Singer's Auto Salvage, outside Sioux Falls South Dakota, 12:25 a.m.
Sam and Dean stood, eyes fixed on the office doorway. Three steps, two... he was almost there. Dad was almost in the room.
A million questions filled Sam's mind, all whirling together like fear and confusion and a vague nausea jammed into a mental Cuisinart. He wanted to blink, he wanted to look away, but he had to... felt compelled... powerless to see anything but the dark hallway outside the office. He wanted to look at Dean, but what he might see scared him almost as much as what was on it's way down the hall.
One step.
John Winchester swaggered into the room, leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms.
"Boo," he said calmly. Then he burst out laughing.
Sam and Dean had taken identical half steps backward, eyes never leaving their father.
John snickered once more, rubbed his eyes and cleared his throat.
"Oh, you oughta see the looks on your faces right now. Priceless."
Dean faltered back another step and finally managed to stammer out "What... how...?"
John held up a hand and Dean fell silent.
"I've been expecting the drama part, girls... the "Oh daddy, are you evil now? How did you climb outta Hell?" Crap like that. Best explanation, though," he stopped and pulled a pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket. "Shit happens. I know a guy who knows a guy... but I guess you probably know that by now."
He flicked the green plastic lighter in his hand and puffed on the cigarette. He looked at each of the boys in turn.
"You gotta admit though, Illinois was a joy-ride, huh? Fun times." He looked up at the ceiling through a blue haze of smoke, then added. "Probably should cut back on the smokes... they'll KILL ya!" and burst out laughing again.
Dean finally found his voice and took a step forward. He clenched his fists so no one could see his hands shaking.
"Whoever you are.. whatever you are, you ain't Dad." Dean stood, defiant.
John threw the cigarette down in frustration and whirled on Dean.
"How fucking stupid are you, huh? How completely brain-dead must you be? Even Sammy here," he gestured at Sam," he's figured it out now, right? Huh?"
Sam swallowed and looked from his brother to his father and back again. He had known it the moment John walked into the room, Pieces of a life-long puzzle fell into place; all the hunts, all the talk of demons and spirits and wickedness... John Winchester hadn't taken the boys on a hunt against evil; he had taken them along for the ride.
"Dean.." Sam stammered out, then cleared his throat. "Dean... the Yellow-Eyed Demon never was in dad. Dad... ah...was in the Yellow-Eyed Demon."
Dean looked as if he had been slapped. Realization that his whole life had been a lie dawned, and white-hot rage welled up in it's place. He whirled on his father, or what looked like his father, anyway.
"Why?" he yelled, grabbing the nearest thing at hand (Bobby's wooden desk chair) and throwing it at John, who neatly stepped to the side. The chair splintered harmlessly against the fireplace.
"Why would you do that to us? Drag us through all that shit? Fuck up our lives?" Dean was almost in tears, but this time, tears of frustration and anger.
John crouched down slightly, palms flat on his knees as if he were talking to a child.
"Well, sweetie, as Daddy explained, he's eee-vil..." and then he chuckled.
Sam had taken t he exchange as long as he could. Finally, he stepped forward, toward John, who raised his hands in mock horror.
"Oh no, little sister's gonna get in on the act now!" John laughed.
"You creepy-assed motherfucker..." Sam almost spat at him. Hundreds of miles of dark roads loomed in Sam's memory, dozens of schools started and left behind, the isolation, the fear, the absolute, unknowing...
"Oh come on!" John shouted, frustrated at their lack of enthusiasm. "I am a crazy evil fucking son of a bitch... I got a free ride from Hell, boys.. all access, get-out-of-goddamned-jail-free card! Every single time!" He puffed out a sigh. "Evil.. is what I do. Screwing with people's heads.. it's my calling card. Jacking up lives... my bread and butter." He looked at Sam and Dean, shaking his head. "Seriously, I am disappointed. I tried so hard, I figured it'd be a piece of cake to lead two dumb impressionable little kids down some dark path of sin and perversion... you both disappoint me deeply."
Sam was rattled, to say the least. The depth of what Dad, or whatever the hell, was saying.. it was almost impossible to comprehend. It had to be demon tricks... no other explanation. At least not the one he was being handed now..
"But... what about my visions?" he asked, hoping to catch John in a lie.
John laughed uproariously, snorted and wiped his nose.
"Oh man, that's rich..." he chortled. He sniffed and wiped his eyes. "The visions, Sammy... the visions aren't you. The visions are me. I put things in your head, you react. It's all part of the game. What the hell... you think you're Sylvia Brown or some shit? I hate to burst your bubble, baby boy, but the only power you have are the power to get on my nerves." He crossed to a shabby overstuffed armchair and plopped down, crossing his legs.
"So, I've been thinking... what's say we hit the road again, just like old times? Me, you two, saving people, hunting things... heh heh. The family business, so to speak. But this time, you kids could play a much bigger part. I'd let ya do some killin'.. whaddaya say? It was so much fun, the constant smell of fear." He winked. "you miss it too, don't ya?"
Sam and Dean exchanged a look that said, very clearly and in varying degrees, "What the fuck?"
"So.. ahem..." John snapped his fingers, bringing their focus back to him. "Was this a monumental waste of time for me? Are you both, after all the time we've spent together, just gonna tell me to piss off? Because there's a band in West Hollywood, got themselves in a little deep.. they'd sure be grateful for a little intervention, huh?"
Dean had enough, twenty-odd years of enough. He refused to let his father, or whatever the hell he was, walk out without a backward glance. Again.
"Look," Dean said through clenched teeth. "No matter what Sammy and I have done or seen, no matter what, we had the best of intentions. We thought we were helping people... not showing up at your potential crime scenes for a preview." He wiped a hand across his forehead in frustration, the fear gone, and sheer disappointment welling up to fill the void.
"We grew up scared, Dad," he said quietly. "Scared of people, scared of demons, but most of all, scared of you. You didn't didn't turn us into little versions of you, because of all the things we fought against, everything we faced, we always hated you the most." He paused, then added "you can't turn into something you hate that much."
"Whew, venom... okay, then... I wish you boys luck." John stood up, dusting his hands on the thighs of his jeans and adjusting the collar on his leather jacket. "Because, after all the shit you've done in the name of good, ha ha ha... Heaven don't want ya.. and Hell wouldn't take you on a bet." He walked out of the room without a backward glance.
Lawrence, Kansas, December 1982
Four year old Dean Winchester stood outside the tool shed in the backyard of his house, his baby brother Sammy in his arms.
Daddy had said "Stay inside, keep Sammy warm."
But Daddy had been gone along time, out back with The Man. Daddy seemed mad at The Man, and took him out to the tool shed so no one could hear what they were saying. That had been a while ago, and Sammy was getting fussy and wanted his bottle, and Daddy told Dean never to touch the microwave. Ever, ever. Maybe not even when he was grown up.
So Dean bundled baby Sammy into his yellow blanket and crunched through a thin crust of snow on the ground toward the metal shed. He couldn't hear the yelling anymore, which made Dean happy. Dean hated yelling. He scuffed his feet on the uneven cement shed step, bits of ice crackling under his sneakers. He shifted Sammy to his right hip, just like Mommy used to do, before Mommy went away to be with the Angels. Dean hated Angels. Now they had Mommy all to themselves, and Dean was stuck with Daddy. He pulled a face and listened at the door. The voice was Daddy's, Dean was sure.
"I wish you luck. Because, after all the shit you've done in the name of good, ha ha ha... Heaven don't want ya.. and Hell wouldn't take you on a bet."
A single shot rang out, then a thud. Dean startled, stepped back, and clutching his little brother in his arms, ran back to the house as fast as he could. He would pretend that never happened.