"It's all right, guys," said Dean, standing, "If anybody knows hunters..."

But the words died in his mouth as the sounds intensified, tiny rustles coalescing to a single point in the brush, and then a face appeared, more dear and longed for than any Dean had lost over the years.

The word puffed into the empty space between them as if punched. "Dad?"

But John Winchester only smiled, rifle balanced against his shoulder, and there was so much Dean should say, so much he should be doing - standing straighter, shaking his hand, welcoming him home - and then his father's lips parted. "You miserable coward," he drawled, so familiar and yet not. "You tired of runnin', huh? Finally gonna face me like a man?"

Dean's mouth opened and hung there, as paralyzed as the rest of him when the hunter's hands came up, aiming the gun with a deadly ease Dean knew all too well.