John's never been big on the Christmas thing, in all honesty. He lost the taste for it when he was still a kid, because if Santa or Jesus can't bring your dad back, what the fuck is the point? He tried for the boys, but tried is the operative word. Mostly things just turned out to be shitty, Dean put on a fake smile, and Sam probably just hated him more and more.

So it's no surprise that he wouldn't want to think about his ghosts of Christmas past, let alone fucking relive them. So when he stumbles out of his 9th floor room on the 18th to go find coffee, he's not all too pleased to find some nice trauma from childhood waiting for him in the hall.

The setting is a normal 1950's home, decorated to the nines for Christmas. There's a lopsided tree in the corner blasted with tinsel, with pretty little blown glass ornaments hanging from its branches.

The living room floor is covered in torn-up wrapping paper, in a way only a little kid can manage. There's new toys here and there- a tin rocket ship, plenty of toy cars, army men, and even a brand new LEGO set. But the little dark-haired boy-a four year old John- in the middle of it all doesn't seem interested in any of it. In fact, he's sobbing. His similarly dark-haired mother holds him while he cries, rubbing his back.

"Why didn't Santa bring pops back?"

"Because sweetie," she says, voice thick with emotion, "your father has a very important job. He can't be home right now because other people need his help. Don't you want other people to be happy, too?"

"But it's not fair!" Little Johnny wails, his face bight red from crying. "I need his help too!"

"I know, baby, I know. I know."

After he relives that piece of history, John rushes downstairs to the kitchen, intent on coffee and maybe something artery clogging to wash the taste out. But there's memories here too, and it stops him in his tracks.

Fast forward a few decades, this time it's a garish 1970s living room, complete with horrifyingly orange couch and carpet that might be a little too long for its own good. The decor is more modest, but there's still an awkward-looking tree in the corner with ornaments that were in the last little tableau.

A very pretty but heavily pregnant blonde woman is sprawled out on the couch like a cranky beached whale. A man some might recognize as the Archangel Michael is sitting on the floor in front of her, doing a poor job of wrapping presents. When he speaks, it's clear this isn't the articulate angel, but John Winchester himself.

"Baby, the kid's not gonna be here for a month, why do we even need to wrap these? He won't even be able to rip 'em up until next December."

The woman kicks him gently in the side of the head, expression sour. "Because, he's still here. Mostly. It's technically his first Christmas and I don't want him to miss out." She pats her belly and smiles when the baby kicks at her. "He's getting antsy. Maybe we'll have a surprise guest by New Years."

John blanches, and turns from the poorly wrapped teddy bear in front of him to his wife. "God. Please don't jinx us. I wanna sleep just a little bit more before we never get to again." He smirks though, and leans over to kiss her.

All is well.

The memory isn't as painful as it could have been, but it strikes John's heart in a funny place, and after grabbing a mug full of black, black joe, he books it before he has to watch the untouchable memory of his Mary again. Later in the day, he floats over to the library just to peek in on some wendigo lore. It's already been made clear to him that things work differently in other worlds, and he dosn't want a bite out of his ass. When he gets to his favorite library table though, tucked up in a corner. Yet again.

John bursts into a sparely decorated apartment, arms full of bags and weapons. He's older now, less grey and threadbare, but and sporting some truly embarassing sideburns. It's 1990, he has no excuse.

"Sammy! Dean! I'm home!" There's no need to shout, the place is far too small. But the occasion demands it. "Merry Christmas, boys!" The joy in his voice is strained, like he's trying to overdo it to make up for something. One of the duffels is half open, and a few boxes wrapped in newspaper peek out

A preteen boy, 12 year old Dean, looks up from the couch and gives him a similarly strained smile. "You finally made it." He looks down at his bare feet then, more nervous than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

John purses his lips, but he doesn't admonish his son. He knows he fucked up. "Look, I'm sorry I wasn't here when I said I was gonna be. Things got out of hand, I couldn't just l-"

"I know you gotta do your job. But Sammy..." Dean trails off, looking at the bathroom door, "He found your journal, dad."

John goes white. "Shit."

The next day, John wakes up with dread in his gut, knowing what memories he really doesn't want to be assaulted with today. But to his surprise, there's nothing. Nothing outside his room, or in the kitchens, or even in the library. And just when he thinks he's home free, he finds a new tableau when he goes to the gym. It's nothing he's ever seen before, and John has a sneaking suspicion it's long after they burned his body. It's not perfect, of course, but for hunters?

Hey. His boys didn't do too bad.

On the 20th, John wakes up all ready too see some weird shit, and he's not disappointed. He finds a classic Grim Reaper looming over his bed, staring at him with its black, empty hood. A few bullets through it proves that won't get rid of it. Nor will silver knives, a baseball bat, a tire iron, and a homemade flamethrower.

Well. It doesn't seem to want to do anything to him, and it's not hurting anyone else. So, guess who has a creepy shadow following him for the day?