Twisting clouds of colour emerged from the blackness and coalesced themselves into a new scene. Dean stood beside his mother in an old house he knew he would never forget. The peeling wallpaper and broken lampshades, the bare and rotting wooden floor and missing windows had been etched in minute detail into Dean's memory when he was fourteen years old. He knew that if he walked through the spacious ex-living room, down the hall and out through the front door – which would be clinging to the jamb by one valiant hinge – he'd see the rusted metal '24601' house number, with the two and zero hanging on for dear life and the missing four discernible only by the lack of sun-bleached wood it left behind.

This was where Dean truly became a hunter.

He remembered the case as well as he did the house. John, having allowed Dean to accompany him on the more predictable, 'safer' hunts for almost a year, hadn't thought twice about bringing his eldest along with him on this simple salt 'n' burn. Sam had helped with the research, and John had packed his duffel full of salt rounds and iron pokers after identifying the owner and location of the troubled remains.

It was the ghost of a smith who'd taken the industrial revolution hard, his hatred of the machines that stole his work anchoring him to the house of the man who had brought the motorcars into their small town. The smith, one Will Turner, resented the change. In life, he had protested against the slow replacement of horses that spanned most of his adult life, blaming the owner of the house, Jack Jones, for his job becoming obsolete. Sam had rambled on for a good half hour about how Turner had it all wrong and could have easily kept his career going smoothly if he'd only learnt a thing or two about the new engines. Instead, Turner chose to devote his life to hating Jones and his "confounded machines". To add insult to injury, Jones had bought several of Turner's tools to hang in his home as "antiques of a time gone by". On the anniversary of the day his forge was shut down for good, Will Turner had resurfaced and murdered three teenagers and a police officer who'd trespassed on the property. As it didn't seem likely that Turner would harbour any ill will toward anyone wanting to mess up the house he had so despised, and since one such hooligan had come on foot to the place, John had guessed that Turner targeted anyone who came near the house in anything more modern than a penny farthing. Since Turner had had himself cremated (his wife had left him to his obsession), John was positive the ghost had tied himself to one of his old tools.

Getting to the house was easy. It was one of fifty or so dilapidated wrecks left to rot while newer, more energy efficient houses had been built a few miles down the road, and apart from the odd spray can-wielding teenager, the area was deserted.

As far as cases went, this one was about as easy as it got. Textbook. Dean, who still relished the quality time with his heroic dad, had had to work hard to seem focused and serious. John did not approve of too much excitement on a job. It made you complacent, he said. And complacency led to deaths. Duly sobered and eager for the night of action, Dean had triple-checked his sawn-off and his ammo, then slid into the passenger seat of the Impala, ready to hunt.

In hindsight, it was bound to go wrong. Too many of Dean's previous hunts had gone too smoothly, with only a few bruises, sprained ankle and one or two near misses to spice them up. It was only a matter of time before one of them went horribly wrong.

And it had all gone wrong in this very house.

Dean watched as his teenaged self entered from the hallway, followed closely by John Winchester.

"How do we find the hammer?" Dean whispered to his father, his eyes scanning the living room minutely, passing right over the invisible forms of his mother and older self.

"We look," John returned shortly. "You take upstairs, I'll check down here and the basement. Meet back here in ten."

"Yes, sir."

Dean stalked carefully up the creaking staircase and inspected each room for anything matching the diagrams of blacksmith tools Sam had shown him.

Most of the rooms' contents had been pillaged long before the killings had started. There was nothing but two broken wooden bed frames and half a porcelain sink in the upstairs rooms. As Dean searched the hallway for a route up to the attic, he heard his father cry out from downstairs, quickly followed by the creaking snaps of breaking wood. Feeling his heart leap into his throat, Dean flew down the stairs and back to the living room. He skidded to a halt in time to see his father lumber to his feet, a plank of wood falling from his back as he straightened.

The ghost of William Turner materialized on the threshold to the next room. He glared from under unruly eyebrows at the two intruders. The leather smock he wore was torn and scorched from its years of use, dark enough to make the spirit's pale skin stand out starkly in contrast.

Without thinking, Dean brought his shotgun up and shot a round of salt right through the ghost's chest. Swirling smoke and sparks dissipated into nothingness as Dean ran forward to help his father to his feet.

"What happened?"

"Came outta nowhere," John gasped, grimacing as he clutched at his side. "Jumped me from behind."

"But why's he after us? We left the Impala two blocks away!"

"I don't know, Dean! It doesn't matter, just means we gotta hurry up. Nothing upstairs?"

"No sir."

John nodded, seeming unsurprised. "Nothing here either. Must be in the basement."

On high alert now, Dean followed his father into the kitchen and down the rotting staircase into the dingy, dark basement. He kept swiveling his head around, determined not to be surprised by the ghost's next attack. After barking a quick order to watch his back, John pulled out a flashlight and began searching through years of dust and mouldy newspapers dating back centuries. Clearly, Jones had been a hoarder.

Several increasingly grumpy minutes of searching later, John let out a triumphant cry. "Got it!"

With a clang, he threw the antique sledgehammer into the centre of the grimy floor and set about dousing it with lighter fluid. Dean gripped his gun more tightly, sure the ghost would reappear once it figured out what they were doing.

John threw his lighter down onto the old hammer and flames whooshed around it, licking the dented metal and consuming the wooden handle.

Nothing happened.

The ghost remained absent. They heard no distant shriek of eviction from the world of the living. Nothing.

"Dad?"

"I don't know." John stared at the old hammer, watching its handle fall to cinders at his feet. "It has to be the hammer, what else could it be?"

"I dunno, maybe the – DAD!" Dean leapt forward, swinging his shotgun in a wide arc and colliding heavily with his father and shoving him out of the ghost's clawed reach. It had come out of nowhere, appearing suddenly over John's shoulder. Some old form of pliers were gripped menacingly in his overlong fingers, sailing through the air, aiming right for John Winchester's heart.

John thudded to the floor with a grunt, leaving Dean standing above him. Unconcerned, the pliers continued its graceful arc, plunging with a sickening, crunching squelch into Dean's left shoulder.

Dean didn't cry out. Shock choked his yell of pain into a barely audible gasp as he turned his head in time to see the weapon ripped from his flesh, followed by a spray of deep red.

A shot rang out, echoing confusingly around the basement as the ghost disappeared. Dean fell back. John caught him before he hit the floor, cradling him in his arms for a brief moment before setting him down gently on the bare concrete.

"Dean? Dean, you with me?"

Pain stunned him. His vision was darkening around the edges. He could feel unconsciousness tugging at him, offering a release from the burning, stinging agony in his shoulder.

A sharp slap on his cheek banished the darkness and his father's face filled his vision.

"Dean!"

"Oow ..." he groaned.

"Dean, you with me?"

"Yeah, Dad. 'M okay." As the pain made itself known, Dean spoke through tightly gritted teeth in an effort to keep his voice steady.

"Come on, we gotta get out of here." John ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt and wrapped it tightly around Dean's shoulder. Dean let out a yelp he quickly turned into a more manly-sounding grunt.

"What about T-Turner?" he asked, blinking quickly, trying to clear his vision.

"We'll get Turner later; you need the hospital."

"No! Dad, I'm fine I sw –" As Dean spoke, his father pulled him to his feet by his good arm. The abrupt change in altitude and automatic stiffening of his shoulder muscles sent a powerful wave of pain and nausea washing over Dean and his words faded away as he swayed on his feet. John put an arm around him, steadying him.

"It's okay, Dean. I've got you. Let's go."

They had made it just far enough to make Dean think the ghost would allow them to leave before it reappeared, its mouth open in a silent roar. Before either of them had a chance to move, they were thrown backwards. Unfortunately for Dean, there was a wall behind him. He crashed through the decaying drywall, wooden supports snapping as he fell in a plaster-dusted heap to the floor. John cried out as the arm he had wrapped around Dean whacked into the doorjamb and the rest of him sailed through the archway connecting living room and kitchen.

Dean stirred, groaning openly as the pain of the impact zinged through him, swirling unbearably around his throbbing shoulder.

"Daaad!" he half-groaned, half-yelled. He couldn't see the ghost. Which probably meant it was after John.

His breath hissing through clenched teeth, Dean pulled himself to his feet. He stumbled out of the ruined wall, back into the living room. It was empty. The boom of a shotgun blast made him turn. John was fighting the ghost in the kitchen, and the ghost seemed to be winning. It popped back behind John seconds after being shot and grabbed the hunter from behind, throwing him onto the old sink, which, miraculously, held under the grown man's weight.

"Dad!"

"Dean – run!" His father grunted as let off another shot. Which meant he'd have to reload now, and be defenseless while he did.

"Dad! Heads up!" Dean threw his semi-loaded shotgun to his father, who caught it deftly in one hand and whirled around, waiting for the ghost to reappear.

This isn't going to work, Dean thought. The ghost was too strong, and he couldn't cover his father with one arm and what he was he was fairly sure was a concussion. He looked around wildly. They had to find whatever was anchoring the ghost, and burn it. If it hadn't been the sledgehammer, what else could it be? What else was there?

Then it clicked.

"DAD!" he bellowed, "Throw me the lighter fluid!"

John shot him a glance as he swung the sawn-off around to face the ghost. He pumped the gun, fired it, then dug one hand in the pocket of his brown leather jacket and threw Dean the small bottle before reloading the gun in record time.

"I'll cover you!" he called after Dean seconds before being thrown violently back into the kitchen wall by Turner's ghost.

Dean ran – or rather, staggered – as fast as he could out of the room and up the stairs, tripping twice in his haste. The master bedroom was at the far end of the upstairs hall. Dean used the wall for support as he lurched towards it, his heart and breathing racing each other.

Above the broken, derelict bedframe was a small ornament, hanging against the faded wallpaper over the head of the bed. At first glance, it looked like an artistic collection of arcing metal welded together to form an abstract, looping shape that vaguely resembled a shamrock. Upon closer inspection, it had been forged from several horseshoes.

Dean limped over to it, wrenched it off the wall and flung it onto the wooden bedframe. Working as quickly as his clumsy hands and spinning head would allow, he unscrewed the lid from the bottle of lighter fluid and squirted more than half its contents over the twisted metal. He dug in his jeans pocket for his lighter and flicked it open. It wouldn't light. He tried again, his thumb scraping against the metal gear. Again it sparked but didn't catch. Letting out a frustrated groan, he tried again and, finally, a small wavering flame appeared over the silver square.

Turner appeared on the opposite side of the old bed. They stared at each other for a long moment, waiting to see who would act first. Turner's brown eyes were filled with hate. They burned into Dean. His heavy breathing filled the silence.

At almost the same moment Dean threw the lighter onto the beaten horseshoes, Turner raised his arms and screamed. Dean felt himself lift into the air and fly backwards. He hit the wall and everything went black.

He came around in the passenger seat of the Impala, his forehead pressed against the cool window. The roar of the engine's acceleration comforted him.

"Dean? You with me, son?"

Trying not to move any more than was necessary, Dean looked around. His father's profile was silhouetted against the flickering streetlights they zoomed past. "Hey, Dad," he muttered.

"You okay? How you feeling?"

Dean groaned. "Arm hurts."

"Don't worry. We're on our way to the hospital. Just gotta pick Sammy up on the way."

That woke Dean up. He straightened in the seat too quickly and grunted in pain. "No, don't get Sammy, Dad."

"Why the hell not?"

"Dad, he'll freak. Wait till I'm outta hospital. Don't want him to see me like this. He'll have nightmares."

John's disapproving silence filled the car.

"Fine," he grunted at last, easing his foot down on the accelerator. Dean pressed into the back of the seat and closed his eyes, trying to breathe around the pain. After a few minutes, his father spoke. "You did good today, Dean."

Dean's eyes flew open. "What?"

"You did good, kid."

Dean looked over to his father, confused. "But I got hurt."

"Yeah, and you kept going. You saw me in danger and you protected me. When I couldn't find the anchor you found it and killed that goddamn son of a bitch yourself, even though you were injured. That's what makes a hunter, Dean. They keep going, no matter how much they hurt. They get the job done: they save people. They make sure no one else gets hurt by whatever evil scum they're fighting. Today you became a hunter, Dean, as far as I'm concerned."

Dean blinked. For a moment, he didn't feel his aching shoulder. Feeling awkward at the unexpected praise, he joked, "So does this mean I can take point on the next hunt?"

John chuckled. "Nice try, Dean. You're still my kid. And you've still got a hell of a lot to learn."

"Worth a try," Dean muttered, turning back to the window so John wouldn't see his smile.

Mary laid a hand on Dean's forearm in the back seat. "Ready for the next one?"

Dean looked at her, his confusion plain on his face. "Why are you showing me all this? What's the point?"

"The point is that you figure out the point. There's a lot more I want to show you."

"Are they all like this?"

"Some of them. I want you to look at yourself Dean. See your actions as they were, without the emotions of the time clouding your judgment."

There was a pause.

"Are you going to show me anything from ... this year?"

Mary smiled and squeezed his arm. "No, Dean. I know you remember that just fine, and besides, it has nothing to do with why I'm showing you all this. This last year, that wasn't you. I hope you'll understand soon. Look into your memories, Dean. See them as I see them."

He gave her an uncertain glance.

"Just try, Dean. For me."

Still not sure what or why this was happening, but not wanting to say goodbye to her, Dean nodded.

"Good boy, Dean." Mary smiled as the memory began to fade around them. "Just try."