Author's note: Howdy, I wrote this fairly quickly, but things have gone crazy in my world. If any of you find sanity, please send some to me! I hope to finish this by next week.

Now...Crumbpecker's Inn

"Tried to let go—cant. " Dying he could do, but never lose sight of his family again, at least not to this fiasco of a dark circus. His livid fist quivered to flex. "Even when—after all—."

Vaguely, as Nysa drew the fallen man close, she heard not only the rumbles of Dean's vague thoughts, but another sound, loud and vicious, demanded her attention. The clatters and squeals fused into a sharp droning, sounding like a screamer trapped in a water barrel, but the intruding noise ironically combined into a persistent melody.

"You have devised own tricks and treats." A finger of discovery traced the source with little effort until she plucked the circular ear blub, which had fallen out of Dean's ear. She enclosed the noise within her palm and yanked it free by the thin wire attached. Her fingers pinched down upon a cylinder earphone, no bigger than a dime. "Did you strive great lengths to hide yourself from mother? Your own song?"

"Damn..." Dean forced his eyes to open, but his body already felt rigid. "…Right." He might have chuckled at the scolding. After all, his real mother hated those things—walkmans and the liked--and even lectured John as far back as Dean could remember about hearing lost. He chuckled, briefly recalling the way the corners of Mary's mouth would crinkle when she disapproved. When demons are at the gate and torturing with sound, sometimes you had to find a song of your own.

"Clever boy. You will yet learn listen."

"Perhaps they are overly clever." Theron kicked a jarring crack to Sam's ribs, as the hunter crawled and slithered an indistinguishable distance on the floor. Scorched and battered, Sam bent inward on himself. "Nowhere to run. No other magic to show us?"

Running would have been a luxury, and even if Sam could find an opening, his body dwelled in a place of useless muscles –too tired and depleted. No matter what, he wouldn't abandon Dean or Bobby. "Here's a trick. Bite me!" Sam balled up his knees to his chest and took in a harsh breath.

"If we had possessed their source before." Nysa sighed away in a dreamy state.

"No need. Today begins anew. One last feast and we will be rise up as two away from the brick, shadow, and bone. Bloody ties broken."

"Brother Bone?" the wraith boy nudged Nysa's shoulder. "Battle proven."

"Yes, love to protect you. Protect us."

"Quiet, annoyance." Theron shouted. "His only worth is for the meat of his bones."

Dean groaned as he took in a prickly breath, that when exhaled sounded like a trio of slurred, intelligible cuss words. The intent of the mumbles sparked obvious.

"Naughty boy, full of tricks," she sang.

"Go –hell." Dean mumbled.

"Forsake those beyond my voice. "

An involuntary gripe escaped his lips followed by a stronger burst of speech. "SONVA...ugh…" Pushing at her with half-assed strength in his palms, he winced as his soft tissue guzzled more of his life away. Cold bumps stood warning of the deadly grey overtaking him. He sighed "bitch" under his breath, holding at the last remaining crag of his consciousness.

As Dean started wholly to unravel, he crossed his arms over his chest, seeking out any spark of warmth to avoid shock. Foul bruising developed on his arms from thrashing against these things, and his shattered body screeched for full oblivion. The woman could sing to the rafters and it would do little good. This time they were beaten—overpowered by sheer numbers. He guessed a Winchester couldn't hold back hurricanes just because he wanted to.

"Shhhh."

"Soon, mother?" The hopeful and inquisitive wraith boy at Nysa's side fawningly poked and inspected Dean. "New brother?"

"Yes, my beloved first."

Theron chuckled. "Play on, dear sister. Play this little house just for the moment."

"Like me?"

"No." Dean denied this faux family's claim. "Only one—"

"Come home. Sons who adore their mother always come home."

"Not—mother! His hatred fueled his weak voice. "Stain—just a stain. My mom—messy—beautiful."

"I will be beautiful again."

"All be beautiful and never will be alone?" The wraith boy asked.

"Not for much longer. He's near the end and transformation." She scooped down, arching Dean's back into her arms. "A favored son for all the little ones."

"My real own? This time for sure?" It asked, begging.

"For always." Her lips ruminated into the delicate melody.

"Sing all—want---can't take—they're always there. I belong—to them—her." With a look, Dean flopped, staring vacantly at Sam. "Hated you for reminding me of—I—wrong."

"Dean?" The clueless Sam crawled, inching and flopping in an uneasy collapse.

"Be still now, it's not going to hurt for long."

"After all of it—still smell her honeysuckle," Dean stared off at Sam, looking through him and blathered away in a weak, warm laugh. "Her searching eyes—Dad's greasy—fingers—never clean."

Then... 1990… Harvelle's Roadhouse

The sole drinker at the bar, watching a buzzing snow of the TV screen mounted in the corner, simultaneously gulped back a whiskey and motioned for Ellen to bring him another.

With a nod and cursory hand wave, she stalled him as she banged a good whack to the TV's side, managing to align the picture to shades of red. As she turned her attention to his glass, her foot rooted around a small, underfoot child. She would have toppled over had she not grasped the bar for balance.

"Jo! I swear I told you to not come out here. This ain't no place for a young lady. Get squared out back in your bed before I warm your hide."

"Daddy's home?"

"Not yet, but when he does, he'll get you first thing. Scoot off until Dad finishes up his work. John's here, so Dad's close behind. You know how he jollies up to surprise you." She squared the girl the back beyond a door and eyeballed it until she was sure her little one had left her in some peace.

"God, I love her, but she's damn hard headed."

Before she could take a second glance at the door or fill John's glass, the last customers, half-slumped across the back table, barked for another round. Two rough-ridden hunters, incredibly drunk and bleary eyed, demanded attention. John quietly wonder if the pair was redneck enough to wave some stars and bars.

"Sweet thing! I need me another beer." The hairy man spluttered.

Her eyes narrowed, wide open in a strange way, but focused as if her eyes were pinpoint crosshairs. John arced up, waiting for signs he'd have to step in, yet Ellen pulled up a corner of her wry mouth and gave him a wink. His worries were ill placed. Yet again, for what he was about to do, he might hope that gruesome twosome run interference for him.

"Marcus, you and that old coot friend of yours are already four beers past last call. Pack it up and shut up."

The other man said, shaking as if he might have hit detox. "Come on, sweetness."

"Sweetness. Now you have to realize you're ten sheets, pissed drunk, otherwise you'd remember honey talk don't count for shit round here. Both of you are done for the night. Shift it."

"Ahhh, El, why you gotta be so mean?" Marcus asked.

Yeah! Hey, what about that guy? Him?" The shaky man pointed a wavering finger towards John.

"He's family. That doesn't count for last calls. Out!"

"You don't mean it."

"Don't I!? Cause I got a straight-shooting rifle, and if you don't get to getting and never call me El or sweetie again, you'll get a buckshot view of it. Move!"

The scene made John's stomach crawl. He hated the other hunters and even this bar. The roadhouse collected smoky, rude, pushy, self-proclaimed-better than-you-hunters. He knows most of the names, but nothing real about them. None of them knew a damn smidge about him. That was the way he liked it.

This place wasn't a bar, but a graveyard for hunters to die in. He hated his place—the façade of it. The only good thing was the numb of liquor, yet tonight his emotions left a bitterness the alcohol couldn't ease. He detested the way everyone here acted like the hunting life was normal as cheeseburger. The only thing that burned him worse was how he fit into this world. In truth, he hated himself. He swore he'd never fight a war again. Swore he'd be a good husband and father to Mary. After it all, he was a lousy lying bastard. He wasn't even good at keeping promises to himself.

Yet, Ellen and William Harvelle welcomed him and made him want to trust. Thinking back, it was Ellen at the head of the welcome wagon—a barkeeper, more den mother and sage than a bartender. She had made him feel it was okay to be as messed up as he was and that the door to him was always open. Maybe it was the way she called him out on his bullshit in the same way Mary had, but that was about all those two women would have in common. There was the real reason he hated being here now. He could never love this haven again.

"Show a little kindness and they walk all over you!" Ellen shoved Marcus towards the exit.

"Kindness." John mumbled without making a sound. To repay that Ellen's kindness to him, tonight, he would forever blemish Anthony's memory. Harvelle's first mistake could have been forgiven, but glory in battle was best left to posers in fake Hollywood movies where jocks and cheerleaders died after banging.

Ellen flushed, twirling the two around once before the toppled out the door. "Come back tomorrow!"

"Last ones, eh?"

"Now, you want to tell me what is in the chaw?"

"The truth." That's would be what she'd want. She'd expect honest. He had waited patiently, drink in hand, until closing time. He didn't want witnesses to his duty and Ellen's pain, or just maybe some part of him felt like a coward.

When Ellen squatted next to him at the bar, she surprised at John's expression and flinch. Then the grin appeared, accompanied by something resembling respect. Leaning over the bar, she grasped a full bottle of scotch. "This'll be your tenth." She poised the bottle teasingly over his glass. "Let me guess. You getting alcohol before dragging about with some loose, grateful woman?"

"Not tonight. I—I need—just one more."

"Fine. Your funeral; not mine. Hey, you get too hard on this bottle and you'll start looking like the rest of these old farts."

Sucking in a breath, John geared up. Sometimes you had to embrace the suck in life and claim it as your own.

"When did you last eat? I make a pretty fair to go box. If your boys look as wiry as you, I'm beginning to wonder if you starve them."

"No."

"No? Those kids could use a good female squaring away. Even you!"

"Don't. I—"

"You think I'm gonna let you lock everyone out" She poured him a full glass and herself one too. "We got a place for all three of you. I've been down those tough spots myself."

And that was when he realized what he'd known all along: No matter how intentional or otherwise Harvelle's actions were, Ellen was the pillar of the hapless ones out there fighting damn evil things, and he didn't want to do what he swore to boys as being the right thing.

"What's eating you?"She asked. "Will sees that long face and—Don't think I won't rat your surly ass out when he gets here."

"He won't see it. He's not going to make it back."

"That ain't a bit funny. Don't you pull my leg like that, John Winchester. Not like that." Her eyes swept accusingly from his unkempt hair to the full whiskey glass and his stained shirt. Her heart beat on the horrible, familiar distaste sensation of loss. "He don't go down for anything.""

"Dammit, did you think we go out to handing out candy to kiddie?" Her husband's ambition and overconfidence nearly broke all that John had dear. That acrid fear rang fallow and wrong into his voice when he spoke. As much as he quelled the anger inside him, John shook. He wanted to scream: "Your husband almost killed my boy. I hate to bring the death news, but I'm not sorry he's the one that bought it. Anything is better to me than losing my Dean." Yet he didn't say any of that.

"Don't lie to me! You—I won't listen to this nonsense."

"He's gone." The callous truth rumbled inside his mouth, stinging sour, yet the woman before him made him cringe. Honesty made a feeble attempt at fighting the renewed adrenaline in his traitorous hands, which rolled the whiskey glass with ripples of greasy fingerprints. The right thing is often the hardest thing to do. In this case, the right thing was a lie. His nerves went sideways and squeamish. Ellen didn't need the reality, but the untarnished memory of the man she loved. For whatever kindness she had shown to his family, he would give her that. Once he settled on the few deceptions he could weigh upon himself, he offered her an emphatic wince.

"He's better than that!"

Safe in the Teflon of his lies, John squared his shoulder, sloshed the amber courage in his glass, and swallowed his emotions. "Yeah, he was." He stared off into the glass, fabricating lies in time with the swirl.

"You tell me that he's coming right behind you. You tell me or I—"

"He fought damn hard right until the end." His Adam's apple wedged hard on the hollow pitch of his voice. "Guess he didn't tell you what we were going after—probably thought you would worry. We found a pulse on what took Mary and your sister. Both of us wanted that revenge so bad, we got reckless. Taste of the end, I figure. Didn't realize it until all of it got away from us."

"He doesn't fail. He's not that weak, not like you."

"Hmm, I was wrong about a lot of things. I was a fool to let myself trust when I shouldn't have." It was about as much pity as John could digest. "He wanted you to know he thought about you—and Jo—in the end. Made me promise to ask you to forgive him."

"Forgive? You bastard," Her cold, detested eyes burned into him.

John shifted weight from one foot to the other around the barstool, but squared his gaze in determination not to look away. "I'm sorry."

"Coward." Her eyebrows bushed together and warm tears cascaded down her pale face. "He doesn't fail. He doesn't. You—"

"It was too far of a reach and for that I—"

"Shut up," A trembling fist curled at her sides.

"I can't offer you anymore than that. Wish I could."

"I told you to shut the hell up!" Her fist cracked John's jawbone.

"Mommy! Mommy!" However long Jo had snuck back into the bar was a mystery, but she hovered at her mother's side like a disapproving parent. Long minutes passed as the young girl gazed upon the two adults and the way her mother repeated her father's name.

"It's alright, little one." John patted her head.

"Don't you touch her! You're a damn plague. I hate you!" Her voice sounded with confidence-- Strong of voice, but weak of body. "I hate you."

When her frame slumped from the barstool, and before she realized it, John lowered her to knees on the floor. He stood vigilant watch as she wept, letting her damn him until the words bore anguished holes into his soul. "I've said my piece."

"I hate--" But her voice, despite the raging atmosphere and crashing news, went calm. "I'm done talking. You thank your boys tonight that I let you walk outta here. Next time—"

John blinked at the pity in the corner of his own eyes before he turned to walk away. "I won't be coming back."