Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who pointed out that I neglected to 'treat' Sam's leg. While I was writing, I imagined his worry for his father eclipsing his own pain- a detail that has been noted and addressed. Again, thanks for all your reviews. I know this is not a happy story, but it is very special to me.

JANUARY

"I'll be right back."

"Okay, I'll be right here."

Dean watched his father disappear into the gas station restroom as he set a dollar bill on the counter. "Thanks," he murmured, grabbing the two cups of coffee.

He squeezed the warm cardboard between his hands, savoring the pleasant tingle in his cold fingers. Wisps of steam rose from the small holes in the lids and he inhaled the scent of pure ground coffee beans that rose from the cup on the right. No milk or sugar or cream- that was Sam's forte. Dean liked his brew straight up and strong.

He turned away from the gas station attendant and moved to the glass doors. As he sipped the coffee, he looked outside. The sky was grey and freezing rain drizzled constantly, just slow enough to be annoying. The Impala was parked out front, steam billowing from the exhaust pipe as Sam sat in the passenger seat, bent over a well-worn map.

They had spent part of the evening last night in the local laundry mat, partly because they actually need some clean clothes, but mostly because counting change was one of the mental-awareness exercises prescribed by Dr. Stevens. John had balked at first, completely unwilling to engage in such demeaning activities. But between Dean's insistence and Sam's creativity, their father was beginning to participate.

They had been digging for pennies in the bottoms of their pockets when they overheard a young couple's emotional conversation about the ghost in their apartment complex. After a few off-handed questions, the Winchesters had found their new gig. It sounded simple enough; just a comedian of a spirit who enjoyed harmless pranks and general mischief. The guy had good taste too: stealing bras and pulling back the curtains at rather 'revealing' moments… Dean would almost be sorry to send the guy on.

"Hey, you ready?"

Dean blinked and turned towards his father, a grin still on his face. "I'm ready. Let's go do some ghost-busting."

Dean rolled his shoulders, hiking the leather jacket up higher on around his neck, and started for the doors. John remained where he was, staring at the Impala with a relaxed expression.

"Dad?" Dean asked, returning to his father's side. "You okay?"

"Look at him," John said, a smile playing in his lips. "Our boy's growing up, Dean."

Dean glanced at Sam, whose head was still bent low over the map in his lap. What had brought this on? "Uh, yeah, he is. You ready to go now?"

"Go?" John echoed incredulously. "We just got here."

Dean looked around the brightly lit gas station. "Uh, yeah…"

"He looks good," John continued. "I knew he'd be able to take care of himself. He's a smart boy."

Dean had no idea what brought about this rare moment of tenderness, but he allowed himself to surrender to it. Their father's praise was hard-won and Dean didn't want to interrupt it, for Sammy's sake. "He's a little too smart sometimes," he muttered.

Sam looked up at that moment and John jumped backwards, behind a six-foot tall stack of beer cans. Dean's eyebrow rose and he looked outside. Sam gave him the 'what-the-hell-is-taking-so-long' gesture: raised shoulders, bulging eyes, impatiently thin lips. Dean raised a hand, realized he was still holding both cups of coffee, and held up a forefinger. Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes, then ducked his head and continued working on the map.

"He's got a girlfriend, you know," John whispered.

"What?"

"Her name is Jessica. She's almost as beautiful as your mother was."

Dean stared at his father as John leaned forward, watching Sam from around the corner of the boxes. The overcast light from outside masked the color of his eyes and beneath that, they held a mixture of both pride and loss. It hit him then: John had slipped back in time, back to the first year after Sam left for Stanford. He was reliving an afternoon of years ago, when they had dropped in to check on Sam, staying only long enough to ease their worry.

"Yeah," he replied absently, his hand tightening around the cup. "Sammy did good."

Dean wanted to correct him, to grab John by the shoulders and force him back to the present. But the look in John's eyes stopped him, told him to indulge his father just this one time, for his own sake. For Sammy's sake.

"Think he's still salting the doors and windows? Of course he is, he'd never forget that. He better not get caught with any weapons, they'll take away his scholarship before he can blink. You did give him some extra credit cards, right? He might need… 'provisions'. Wait, what am I saying. He's safe, right? There's tons of other kids around-"

"Dad-"

"Still, he can't turn a blind eye to what's really out there. He'll never escape this life, being a hunter, no matter how successful he becomes. I want him to be happy, you know that, right?"

Dean nodded.

"I wish he could become a lawyer, marry his girl, have a couple ankle-biters and have everything he wants. I wish I could give that to him. But this thing is bigger than me, bigger than all of us. We can't walk away from it, even if we wanted to." John blinked and glanced at Dean. "Especially if we want to. What we do is important, you know that. I just wish Sam could understand."

Dean swallowed and found a sharp lump lodged in his throat. "Why don't you tell him?"

John crossed his arms loosely and stared outside. "You know your brother; he's just not cut from the same cloth as you and me. He's as headstrong as your mother was, and just as complicated. You brother and I always end up yelling at each other, you know that. I just can't understand him sometimes."

"You could try."

"I have tried, Dean. We just can't communicate."

A solitary drop of water slithered jerkily down the opposite side of the glass, cutting a path through the multitude of half-frozen water droplets. Sam looked up once more and John jumped back. Sam glared at Dean and rolled his eyes once more before setting the map aside and pushing open the car door.

"Uh, Dad," Dean said, setting the lukewarm coffee on the window sill. "You gotta come back to the present now, okay? We're not at Stanford anymore. We're in a gas station just outside of Des Moines. Sam's hunting with us again, remember?"

John looked at him blankly. "What?"

The overhead bell jingled as Sam yanked open the door behind John. "What's taking so long?" he snapped, frozen rain glistening on his dark hair. "You have to grind the coffee beans yourself?"

"Sam?" John turned, his eyes wide with confusion. "Why aren't you in school?"

Sam froze, raising one eyebrow. "School?"

Dean stepped forward. "That's what I was trying to tell you, Dad. Sam's out of school now. He's with us."

"Is it winter break or something?"

Sam's expression softened. "Yeah, Dad. I got out yesterday, remember?"

The creases in John's forehead deepened then relaxed. "Oh, right. Of course I remember." He paused a moment, taking stock of his surroundings, and then squared his shoulders. "Well come on then, let's get this show on the road."

Sam let himself be pushed aside as John shouldered past. The bell rang and a gust of cold air rushed around them as they stood alone, looking at one another in the relative silence.

"He's having another spell."

Dean breathed in deeply, letting the frigid air tighten his lungs. "Yeah," he sighed, grabbing the coffee cups. Outside, John stomped through the slush and yanked open the Impala's driver's door, the car bouncing slightly as he sat down heavily.

"What was it this time?" Sam asked, taking his now-cold latte from Dean's outstretched hand.

"We were checking up on you at Stanford," Dean replied. He hoped it would end with that; the pain in his father's voice had shaken him and he didn't want to dwell on what it all meant.

Sam's face immediately fell and his shoulder's slumped a little. "Oh. Is he okay?"

"Yeah, of course," Dean shot back. He headed for the door and Sam moved back, out of the way.

"Are you?"

"Am I okay?" Dean paused, one hand on the cool metal handle.

"Yeah."

"My coffee has turned to sludge and we've probably wasted a quarter of a tank, but yeah, I'm fine." Dean carefully kept his eyes on the Impala. There was a wet spot where the exhaust fumes had melted the slush behind it and it sparkled as the rain pelted it. "Come on, Dad's waiting."