DECEMBER

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and flipped on the turn signal. He yawned quietly, the hot air from the Impala's heater making him drowsy. He reached out and turned it off, stealing a glance at Sam before following his father's truck into the motel parking lot.

Sam slept silently beside him, his head resting against the window and his neck bent at an uncomfortable angle. Dean shook his head- Sam would wake up with the mother of all cricks. It was a good thing they were finally stopping for the night. Sleeping horizontally sounded like heaven right now.

He shifted into park and turned off the engine. "Hey," he grunted, backhanding Sam's elbow. "We're here."

Sam jerked awake, squinting in the darkness. "What?" He looked outside, then at his watch. "How long was I asleep?"

"Long enough, Sleeping Beauty." Dean opened the door. Their father was already grabbing his bag. "Come on. I want a shower before Dad uses all the hot water."

The cold air gnawed on his bare fingers, freezing them to the bone. Dean shivered as he grabbed his duffle bag. The anniversary of Mary's death had passed thirteen days ago and winter fast approached, a constant throughout their travel. Dean shut the door and yawned again, his breath rising up to the stars. Sniffing, he hoisted the bag over his shoulder and started after his father. Behind him, Sam followed.

The motel office smelled of smoke and booze, but it was warm. The man behind the desk remained transfixed on the small TV before him. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth and a tattered Bud Light cap shaded his eyes. "Can I help you?" he asked without looking up.

John stopped before the desk. "I need a room with two beds," he said, reaching for his wallet.

The man looked up and a smile began to grow. "John? John Winchester?"

John frowned. "How do you know my name?"

The man stood up, grinning. "It's me, Harry! Harry Cook. Come on, you know me. I've owned this place for 6 years- you're one of my most frequent customers!" Smoke billowed from his mouth as he spoke, curling up towards the ceiling as the cigarette bobbed on his lips.

John shook the man's hand wearily. "Oh, right. Harry. How could I forget?"

Dean watched the exchange with curiosity. Harry had obviously caught his father off guard, which was a hard feat to accomplish. He glanced at Sam who looked just as amused.

Harry stood back. "Wow. Son of a bitch… it's been a long time, hasn't it? What, at least a year since you've been in here. How are you?"

"Tired," John replied. "About the room…"

"Oh, right," Harry said. "Two beds, you said?" He looked questioningly between John and the brothers. The cigarette glowed as he inhaled.

Dean recognized the look. Oh hell no.

"Hi," he said, stepping forward. "My name's Dean. Dean Winchester." He glanced purposely at John then jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "That's Sam, my brother."

Understanding dawned in Harry's eyes. "You're John's kids?"

"Yeah. Lemme guess- he never mentioned us."

Harry looked stunned. "John has kids?"

Dean snorted. "I'll take that as a 'no'."

"Look," John interrupted, "Do you have the room or not?"

Harry's smile fell. "Uh, yeah. Sure." He grabbed a set of keys from a numbered peg on the wall and placed it on the counter. "Here. 211, at the end of the building." He waited till John took the keys and added, "Just like you always ask for."

John pulled a credit card from his wallet and laid it on the counter where the keys were. "Thanks," he grunted, then headed towards the door, brushing past Sam on his way outside.

Dean turned back to Harry. "He's got a lot on his mind," he offered lamely. "Thanks for the room."

Harry shrugged, breathing out a cloud of smoke. "Hey, no problem. John's a good man. A little moody…"

Dean smiled. "All work and no play…"

"Boy, do I hear that," Harry laughed. "You boys need anything, just let me know."

They bid their farewells and headed out into the night. It was well after midnight and the coldness stung his face and hands. His feet crunched over gravel and broken glass as they walked to the end of the building, the parking lot illuminated only by the pale moonlight.

Sam was the first to speak. "Dad had no idea who that was." His quiet voice echoed in the silence around them.

Here we go. Dean could feel a headache coming on. "It's a motel manager, Sam. Dad's probably only seen him a few times before."

"Dad remembers everyone," Sam shot back. "Especially someone who knows him so well."

Dean suppressed a growl. "Sam, don't start. I just wanna get in the room, take a shower, and go to bed, okay? Let it go."

"He's getting worse," Sam argued. "I thought you were going to talk to him."

"And what am I supposed to say? 'Hey, Dad, I've noticed you're getting really forgetful in your old age- could you knock it off? You're upsetting Sam.' " Dean snorted. "I don't think so."

Sam shook his head. "I'm being serious, Dean."

"So am I!"

They stopped outside the motel room, keeping some distance from the door. The light was on inside. John was already inside and unpacking.

Sam lowered his voice. "What's it going to take, huh? Last week he couldn't remember where he packed the rock salt. Tonight he forgets an old friend. What happens when we're standing face to face with a rawhead and he forgot to bring his tazer?"

Dean clenched his jaw. "That won't happen."

Sam cocked his head. "I hope not- but you gotta admit, Dean… something's wrong with Dad."

Dean looked away, balling his hands into fists at his side. Sam was overreacting, jumping to conclusions like always. But the accusations settled heavily in Dean's gut. What if Sam was on to something? Dean just wanted to go to sleep and wake up with his father as the flawless hero and Sam as the obedient little brother who could be bribed with an ice cream cone.

"Dad's fine, he's just getting older. Everyone gets older, Sam- everyone's entitled to forget things once in a while. But you know what? We're still a family. So instead of criticizing Dad all the time, maybe you should cut the man some slack. Better yet- why don't you talk to him yourself?"

"Fine," Sam growled. "I will. Something needs to be done."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Dean glared at Sam a moment longer before reaching for the door. "Move. I'm getting a shower."

Sam stepped aside and Dean felt the heat of his anger as he brushed past. John looked up from his seat on the bed closest to the door. His weapons were spread out on the bed and a can of oil sat next to his knee. He remained silent, slowly rubbing the cloth over the gun's muzzle.

Dean kept his mouth shut and focused on digging a clean shirt and boxers from his duffle bag. The tension in the room was palpable and Dean wanted nothing to do with it. He grabbed his clothes and headed to the bathroom, ignoring the looks from both Sam and his father. If Sam really wanted to talk to John, then Dean was more than happy to give him the opportunity.

But when he emerged fifteen minutes later, Sam sat on the edge of one bed, staring at the laptop, and John was on the other, still cleaning his weapons. Dean stood in the doorway, steam billowing into the room from behind him, and searched their faces. They were each still in one piece- usually Sam's 'talks' ended in bloodshed or banishment. Dean stared at Sam, wondering what- if anything- had happened in his absence, when Sam spoke.

"Check this out," he announced, his gaze transfixed on the computer screen. "I found today's edition of the local paper online. Looks like a pack of dogs are killing cattle at the edge of town, just a few miles from here."

Dean moved to the other side of the bed and sat down, his back to Sam. "I know we're tight on funds, but we can afford to pay for a hamburger-"

"All the dogs had glowing, red eyes."

Dean looked at John. "Well that's more like it," he said. "What do you think?"

John shook his head and continued cleaning his gun. "No."

Sam looked up. "No? Why not? We've killed tons of these things, they're simple."

Dean watched John's shoulders stiffen.

"I said no, Sam. Not tonight."

A feeling of uneasiness came over Dean. John Winchester never turned down a hunt.

"They're killing the livestock," Sam argued. "It won't be long before they try to attack a person. What if it's a kid?"

John stilled his hands and glared at Sam. "I said no. The owner of those cattle will be guarding them from now on. He'll shoot the dogs himself. It would be a waste of our time."

"A waste of our time?" Sam echoed incredulously.

Inwardly, Dean cringed. Sam was gearing up for a fight and John was digging in his proverbial heels. It would only be minutes before Dean would have to pull them apart.

Sam plowed on. "Since when is destroying evil 'a waste of time'?" He pushed off the bed and began pacing. "I know putting a few bullets in some dogs doesn't get us any closer to finding the demon that killed Mom and Jess- but we owe it to the people in this town to help them. We know what those things really are, what they're capable of." Sam stopped, and then went to his duffle bag and yanked open the zipper.

"What are you doing?" John growled.

"I'm going. You can stay here, I'm perfectly capable of taking care of them on my own."

"Sam-"

"I don't need you, Dad!" Sam glared at John as he shoved the gun in the waistband of his pants. "I don't know what the hell is wrong with you lately, but it doesn't matter. If you won't help these people, I will."

Dean stood up. He agreed with his father- the dogs would probably be dead by morning anyway. But he didn't want Sam going out alone, half-cocked. "Look, it's almost morning anyway, Sam. Let's just get some shut eye and we'll take care of the dogs tomorrow, okay?"

"No. We'll be back on the road tomorrow- I'm going now."

Dean glanced at his father. "Sam…"

"Let him go, Dean. He's right- he's a big boy now. He can handle it by himself."

Dean didn't like this at all. Something didn't feel right- it was like a throwback to the pre-Stanford days, when his brother and father were constantly at each other's throats. They had gotten along so well recently that Dean had almost forgotten how bull-headed they both could be.

But a bull-headed Winchester could be a reckless Winchester, and not having your head in the game would get you killed.

"I'm going with him," Dean announced.

A silence fell over the motel room as both Sam and John stared at him.

"I don't need a babysitter."

"Does it look like I have tits to you?"

They looked at John. He shook his head. "You're wasting your time."

"Yeah, well, Sam always did have a thing for cows," Dean shrugged.

"Get out of here," John said. "No screwing around. You kill those damned things and get your asses right back here, understand? We've got a lot of driving to do tomorrow."

"Yes sir."

Dean turned towards the door and ushered Sam outside before John could change his mind. Their father was still pissed and probably would be for a couple days. Almost as famous as the Winchester stubbornness was the Winchester grudge. That meant Dean would be playing the referee between the two. Admittedly, it was not his favorite job.

Dean closed the door behind them and inhaled a deep breath of the frosty night air. Instantly, the tension was dampened. Maybe a simple hunt was exactly what they needed. A chance to get out, just the two of them, and work together to accomplish something. It would give their father a chance to cool off. Plus, shooting things always had sort of a therapeutic affect- a way to work out aggression.

He watched Sam throw himself in the passenger seat and slam the door, a scowl clearly visible even in the darkness.

Yes, maybe a simple hunt was exactly what they needed.