Disclaimer: I own NOTHING. So sad for me.

Author's Note: Well, it ain't great, but it's an update. Enjoy!

"What do you mean you didn't check?" she spits angrily into the phone. "I was under the impression you've been doing this for a while, Bobby. What the hell kind of amateur sneaks a body out of the hospital without even making sure it's the right damn body?!" Ellen huffs loudly as she slams the phone back down into its cradle. Then she is quiet, and still, matching the thick silence of those around her.

It's not as though she really gave John Winchester much thought over the years. An occasional curse here, a random plea thrown into the wind there. Catching a glimpse of dark brown waves peeking over an upturned leather collar would cause her to start. Every time. And she wasn't sure if it was excitement, because there was a time when he had been such good friend. Or anticipation, because she'd waited years for him to walk through that door and tell her what really happened to her Will. Or fear, because she truly had no idea what she might do upon seeing the man responsible for her husband's death. But it didn't matter. Whoever it was would eventually turn around, and it would never be him.

And then she'd met his boys, found out he was dead, and realized there was no comfort in it at all. She'd never wanted anything to happen to John. All she'd wanted was an apology, and an explanation. And maybe a free punch. Breaking his nose would have been enough to avenge the wrong she was certain he already terribly regretted.

But death was too much.

And now here they were, she and her daughter along with his sons, all discussing the fact that he may not be dead after all. And for a moment she feels that old heart stopping emotion – excitement, anticipation, fear, and the ever-present sorrow that comes from losing not just a husband, but a dear friend as well – rise up in her again.

And it makes her want to puke.

"So," Dean starts, long and drawn out, "We didn't really burn Dad?"

She looks over at him for a moment and sees a flash of John in his eyes. It's that 'little boy lost' glint, buried deep within the all too cocky face. "Did you look at him?" she asks softly, hoping, for his sake more than anyone else's, that the answer is no. Because that might give them some hope. And because no child, no matter how old, should ever have to look into his dead parent's face.

He and Sam exchange a glance and she can see the communication taking place between them with just a quick meeting of the eyes. She can see, before Dean turns her way and shakes head even, that the answer is no.

"Well then," she says, unsure of where to go from there.

"But we saw him die," Sam mumbles over his barely touched beer. "We were there. We saw…"

"What did you see?" she asks, realizing for the first time that they had never actually told her how he'd died. They'd never told her that they were there, watching it happen.

Sam's eyes lock onto hers, deep, dark, sad eyes. For a moment she becomes so lost in them that she almost doesn't hear Dean say, "His heart stopped." She breaks away from Sam's gaze, turns to Dean, takes in his sharp features, the strong set to his jaw. His voice is controlled and purposely void of emotion when he continues. "At the hospital, his heart stopped and they tried to get it going again. And they couldn't. And he died." The words are capped off by an indignant snort and a long pull on his beer.

"So if he was dead," Sam begins quietly with furrowed brow, as though he's still working his way through all of this himself, "and now he's…not, then…what? Necromancy?" No one responds, not even when he looks around the room meeting the gaze of each person individually. "Well, let's just say that we did burn the wrong body. Bobby's not stupid. I mean, even if he didn't check it, he must have pulled the one marked as our dad. Right?"

Dean leans a little further into the bar and says, rather disbelieving, "So someone switched them so that they could reanimate his corpse? I don't know, Sam."

"It's not like we haven't seen weirder."

"That's not the point."

"I'm just saying it's possible."

"It's not…possible, Sam. It's Dad."

Sam's head drops, unable to look his brother in the eye. "It's a possible explanation," he says, the words aimed at his lap. "There has to be some sort of explanation for this. And it's one."

Ellen takes a deep breath and prepares to do what she knew she would do all along, ever since first meeting these boys, John's boys, months ago. She offers them her help, her resident genius, the spare room in her home. She'd offer them the moon and the stars if she thought that would help.

Because they were Winchesters. And she'd never met a Winchester that she hadn't felt compelled to give the world to, no matter how much of hers might get lost in the process.

Going through the motions, that's what it was. And it wasn't tough, not really. She'd laid it all out for him, where to go, when, who to look for, what to watch out for.

Her instructions were simple. Find the man in the photo, follow him home. Kill him. Stab him as many times as it takes. Make it messy. Not too quick, drag it out.

She didn't say why. And he didn't ask, didn't care enough to. Didn't even think to. He just did as he was told.

And still, standing there in that blood spattered room, knife in hand – keep the knife, John, don't leave it behind – an unknown man still choking and gurgling at his feet, slight sparks jumping off his fingertips, he just plain doesn't care. Doesn't, he guesses, even know how.

How long had it been since he'd slept? Since either of them had? He couldn't remember. Probably not too long, it just seemed that way. It couldn't have been that long really because no matter how tired his mind felt, his body simply would not give in to sleep.

The Roadhouse reunion had been relatively uneventful, everyone playing the same 'deny anything uncomfortable ever happened' card. No, there certainly were no warm fuzzies put out there, but they didn't hesitate a bit in helping them, and that meant something.

Ash was called in to search for any sort of leads on break-ins at morgues, or suspicious people or occurrences around the time of their father's 'death'. And Ellen had given them her extra room, free of charge, with the impossible to refuse order of, "Get some sleep." And Jo…well, Jo didn't shove a rifle barrel into his back, and at the moment that had seemed like all he could ask for.

"Dean," Sam whispers through the dark. "You awake?"

"No," he mumbles, rolling on his side so as to face his brother. Sam props himself up on his elbow, making his features just visible as his face catches the light of the waning moon through the window.

"There's something about all this that's bothering me," he says a little louder.

"Would that be something about having a vision where Dad's alive and well and killing random people? Or something about coming here to work it all out and being put up by the woman who, for pretty good reason, hates Dad? Or would it be something about these sheets? Because I gotta tell ya, I know their better quality, but I think after years of low thread counts in cheap motels, my skin just doesn't know what to do with these. Itchy."

Sam says nothing for a moment, just stares at him in that 'you're an idiot' way of his. And Dean knows it to, can sense it even without being able to clearly see the expression on his face.

"No," finally comes out in an irritated growl. "I meant about the vision in general. Something's bugging me."

"What?" he asks, rolling over onto his back once more.

"They're always about the demon, these dreams, visions. They're always somehow related to the demon."

"Yeah," he mutters, trying to hide the interest in his voice.

"So how is this…I mean…how is dad…"

"I don't know, Sam. Maybe this time it's different. Or maybe it's related just because dad knows the demon, you know, pissed him off or whatever." He can hear the rustle of sheets to his right, knows Sam is moving and shifting uncomfortably. It's what he does when he thinks too hard, too much. "Don't worry about it," he says, hoping that just once his little brother will take his advice. "You should get some sleep."

And for a moment he thinks he might. But then he hears the blankets fly and the room becomes drowned in light as the lamp's flicked on. "The guy," Sam says in a strangled sort of voice.

Dean sits up and squints against the light. "What guy?"

"The other one in the vision, the one dad…" he shakes his head briefly, falling into silence.

"What about him?"

"I…I don't know," he says, head still shaking.

"Sam?"

He stops and looks up at his brother through the garish light, recognizes that all too common worried look of his. "When I saw Max, and that baby back in Iowa…I mean just seeing them…I don't know, I felt some kind of…connection."

"Okay," Dean offers, eyes narrowing as he waits for Sam to continue.

"This guy…I guess I was probably distracted by the fact that I was seeing dad there too, maybe that's why I didn't even think of it until now. But, Dean, I felt it with him too, that weird…"

"Connection," Dean finishes, locking blurry eyes with his brother.

And they both fall into silence.