! ncsupnatfan: THAT SCENE HURT SO MUCH! I hated writing John abusing Dean, and the aftermath of that, but we know canonically that it happened so there really wasn't any way around it. I promise, happiness is coming! (Sort of)

I do not own Supernatural or its characters.


Chapter 20


He came home late the next morning, feeling better than he had in ages. He had it all thought out. He would walk in, grab Dean in a hug and tell him how much he loved him, and how sorry he was, and apologize for being such an idiot. Then he would explain how he had been stressed and worried and hadn't really meant any of those things he had said back at Bobby's. Actually, he would say, he was immensely proud of Dean. The way he had held up under all that had happened, well, he himself hadn't handled it half so well. Yes, he was proud to call Dean his son, he loved him, and he had no idea what he would do without him. Then he would ask for forgiveness, on his knees if necessary.

He continued to practice his speech as he walked up to the motel door. Then he walked in and it all flew out the window.

He stared agape at the sight that greeted him. The place was a wreck. Sam lay on a bed, wailing fit to wake the dead. Bags of trash were piled by the door, and some sort of soupy substance John wasn't sure he really wanted to identify lay in puddles on the floor and bed. A sickly odor hung in the air. He considered sneaking out and pretending he hadn't come.

"Just a minute, Sammy!"

A tired, harried-looking Dean walked in, carrying several wet towels from the bathroom. He dumped them in a heap on the floor, then pulled a washcloth out of the stack and climbed on the bed, gathering the distressed toddler into his arms and putting the cloth to his forehead, "Shhh, shhh, it's okay. I'm here now. There, that feels good, doesn't it?" Sam quieted slightly. "See, Sammy? We're gonna make it through this. You're gonna be okay." Dean stroked a hand through Sam's hair, and Sam snuggled into him, smiling weakly, "Dank-uu, Dee." Dean smiled, "That's what I'm here for. Hey, you want something to eat? I can't make Mommy's soup, but I have chicken & rice. I know it's not your favorite but..." Sam looked green, before throwing up all over his brother's pants and shirt. He started to cry, "Dee, my tummy hurts." Dean stared down at his clothes, "No kidding." He sighed, slowly untangling himself to climb off the bed, "It's okay, Sammy. I'll be right back. I'll make it okay, you'll see."

"Don't go, Dee."

"I'll be right back, I promise." Dean moved off into another room.

John forced himself out of his observant reverie, walking to the bed to pick up Sam. The feverish toddler looked confused to be in his arms and struggled to get down. John settled him better against his shoulder and tried softly singing a lullaby to sooth him. Sam's wails intensified.

Dean rushed back in, dressed in a fresh pair of pajama pants and no shirt, all items of that type having been rendered unwearable. "Hold your horses. See? I'm-" He froze, staring at John, then at the mess, straightening unconsciously. "Daddy. I didn't think- Sammy's sick! I didn't mean-" The poor kid looked ready to burst into tears. He looked down and whispered, "Please don't be mad at me." John put down Sam and moved to pick up Dean, hugging him tightly as the boy stiffened, "I'm not mad." He wasn't sure where to go from there, "How could I be mad? Dean, I… I…" he trailed off, just standing there holding his son. How did he explain how he felt? He wanted to say how sorry he was, how proud, how he felt incredibly guilty and wanted to fix things and take back every single awful thing he had ever said. But he couldn't think how. So he stood.

"Um… Daddy?"

"Hm?"

"Sammy needs a bath."

"Right," he put the boy down. "Why don't, uh, you do that and I'll, uh, get started on the room, okay?"

Dean smiled, "Okay."

And just like that, the moment was gone. John turned to his assigned task, sighing as he took in the war zone of a room, and the towels he had to clean with. "Well, might as well get started."


Dean, meanwhile, lifted Sam onto his hip, grabbing a fresh diaper as he walked to the bathroom. Since Sam had started walking, he had found showers were a much easier way to bathe his brother than the kitchenette sinks he had used to begin with. He sighed as he stripped off his remaining clothing, then went to deal with Sam, first moving him to the shower in case of accidents. He turned on the water and got down the soap, then turned to find Sam standing against the wall, crying as he desperately tried to avoid the water. Dean sighed, "Really? You're scared of water now?"

Sam stared at his brother pleadingly. The dream he'd had… that poor girl had drowned, pulled under the lake by that awful boy. The nightmares were more infrequent now, but when he did have them, they were more vivid than they had ever been, and he remembered them longer. He didn't want to get pulled under, he didn't want to get hurt like that girl. He wailed in fear, pushing at the stall door in desperation. If Dean wasn't going to help him, he'd just have to help himself. He'd get the door open, then he'd pull Dean to safety.

He felt himself grabbed from behind and screamed. The boy from his dream! He had him! "NO!" he screamed, then started fighting for his life, kicking, punching and biting. That boy wasn't going to get him, not without a fight.

"Sam! Sammy stop! Ow! What's wrong with you? Stop it!"

Sam looked, to see that it had been Dean who had grabbed him. He stared in relief, "Dee?"

"Yeah. It's me, you dummy." Sam hugged him, "Sorry." He touched a red mark left on Dean's arm by his attack, "Booboo." Dean chuckled, "Yeah. It's okay though, I've had worse. Come on, let's get this done. You can beat me up some more later, if you want." He moved over to stand in the water, arms akimbo, "See? It won't hurt you." Dean lathered them both up, glad to get the grime off of himself as well. He rinsed them off, then dried himself and Sam, dressed them both and returned to the (considerably cleaner) room.

He paused as he entered the room. Everything was (more or less) clean and neat. Daddy stood by the stove, stirring something in a pot. He looked up as Dean entered, "Hey." He started ladling the something into two bowls and brought it over to the table, "Went out to the store. Figured two hungry warriors deserved some homemade lunch after our battle. Put down Mount Vesuvius and come eat."

John stared in shock as Dean suddenly walked over and hugged him. The boy looked up, "I love you, Daddy." John wanted to run and hide. He didn't deserve this. Dean should have punched him in the gut, not this. "I- I, uh, thanks, buddy. Um, how about we eat. Uh, I don't guarantee the edibility."

Dean sat down, eyeing the suspicious liquidy mixture in the bowl in front of him, "What is this?"

John shrugged. "Don't ask me. I can't cook. I just hope it's good." He put a spoonful in his mouth, choked, and ran to get some water from the sink while Dean laughed. He put the glass down, breathing heavily, "Wow, that's spicy! Guess we need some water." He filled a couple of cups and brought them to the table. Dean cautiously ate a bit and grabbed his glass. When he had his voice back, he spoke. "I dunno, I think it's good." John chuckled, "Well, the critic has spoken. Okay."

Dean yawned.

John looked concerned, "Did you get any sleep last night?"

"No."

"I can hold down the fort while you get some sleep."

The boy's head nodded, "I'm okay."

"No. You need to sleep. You want to grow or not? Go to bed, Dean, that's an order."

He got up wearily, "Yes sir." He staggered across the room, then collapsed on the bed, out like the proverbial light.

John eyed Sam warily. The toddler was glaring daggers at him and generally looked like he wanted to murder John in his sleep, "Now, we're going to be friends. Right, Sammy?"


Dean woke up the next day to find John in an exhausted stupor in a chair. Sam sat on the floor, grinning diabolically. Dean groaned, "Oh come on. You couldn't be nice for a few hours?" Sam stood up, walking over to throw his arms around his favorite person, "Dee."

"Look I gotta sleep sometime. Daddy was really nice, taking care of you for a while."

Sam shook his head stubbornly, "Dee."

Dean sighed, "Fine."


The phone rang. Bobby glared at it, then set down his tumbler of cheap whiskey and answered, "Leave me alone or I'll shoot you."

The voice on the other end sounded confused, "Who is this?"

Bobby was annoyed, "This is Bobby Singer. Who the hell is this?"

There was a pause, "I was told this was the number for Jim Sutton."

"Jim's been dead going on two years. Who. Is. This?"

"My name's Henry Walsh. I've been out for a while and I'm trying to get back in. Jim was a friend. Sorry, uh, what happened?"

Bobby sighed, "Werewolf. Son of a bitch got slow."

"Right. Happens to the best of us. So, uh, if he's dead, who are you? Why'd they give me your number?"

"I'm the new Jim. I'm crappy at it."

There was a pause, "Okay. Well, you got a spare case you could throw my way? Nothing to tough, I'm looking to ease back in, not drown."

Bobby walked to get his clipboard off the wall, stretching the phone cord as far as it would go, "Sure thing. Um, how 'bout a ghost? Got one in Dallas needs taking out pretty bad."

"Sounds all right. What you got so far?"

Bobby gave him the details. After he hung up he sat in the dark, thinking. How had his life turned into this? Six years ago he'd been happy, married to a wonderful woman, with a life, a job, and a future. And now… He was thirty-two, living alone in the house he and Karen had chosen together, drinking and fielding calls from possible psychopaths. What the hell had happened to him?

His gaze fixed on a toy truck, abandoned on the study floor. Speaking of which, what was he thinking getting attached to those kids? John was right, they weren't his, he had no claim to them. They were probably better off without him anyway. What was it his father used to say? He broke everything he touched? Sure seemed that way now. After the way things had gone with Karen, and the mess he'd made with Rufus… what was he thinking, cursing those boys with his screwed-up presence? He'd probably ruin them for life, that's if they made it out alive. They were probably better off with John then him, which was saying something after last time. He cursed and poured himself some more whiskey. Damn holidays. Look at him, getting all sad and nostalgic. He had work to do.


"All right. Let's get started. Whiskey? It's the good stuff." Crowley stood in his new penthouse, a bottle poised over a crystal tumbler.

"Go to hell." He watched the individual who had spoken, tied to a chair in the middle of a heavy-duty devil's trap. Crowley shrugged, then began to speak, pouring some into the other glass and sitting down as he talked.

"Under current leadership?" He chuckled, "Please."

The demon glared at him, "Why did you drag me here? I don't have anything you want."

"I believe you do. You see, you used to work for Abaddon. I happen to be hunting her."

It laughed, "Abaddon? You're joking right? She's dead."

"I have reason to believe otherwise. She didn't die, she vanished overnight, literally, and I want proof of her demise. Now you were her main recruiter, weren't you? So, give me the names of her followers, and whatever else I want, and I'll let you go."

"Or what? You let me rot here?" It laughed, "You talk tough, but you're just a salesman, some piss-ant crossroads demon trying to play with the big boys." The demon paused, "How did you know I worked for Abaddon, anyway?"

"A little birdy told me. Hello, King of the Crossroads."

"So you talked to some other idiot of Abaddon's. Cute. Still not hearing a reason to help you."

"I can give you anything you want-"

"No you can't. You don't have anything, so don't snake-oil me."

"All right, here's my next offer. You cooperate, I don't tell the big bosses about your Abaddon connection."

It looked frightened, "You're insane."

"That's rather beside the point. You know how Alastair and Azazal feel about the Knights. Think how they would feel to suddenly learn that one of Abaddon's followers is still around. You're a threat, and you know it. Listen mate, you might as well take the bloody deal, you don't really have a choice here."

The creature was silent. Finally it sighed, "What do you want me to do?"

Crowley smiled, "That's my boy. A way to kill her, a weapon that could work on a Knight. Find out what is needed, and report back to me. I'll give you your next assignment. In return, I do everything in my power to keep you off Alastair's rack. He really is quite the artist. Do we have a deal?"

The demon glared at him.

Crowley smiled, "Good."