John Winchester was never good at lying. When talking to others, especially those who knew him, he seemed instantly transparent. No one believed him. That is, until his wife was killed. Not only could he now lie with ease, he was even better at lying to himself. But this...this was something John could not obscure or hide—this was a truth he would have to face. Little Sammy...tainted. That night in his nursery, whatever had burned Mary had...done something to his youngest son. Was he even human anymore? God, he couldn't stop staring. It was seven forty five at night, and John was finally having a meal with his boys. Sammy was one year old now; they'd celebrated (if you could call it that) at Daniel Elkins' place. Dean was five and a curious, intelligent little boy, with a deep love and protection for his little brother. John's black-brown eyes couldn't leave Sam, staring intensely with a troubled expression and a million thoughts racing through his head. The motel room's air held the kind of thick, stifling heat that worked its way into your mind and made you feel heavy; Dean had sweat beaded on his forehead as he chewed innocently on his cheeseburger. He had no idea. Neither did Sam, the truly beautiful child gnawing on a stray sippy cup and giggling as his older brother made faces at him. John was...in a word, disturbed. His baby Sammy had something very wrong with him, plain and simple.

"What's the matter, Daddy?" Dean asked sweetly, looking at his father with his brilliant green eyes and setting his burger down.

Unable to pull a smile or tear his eyes off his youngest, John simply said, "Nothing. Everything's fine." Another lie.

That night was even worse. John hardly got adequate sleep normally, but now all he could do was think about things he wished he could avoid but knew he couldn't. And when sleep finally did come...a dark figure stood alone before John in his dream, and though his instincts were screaming at him to run, he stood still and watched on as the figure turned to him. The figure's eyes flashed like lightning, a dangerous foreboding quality in the air and a crackling ferocity John felt emanating from whoever was in his dream. And though he had no view of the figure, some deep, horrifying intuition told him who it was.

"Sam," John whispered, realization dawning. Taking a step forward, he began to see the figure—Sam—more clearly. He could only seem to focus on his devilish grin, even as the figure began to speak.

"You are one sad, sick son of a bitch, you know that?"

"Sam—," John began, but the figure cut him off with a bitter, humorless laugh.

"It's all just a game to you, isn't it? Finding Mom's killer, 'making him pay' like you're some kind of hero. You're not. You're just a man failing his sons like you fail at everything."

John felt a lump in his throat form, heart racing as he tried to choke out a response. "I never claimed to be a hero," he got out eventually, and was again met with a sharp bark of a laugh.

"Well, actions speak louder than words, don't they? I know that better than anyone. You know, I always told myself, I'm the good guy. I save people. But I knew I was lying to myself. I like killing, Dad. I like the sound of screams, I can't help it."

John took a step back. He couldn't be hearing what he was. "No," he whispered, "No, I won't believe it."

"Hey, you said there was something wrong with me. I guess you were a little more spot-on than you thought." And as the figure stepped forward, John finally noticed the blood dripping from his hands—dark, thick...and not his own.

"You're a monster," John murmured weakly.

"I'm your son," Sam corrected, wild obsession lighting his eyes with a fire and causing John's stomach to plummet.

He woke up then, moaning and wrapped tightly in sweat-soaked sheets—he didn't solidly for another few days. And one day, quick to tears and emotionally unstable, not to mention sleep-deprived, John Winchester announced to his sons that they were going somewhere. Dean carefully picked his words, eventually asking where they were going. Even at this age he knew when his father was in an easily shifting mood, and now was not a good time to be brash.

John didn't even look at the five year-old as he replied tiredly, shoving his belongings into a single duffel bag. "Away," he said vaguely, and told his son, "Get your brother in the car." Dean had never seen his father so close to heartbreak, but listened to him anyway. It was close to four in the afternoon when, still on the road, John Winchester cried. They were the same tears he'd shed when he'd had to leave his friends and family for Vietnam, and when he'd had to leave Laurence and that burnt husk of a house. Only now, he was the one leaving someone behind. The Winchesters drove all afternoon until, at 6:42 in the evening, John dropped Dean off at a motel, told him to lock the door, and took little Sammy with him. He came back at 3 am without him.

"Where's Sam?" Dean asked constantly when he woke up.

"Sammy's with another family by now, probably," John answered every time, pushing down every painful thought that came. The Iowa State Adoption Agency had been very understanding, and that rainy June night, John drove away with one less son.