Why couldn't it ever be easy?

"Hey Dad, come on! There's a Freddy movie marathon on. Can we make some popcorn?" John stopped packing salt rounds to look over at his son.

"I think it's time for bed." His hands continued their work, eyes moving from Dean to the clock on the bedside table: 9:48pm.

"Aw Dad. Come on," Dean begged, hopping to the end of the double bed to kneel at the end, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the little round table, fingers dragging through the rock salt spilling from the bag onto the dark grain of the wood. Sammy was already deep asleep, his face barely visible from beneath the bundle of blankets, thumb lodged firmly in his mouth.

John batted his fingers away without looking up again. "I said no, Dean. Bedtime."

Dean sulked at him with all of his seven year old might. "Dad, it's only 9:30. Last week, you let me stay up until 11:30, and that was a weeknight." He emphasized the word, and just in case John didn't get it, he added, "Today is Saturday." He kicked his stocking feet against the mattress, staring expectantly at John to hurry up and see sense before he missed the opening scenes.

John held back a grin, and reached for the next shell. "I did, huh? Well maybe that was a special occasion. Maybe I…" He smiled up at Dean again and the words died in his throat. It was the eyes that always did it, even after all this time. Dean was looking at him accusingly with those big eyes: Mary's eyes. He swallowed hard and set down the bullet casing harder than necessary. The hotel room was suddenly suffocating, and Dean was still looking up at him with those eyes, suddenly hurt and a little wary. "It's fine. Watch it. Not too late. I'm going out."

Dean frowned as John stood up, almost knocking the chair over in his haste, grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. "Wait, but. Where are you going? I, I wanted to watch it with you." The door was shut before Dean finished the sentence, John on the other side. His fist hit the opposite wall with enough force to dent the plaster, and he rested his forehead against the arm, fighting the pressure building behind his eyes. He went out and got a beer, and didn't return until long after Dean had joined his little brother in slumber.

"No Dad, I don't want you to go." Adam was twelve years old, and he was saying goodbye to his father for the first time, and it hurt worse than never knowing his father ever did. Kate was standing in the doorway, looking pretty in a pale pink skirt and a white patterned blouse, a little shy and unsure about the rules of their new, dysfunctional little family.

John sighed, arm resting on the Impala's roof, and glanced down at the boy hugging his new baseball mitt, a relic from a pawn shop he had passed going through Iowa but still a good mitt. Big green eyes stared up at him, tears barely clinging to lashes. He had John's height, he could tell, landing somewhere between Sam and Dean's at that age, and he could see more of himself in his posture, the lines of his face. But none of her, not a trace. And what he should do next came easy.

Bending down so he was eye-to-eye with his son, John clapped a warm hand to his shoulder. "I know. But I'll be back soon. You stay here and take care of your mother, and I'll be back before you know it." A gentle squeeze and he was standing, sliding into the Impala, Metallica already playing a little too loud. "And you better practice in the meantime," he called. "I'll be expecting some improvement next time we play."

Adam nodded and smiled through the tears, waving as John pulled out. He waved back and watched in the rearview mirror as Kate came and hugged Adam's shoulders against her as he waved. He watched them until they faded away into the distance, small smile never leaving his lips.

When Adam was thirteen, John showed up again, just in time to see his last baseball game. He practically glowed when he saw his father climb up the bleachers to sit next to his mom in his faded leather jacket and dusty blue jeans. They lost, but Adam didn't care.

Afterwards ,they got pizza and ice cream sundaes. "And next season I'm going to start playing soccer too," Adam declared through a mouthful of vanilla and chocolate fudge.

John ruffled his hair and smiled. "That's great kiddo. I'll bet you'll make a lot of goals."

Adam beamed. "You bet! I'll make at least a hundred!"

"I want to play soccer with my friends Dad! Why can't I just play! It's not fair!"

"Life's not fair Sam! I said no! We don't have time for stupid games."

"It's not stupid Dad! Everybody likes soccer! Why can't I play? You just want me to be a freak."

"Stop making excuses. You have responsibilities."

"I don't want to learn how to use a dumb bow! Why do I have to? It's not fair."

"Stop whining Sam. This is the last I want to hear of this. No soccer."

"Fine! Then I hate you Dad!"

The words echoed in John's mind long after his youngest son had stormed out. He was seething mad, mad and frustrated as only Sam could make him. He just didn't understand what John was trying to do. He was trying to get revenge, no justice, justice for all of them. They had to put aside childish things like soccer for the greater good. Dean understood. Dean had pulled Sammy out of the flames, had accepted responsibility without being asked; he'd never even questioned it.

But Sam. Sam questioned everything. He saw his classmates who lived in houses with mothers and played soccer and baked apple pies, and demanded to know why he couldn't have that, why he didn't deserve that life.

He did. John knew he deserved that life. John wanted that life for him, but… there was always a but. They had to fight, they had to train. The yellow-eyed demon was out there, and he had to be stopped, and Sam had to learn to accept that he had to become a hunter; it was the only way.

But there was something else too. Something ugly that John tried his damnedest not to think. That Sam should be trying harder than anyone to avenge Mary's death. Because it had happened right over top of him, in his room, his nursery. That maybe it was his fault.

John gritted his teeth, palms digging into his eyes. He didn't believe that, but sometimes he forgot. He forgot when he was mad and frustrated and guilty, when Dean went after Sam like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to mother his younger brother after a fight over crossbows with his hunter father. Sometimes he forgot.

Dad? I know I've left you messages before. I don't even know if you get 'em... But, I'm with Sam. And we're in Lawrence, and there's something in our old house. I don't know if it's the thing that killed mom or not. But, I don't know what to do... So whatever you're doing, if you could get here... Please. I need your help Dad.

John pressed 6 and listened to the message again, wet lines trailing through the dust on his face.

Hello John? It's me, Kate. You probably don't remember me. Well, I hope you remember me. Kate Milligan from the hospital in Minnesota? Anyway, I know it's been a long time, but there's someone who has been dying to talk to you.

The voice on John's answering machine changed from a soft alto to the high lilt of a child. Hi. My name's Adam, and I am twelve years old. Mom says you're my daddy, and I want to meet you. Please come home soon so I can meet you.

The voice changed back to the woman's voice. I know this is a lot to take in, and I'm sorry I never told you, but if you could just call me back. We have a lot to talk about.

John breathed heavily into the phone, shocked as the operator told him he could press 6 to repeat the message, press 7 to delete, or press 8 to call back. After a long moment, he pressed 8, leaning heaving into the seat of the Impala for support. It rang and then…

"Hey, Kate? It's me, John Winchester. When can I come by?"

For John, nothing was every easy. But was it so wrong for him to pretend, just for a little while, that it could be?

Hey! I wrote this story awhile back, and I'm still not sure about it. Tell me what you think!