Exactly two weeks ago, Dean had awoken to an empty motel room. There was no sign of his father anywhere; Dean had checked the bathroom, the car, and even walked to the closest bars and grocery stores. No John Winchester.

What had worried him the most, however, was the fact that all of John's belongings had been missing as well. As was John's truck. Sadly, as much as Dean wished to deny it, he couldn't. John had left him without a message.

Had it been for a hunt, John would have most likely dragged Dean along with him, and if not, he would have left Dean a note like he had done many times in their childhood. John never left his kids without leaving some kind of message.

Except for one time, that is.

It had happened when Dean was only twelve. John had needed to go on a hunt, so he dragged Bobby along with him, leaving Dean behind with Sam in Bobby's house. Unfortunately, the hunt did not go as planned, and Bobby was taken to the hospital (although both he and John had insisted he was fine). When John went home to grab some supplies, he found Dean home alone, no Sammy in sight. Dean was asleep.

So John went back to the hospital, and when Bobby was admitted, they returned home hoping to find Sam. Sam was safely tucked into his bed while Dean was rubbing his sleepy eyes and watching TV. After making sure Sam was safe, John left without a word. He did not come back for three weeks.

The point was, Dean thought, that John would never leave him like this unless Dean had done something wrong. And although he felt guilty, something kept telling him that he shouldn't be, because he had not done anything wrong since Sam left to Stanford. He'd helped John very much, doing a great job on all his hunts.

So now, after two weeks of waiting, Dean decided it may be time he began looking for his father. Outside the town, that is. Dean had searched all town-pubs, bars, stores and asked everyone when they'd last seen John. No one could help him.

The fact that John was not answering his cell phone either drove Dean insane. If he'd done something so wrong, couldn't John at least tell him? Perhaps even give him a second chance so he wouldn't repeat the same mistake again?

Sighing, Dean pulled out his phone again. As expected, he reached voice mail. "Hey, Dad, it's me. You know, giving me some kind of lead on where you are would be pretty helpful right now. At least tell me what I did wrong." He breathed out, shaking his head softly. Tucking his phone away again, he climbed into the impala and began driving to the town North of them.

Two Days Later

"So, you excited for tonight?" Jaden asked.

Sam smiled. "Yeah, actually. I've never been to many school dances before. Jess said it was going to be awesome."

Jaden nodded. "You bet! So how are things going on with you and Jess? You guys thinking about declaring your love any time soon?" He asked teasingly, grinning. When Sam blushed, he added, "Loverboy got himself a beautiful girlfriend."

"We're not dating yet." Sam clarified. "I mean, we are going to the dance together tonight, but we're not together together." He mumbled. "Jess is a great girl. I want to take things slowly with her, make sure she actually loves me."

Snorting, Jaden responded, "I think the entire college knows that she's head over heels for you, Winchester."

Dean had been driving in the impala for six hours. The first two towns he'd dropped by had shown absolutely no sign of his father, which told him he should head back in the opposite direction. The next town was still another two-hour drive from him. He nodded his head along with the music.

Suddenly, however, the music turned off. Dean furrowed his eyebrows, tapping on the radio several times. The impala's radio couldn't have possibly stopped working; not now, not after all those years, and certainly not this suddenly. Then, as Dean sighed in irritation, the impala came to an abrupt halt.

"Sonuvabitch..." He muttered, trying to turn on the engine again. Nothing. He climbed out of the car, inspecting it. "I have no time for this right now." He told himself, running a hand through his hair. "Why would you stop working now, of all times!"

In the state he was under, Dean was unable to notice little things he would have normally had no trouble seeing. Being this distressed, and having not eaten a thing for at least eight hours now (no money, since John hadn't left him any and he'd had no time to hustle), Dean could be excused.

He looked around, waiting for a car to come by so he could ask for some help of any sort. All he saw around him, however, was a cemetery. A cemetery, of all things? Rubbing his temples, Dean let out a shaky breath. Of course. He was Dean Winchester; nothing would be easy for him. How could he possibly have expected to drive around country, looking for his father who could be anywhere in the world, without getting in the way of some kind of hunt?

"You know what, let's just get this over with." He yelled out, moving to the trunk of the impala to pull out a rock salt gun. He groaned in realization when he noticed that he had no background information on this ghost––or spirit–––whatsoever. He did not know the name, the gender, the background, or where the grave was.

In other words, this was as unprepared for a hunt as he had ever been.

John would be so proud.

Loading the gun, Dean shook his head, waiting for the ghost to appear. He needed to get out of here as soon as possible to be able to research properly. Damnit, how he hated those hunts where the ghost stopped their cars from functioning.

As he leaned against the trunk, he felt a shudder creeping up his spine. Turning around, he was met by an unusual sight. Dean had seen many spirits in his lifetime, but nothing like this. The spirit had no arms or legs––no elbows, no knees... he was basically a flying block. Taking a deep breath, Dean shot at him with rock salt, watching as he quickly dispersed. When the ghost dispersed, the car turned on again. Dean ran to the door, to drive away before the spirit came back, but it appeared that the spirit was stronger than he expected.

How fascinating.

The impala door locked, making Dean unable to get inside. He looked up to see the spirit standing on the other side of the impala. Quickly pulling up his gun, he aimed at him again. However, with a flick of his hand, the gun flew out of Dean's grasp and fell several feet away from where he stood.

"Son of a bitch." Dean gritted, gasping when the spirit was abruptly only several inches away from him. "Who are you?" He asked.

"I am Jordan Willigan." The spirit's voice flooded his mind, although its mouth didn't move. "You are like me. So much like me." He said.

"Yeah? Well, I'm not the one with missing limbs and a creepy voice." Dean replied easily, his sarcasm taking the better of him. "And your face, dude. It's fugly."

Dean felt himself being pushed back, his breath stopping short when his back collided with the cemetery fence. He sat up, spitting the blood that had erupted in mouth. Shaking his head slowly, he began to stand up again, looking at the spirit who was wide eyed and clearly angered.

"No, but I was once healthy. I once had all my arms and legs, and my face was handsome and I––I was perfect." The spirit's voice said again. "But they all gave me up. They left me, abandoned me. And I can feel it in you too. I can see it as I skim through your thoughts and memories. They left you behind, uncaring as to what happens to you. You are like me."

His jaw clenching, Dean shook his head. "You misunderstand my memories, then. I don't know what you're talking about."

Jordan shook his head sadly. "I went through that phase as well, Dean. Denial. I wanted to deny what had actually happened. I wanted to believe that they had done the best for me and never intended to hurt me." He sighed. "I was a soldier in WW1. I never wanted to go. My parents told me I had to, for their sake. So I went. They never responded to my letters. They left me there, in the war, all alone. Then my comrades sent me out to the trenches. The trenches are frightening, you know that? Very frightening. I was scared. But the life of one soldier then didn't matter. You had to be sent out to do whatever it was you were told. Obeying orders, as though your life meant nothing. Always thinking about the greater good, isn't that right? I was sent out to the trenches."

Dean flinched as he heard the spirit. This seemed to give the spirit a clue that Dean could truly relate to him. "In all those years I've been here, I never haunted a person. No one. Not even my family, Dean. I am a good spirit." He clarified. "But now, when I sensed that I finally found someone like me, I knew I could talk to you. I knew I could warn you, make you understand. Your father left you, much like mine did. Your soul doesn't matter to him––never are nothing but soldiers, Dean. You and I are soldiers, sent to save people who would never know we exist or appreciate what we did. I am here to warn you, Dean. Living in denial will not help you. The moment will come when you realize that they left you, forever, and will never come back." He shook his head. "My parents never even attended my burial. I doubt your family would even know of your death."

"No, you're wrong." Dean ground out. The spirit was just messing with him, using his weakest thoughts against him. "You're not a soldier. You're playing with my mind to make me weaker. I've faced enough sons of bitches like you to know."

The spirit shrugged. "I am not doing this for me, Dean. I am doing this for you." He scowled more, and wind began rushing at Dean. "But if you don't want to believe me, I will make you. You must understand. Living in denial will never get you anywhere. Look at me. I only knew the truth when it was too late."

Dean blinked rapidly against the wind. "And what would you have done had you realized it earlier?"

"I would have disagreed to go to the war!" Jordan yelled, his voice a high screech in Dean's ear. "I would have left them, instead of them leaving me! I would have kept my dignity, I would have kept my life!"

"Well, I wouldn't have done that." Dean gritted. "I'd rather they leave me behind than I leave them and regret it forever."

"You're an idiot. You are a dumb, stupid, idiot. Can't you see? They already left you. Your father is never coming back, you know why? Because no matter how hard you try, you are not good enough. Even after I fought at war, my daddy was never proud of me. He always saw it as my duty, that I was expected to do it." The spirit hissed. "And your brother. Do you think he will ever come back? He found his life. He never regretted leaving you behind."

Dean closed his eyes, clenching his fists as he tried to ignore the spirit. It had not helped that those thoughts had been on Dean's mind since Sam had left to Stanford, and had multiplied when John left too.

"I was in the trenches." Jordan's voice went back to a whisper. "I was in the trenches when a bomb blew up. It was in that very moment, Dean, that I realized had my parents been there with me, they would have walked away without a glance back. It was then that I realized my death meant nothing to everyone. After all, I was just a little soldier in a game. Much like you are."

"I'm not a controlled soldier." Dean argued weakly. "I do this because I want to. I do it because I am good at it."

"So you would rather be here, this second, being hunted by a spirit, than be sitting at home with a girlfriend, eating pie for dessert, while your parents sat in their own homes and Sam was at college, calling every once in a while? You're saying you would choose this life over a normal life?" Jordan challenged.

"Yes, damnit. Yes." Dean began pushing himself up again, supporting himself with the fence. "Unlike you, I accept the life I am born into and I try my best. I may have negative thoughts, but I'd never hold grudges against my own family."

The spirit shook his head again. "Then you must understand it the harsh way. You will understand that you are being very wrong thinking you should love them no matter what. I went through that, and I got nothing in return."

Dean furrowed his eyebrows when Jordan disappeared from his sight. He felt a blow to his head, letting out a soft hiss as it collided with the ground. Then, he was lifted up again, and before he could make out what was happening, he hit the impala, hearing his wrist crack in the process. Biting his lip, he tried to hold his broken wrist with his other hand, but was thrown back against a fence again. Then, he was unable to stop the cry of pain that escaped his lips when he felt soaring pain erupt in his right thigh. He looked down to find a long, sharp piece of metal embedded into it. Looking away, he bit down on his lip to keep from whimpering.

Trying to move was a very bad idea, and Dean was aware of that. However, when he shifted less than inch to catch his breath, more pain was sent through his body, making his heart race. He breathed out, a sob forming as he no longer fought to let it out. "Where did you go, you son of a bitch!" He yelled out, his voice shaking. "Sonuvabitch." He spat, his eyes burning. He wouldn't cry. It was an injury. Had his father been there, he would have told him not to cry as he tried to pull out the damn pole.

But John was not here. Dean was alone, and if he cried, no one would tell him to suck it up and quit crying. In fact, no one would pull the metal pole out of his damn leg as it kept throbbing in pain, blood soaking through his pants and puddling around the ground below it.

"I was in the trenches." He then heard. "And when the bomb came, it hit me with realization."

And then, the impala's engine turned on again, metallica playing loudly as Dean punched the ground angrily, unable to stop the tear that dropped down his cheek. What had he ever done to this spirit?

Why in hell could he not have a peaceful day?

––––––

"Here, try this punch!" Jess exclaimed, handing Sam a glass. "It's the best one I've tried so far!"

Sam grinned, taking the punch. He hadn't drank enough alcohol to be drunk, but he was beginning to feel the tingle as his senses began getting distant. "Thanks, Jess. That dance was amazing. I didn't know you could dance!"

Jessica laughed. "You need some serious training, too."

Sam gulped awkwardly at her sentence, John's voice repeating it in his head. Training. "I think I've had enough training as it is." He said, laughing it off. "Tonight, I mean. Maybe I just wasn't born to be a dancer."

Jessica nodded as she went off to chat to a friend of hers. "I'll be right back." She said, giving him a peck on the lips. Sam grinned stupidly, relaxing back in his chair. So the parties weren't anywhere as bad as Dean and John had made them sound. In fact, they were quite fascinating.

He got up, heading to the bathroom, when his cell phone rang. Probably Jessica, he thought, answering right away. "Hey, Jess. Is anything wrong?"

When the only thing he got in response was shallow breathing, he looked around the place worriedly, quickly spotting Jess. She was laughing. Turning his attention back to the phone, he furrowed his eyebrows. "Hello? What's wrong?"

"Sam."

It was Dean. Sam clenched his fists, tightening his grip around the phone. "Dean."

"Sam, I––I need your help." Dean's voice was weak. Sam closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly as Dean continued to breathe quickly.

"Listen, Dean. I told you. I'm out of this hunter business. Where is Dad? I thought you were staying with him so you two could hunt together. Just call him. I'm at a party now, Dean. A party. I finally got to go to a proper party! I'm not leaving it. I'm finally getting a girlfriend, Dean. I'm getting a normal life. Please, Dean. Leave me out of hunting. Call Bobby if you need help." He spat, feeling guilty as soon as the words left his mouth. However, he needed to tell Dean. Now was not the time he went and helped with a hunt!

"Sam..." Dean breathed out.

Worry filled Sam's chest as Dean continued to breathe out his name. Had Dean not heard him? "Dean, please. I can't do this."

He hung up.

–––––

When Sam hung up, Dean was barely conscious. He was sure he had a concussion, along with his broken wrist, but he must have bled a lot, because he was getting more lightheaded by the second. So was this it? Was he going to die, bleeding out beside a cemetery?

Then he heard some muffled voices in the distance, words he couldn't really make out. "Yes... near cemetery... visiting our grandpa... ambulance... please... bleeding out..."

He felt his head loll back as unconsciousness took over.