I still don't own the Winchesters. Sorry.

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Chapter Two

When Dean awoke, he was back at the motel. Or he thought he was; it looked quite a bit different than the one he and Sam were staying at. But it seemed familiar somehow, and as he looked, bleary-eyed around the room he tried to piece it all together.

Well, for one thing, this place actually had a bedroom. It wasn't the usual everything-is-stuffed-into-one-stinking-room deal, obviously. Of course, there wasn't anything aside from the bed he lay on and the one next to him – what was that little moving lump under the covers? – And the air smelled strangely of gunpowder and alcohol. A smell Dean knew all too well, but that usually only came with…

Okay, where was Sam?

Dean sat up in the bed, looking around. Before he could do much else, he heard movement from the main room. Out of instinct he reached for his gun, ready to take out whatever poor bastard had thought they could take him on. He reached for it, but it wasn't there.

"Dean!"

Dean blinked, confusion settling even deeper than before. "Dad?"

"Dean! Get up!"

Slowly, Dean stood and walked to the bedroom door. "Hey, I'm up. Dad?"

John Winchester was sitting at the table, impatience showing on his face – a face that looked quite a bit younger than it did the last time his son saw him. Dean's eyes shot around the room as if an explanation would be tacked to the wall. Stranger still, John didn't seem to notice him.

"Dad, I'm right here." He waited a moment, but no response. "You deaf?"

"Dean Winchester! You get your ass out of bed this second!"

"Wait a minute," Dean muttered. "This is a little too familiar—"

He was cut off when a young boy no more than ten years old walked through him ("What the hell?!") , rubbing the sleep from his eyes yet still managing to look alert. When he reached John he stood up straight.

"What the fu… that's me," Dean realized, eyes widening as he watched the scene play out before him.

"Dean, I want to talk to you about last night," John said in a firm tone. "About following orders."

Dean watched his younger self look down and nearly did so himself. "That's right, the Shtriga," he almost whispered, though it wasn't as if they could hear him. This had been the morning after the Shtriga had nearly gotten Sam because of him. "Still haven't really forgiven myself for that," he added under his breath.

"Yes sir," little Dean said, waiting for his father to speak. He glanced over at the armchair where Sammy was asleep, wrapped up in a blanket. Dean couldn't help but notice how innocent he looked.

"Don't you ever disobey my orders again, do you hear me?" The look in his eyes was cold and protective, worried and authoritative. "Sam nearly died last night, and as much as I don't want to say it, it's all your fault."

"Maybe if you hadn't locked your sons up in a cabin for three days I wouldn't have gone outside," Dean said grudgingly, taking a few steps towards the pair in front of him.

"I-I'm sorry," little Dean said quietly for what felt like the thousandth time. He caught John's eyes and, in what looked like fear – "he looked at me different, you know--which was worse" – looked at the floor.

"Don't let it happen again, Dean." John looked over at Sam. "You're supposed to look out for him."

Little Dean nodded while the older one simply shot John a look, even though he couldn't see it.

"Looks like I'm still doin' a pretty damn good job of that now, huh?"

John began to stand up, not taking his eyes off of the ten-year-old. "I'm going out for a little while," he said. "I know after last night I probably shouldn't leave you alone with Sam –"

Dean nearly winced. That one hurt.

"—But this is important. So keep your eye on him and don't leave."

The younger Dean merely nodded again – "Damn it, kid! Stick up for yourself!" – and watched his father put on his jacket, leaving without saying another word. He stood there for a moment as if replaying his father's words in his young mind before a sound from the armchair brought both Deans' eyes to it.

"Sammy?" They both asked in unison, which Dean found to be a little more than creepy.

"Dean?" Came a small, tired voice, and a little face peeked around the back of the chair.

Little Dean walked over to his brother. "Hey, um, Sammy…" He started, aiming to apologize.

Dean watched and remembered. Remembered some of his thoughts that day at that moment. And that he knew that he wouldn't be able to atone for what he'd done – or in this case, hadn't done. And that if he couldn't apologize for it, he shouldn't try.

"Uh… what do you want for breakfast?"

"Not hungry."

"C'mon. You've got Chef BoyarDean cookin' for you…"

Dean didn't hear the end of the conversation because he found himself outdoors by a track where two familiar children were running, slightly older than before. Both tired, one was stumbling in exhaustion and looked to be on the verge of tears.

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Mmf, and, uh, I didn't remember until after I wrote this chapter that Dean said after the Shtriga incident John never spoke of it again. So... oops. Minor detail.

R&R! Reevviiieeewwwsplz.