It'd been a bad hunt. A bad day. Bad tempers all around.

We'd been after a desert spirit today, and believe me, chasing an elusive, shimmering specter in a desolate oven of elusive, shimmering illusions doesn't do anybody's mood any good. We'd had to time the hunt to take place after a rare cloudburst, and figuring out when that might be took a lot of research and waiting, which we could do. It also took a lot of patience which all that research and waiting had used up.

And it was Mary's birthday and that was never a good day, no matter what

We finally trapped the spirit in the shadow of an outcropping, in a rapidly shrinking patch of dew in the sand, and we dispatched it fast. Now no more hikers or drivers would be tantalized into danger and death by that mobile mirage.

When that was done, we had the half mile hike back to the car in the heat, and dust, and sand, and silence.

Profound silence.

I wasn't even sure the boys knew it was Mary's birthday. We never talked about it. We sure never celebrated it. I always kept Mary in a special place in my heart, warm and remembered and loved. But special days, her birthday, the boys' birthdays, the day she died, always broke another piece of my heart off and the lingering pain trailed after me until sometimes that was all I could think or feel or deal with.

Back at the car, we broke out some more water bottles and wearily got in the car. I gave the boys a quick once over before I turned on the car and got us back on the road that led to civilization, showers, and ice cubes.

Dean was in the front seat, as usual. He was twenty now, he was so grown up and had so much of his mother in him. Spit and spine and attitude, and a love for his family that was as effortless as it was deep and eternal.

Sammy was in the back seat, he already had a book cracked open. He got that from his mother. Mary loved to read and to learn and to know. And just like Sam, she was never stuck up about it. She knew what she knew and that was it.

I didn't bother trying to think of any ways the boys were like me. Once upon a time I would've seen myself in how Dean could fix cars even better than most professionals I've met, how he just seemed to have an ear for what was wrong with a car and the natural ability to fix it just like that. And once upon a time I would've seen myself in Sammy's quiet humor and strength.

Once upon a time, but not now.

Now the only car I fixed was the Impala, and that was so we could keep going on these hunts that saved everybody's lives but our own. And the inner strength that used to be marked by gentleness was now rock hard necessity. I'd lost most of the joys in my life and probably all of the gentleness and I didn't want that for the boys. I really didn't. Yet every step I take, I take them with me, and every step they take I know scrubs a little more at their souls and their humanity until one day that will be exactly like me and I can't stand the thought of that.

It's Mary's damn birthday – I should be out with the boys buying her flowers and schmaltzy gifts, we should have dinner plans at a fancy restaurant that Sam doesn't like because he doesn't want to get dressed up, and Dean likes because it'll impress his girlfriend.

Instead we're all three stuck in a hot car in a hotter desert, heading for a drive-thru dinner and a motel room.

Sammy hates this life. He's been very honest and very vocal about that. He's sixteen, in his junior year of high school, and I've seen him inhaling college catalogs the way I used inhale car repair manuals. I try to tell him that college isn't part of this life, but he doesn't seem to hear me. I hate to break his heart. I hate to break mine because I want him to go to college, I want both my boys to have a home and a college education and a life that isn't this life. But this is our lives. And Sammy hates it.

He probably hates me sometimes too because of it.

Dean has never said he hates the hunt or this life. He never complained that being a nomad kept him from being able to graduate high school. He could've graduated with honors, had his pick of colleges, a chance at a good job with good benefits and a nifty retirement package. Instead he rides shotgun in my car, listens to my music, wears my leather jacket, and does pretty much every single thing I tell him to do without ever hardly asking to be able to do anything else.

How can he not hate me sometimes?

I hate myself sometimes. Hate myself for the life I've given my boys. For the life I denied them because of it. I hate the times I'm short-tempered with them or dismissive of them or just plain away from them for days or weeks at a time. I love my boys and I hate that they must hate me.

The motel is in sight and suddenly I'm too tired to even think. Nobody has said a word the whole drive from desert to Desert Inn. I pull the car to the parking spot at the door and take out my wallet.

"Whyn't you boys go get some dinner?" I hand some money over to Dean. "I'm going to go -." I only make a vague motion to the room. I might go in and take a shower or I might go in and cry. I haven't decided yet.

"Okay." Dean says. "We'll bring it back. What d'you want?"

"I don't want anything. Just – go – get yourselves some dinner. Find a movie you want to see. Just – take a break."

A break from me I think but don't say.

"Okay…" Dean says again, with a question in his voice and confusion on his face. He shoots a look back at Sammy who looks just as confused and shrugs.

I get out of the car on my side, and the boys get out of the car on their side. Dean walks around to the driver's door and Sam shuts the rear passenger door and stands at the front passenger door. I make my feet get me to the motel door and as I open the door, I give a look back to the boys, to make sure they're safe in the car and about to get on their way.

But they're standing there. They're both standing at the car with the doors still open, and they're watching me. What the hell are they waiting for?

"Go on." I tell them.

Sammy nods and says, "As soon as you're inside," and Dean across the car from him nods as well.

And they stand there, and they wait.

I could make them go. I could recite the whole litany of why them waiting to make sure I'm safe just doesn't work that way for me that runs through my mind. But I don't. These are my boys and they don't hate me and I'm not going spoil the moment for any one of us.

"Bring me back a sandwich and a newspaper." I tell them. "We'll look for a movie we can all go see."

They smile, they both smile, each with their own piece of Mary's expression. They smile and wait for me to go inside and shut the door, and they're still smiling when I look out the window to watch them drive away.

I love those boys.

The End.