December 1993
The early light rolled over the road: cold, white and strangely opaque.
Squinting in it's unexpected brightness, John glanced in the rear view mirror. The boys were asleep in the back seat, tangled oddly, Sam's head angled awkwardly against the door. Dean had come along to burn the bones while Sam waited in the car, but now, they both looked equally exhausted.
He watched them sleep, bathed in the milky light, and smiled to himself.
But his smile froze, when he suddenly found Sam's eyes open and staring back at him, wakeful, dark and full of resentment.