Title: Who Says You Can't Go Home

Rating: K+/PG (for tense situations involving children, very mild language, peril and emotional drama)

Summery: John has been missing for over a week, leaving his boys to fend for themselves in a Motel outside of Neapolis, TN. 16-year-old Dean finds how hard things can get when you have to be your little brother's solid ground.

Time-Frame: February, 1995; Dean's16 and Sammy's 11.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Winchesters or their cool firearms or the Impala or…kay now I'm getting depressed. (lol) All that stuff belongs to Eric Kripke, the CW and a lot of other folks who aren't me. I also do not own the rights to any recognizable, copyrighted titles/brands/names found in this fanfic.

Title Disclaimer: The title of this story is taken from a Jon Bon Jovi song of the same name.

Feedback: I will give you a peanut M&M and a hug and then probably love you forever. But you don't have to leave feedback, no. ;)

Dean supposed the revving of the refrigerator woke him up. It always made that freaky grnng grnng noise around seven in the morning, and despite being a heavy sleeper, Dean was too accustomed to listening for small, unnatural sounds that could be something…else. The sound managed to rouse him at 7:05 on the dot, every morning. Beat buying an alarm clock, or worse, having his eleven-year-old brother come pounce on him, shouting, "There's a rat in your sleeping bag, Dean, the size of Texas!" Annoyingly, Sam had pulled this so-called joke on Dean many times before they moved to the Carters Creek Motel in Neapolis, Tennessee (with its buzzing refrigerator). Even more annoying, Dean had also fallen for that stupid rat prank almost every time. Obnoxious memories of dashing outside Pastor Jim's house in Minnesota still came to him, most mornings; half-reminiscent, half-irritating.

Dean sat up and rubbed his eyes, the thick, iron springs of the futon-couch twanging beneath his weight. The minty light of early mornings was wafting between the blinds in the living room and the whole "house" felt drafty and uninviting. An ugly little voice at the back of his head suggested curling underneath the thick, polar fleece blanket and dozing for a few more minutes. Dean ignored the temptation, and shoved the blanket rebelliously off his shoulders, turning on the foldout bed to jostle his brother awake.

Sam had his face mashed into a worn out pillow, both arms curled beneath him, both legs sprawled at funny angles. The first few nights of sharing the hideabed had been admittedly awkward for both brothers. Sam mumbled in his sleep, Dean said, and Dean, Sam would always retort, kicked. Lots. But they had grown accustomed to it by necessity, and anyway, it was better than sleeping on the floor. The Carters Creek motel hadn't put in new carpet since Robin Williams appeared on Happy Days (the boys were certain) and it smelled like sour milk, dead fish, moldy cake, and a million other things which escalated in grossness as the nights got later and later.

Dean grabbed his brother by the shoulder and shoved him lightly. "Sammy?"

"Ung…"

He took a handful of pajama shirt and started rocking him back and forth. "Hey. Hey Sammy. It's seven o'clock."

"Jssa minute…"

Sam started to pull the covers over his head, but Dean grabbed them. "Huh-uh, if you're late for school later, you're gonna blame me, you know you are."

"I c'n…sleep for a few more-" Dean hauled the last of the covers off, balling them up and tossing them to the floor. "Hey! Dean…" Sam sat up; his hair sticking out at four different angles, and looking like it had grown a half-an-inch over night. He blinked blearily around him, arms crossed through each other gloomily. "It's cold," he muttered.

"Yeah, I know." Dean swung his legs over the bed, and got up. A muscle vibrated in his back where one of the springs had stuck him all night. He groaned a little, rubbing the spot, and went to the kitchen. Sam tumbled onto the floor, beginning to make the bed on his knees.

"Dean?"

Dean tugged the refrigerator open and retrieved the jug of 2 milk. "Yeah."

"When're we going to stop sleeping on this dumb couch?"

"When Dad gets back and fixes the bunk bed." Dean glanced over his arms, which were straining to reach the top cabinet where the cereal was. "I told you that yesterday."

"Nuh-uh, yesterday was Sunday and we-"

"Well I already told you anyway. Dad'll fix it when he gets home, till then the bunk's off limits. Why are you bugging me?"

"I'm not." Sam realized he was treading on that touchy subject: Dad. John Winchester hadn't been home for over a week. Sam forgot exactly how far over, since Dean never gave him a straight answer, but he was pretty sure it was something like nine days total. This made number ten. Usually they'd give Pastor Jim a call if John was absent for a week, but this time he'd told Dean, "I might be gone a little longer on this one. But I'm not going alone, so don't worry about me."

Don't worry about me. That's all he said. Sam knew he left a lunchbox of money behind, as always. He was sure Dean knew where the Remington hunting rifle was, and had hidden the Jericho 941 himself. But part of Sam would forever feel lopsided and uncertain while their dad was hunting. And as selfish as it seemed, he wasn't worried about John, he was worried about him and Dean. Ten whole days. When they were younger, they would pretend they were off on their own; taking a road-trip around the country in their dad's used Impala. The whole idea was cool when contained to Pastor Jim's backyard. Now it was ridiculous and creepy.

Dean pulled the sticky note off the counter, crumpled it, and tossed it. Dad: Did okay while you were gone. Bed's broken. Your stuff's in the hallway closet. -Dean That's what it said this time. Every night Dean would write a note to leave in the kitchen, just in case John showed up in the middle of the night. Every night it changed, and each time, it got a little shorter. Sam suspected that when John finally came home, he'd find no note at all.

"Hurry it up, Sam. You got twenty minutes, let's go."

Sam attempted to fold the hideabed himself, but the iron bar dug into his palms and refused to budge. "Dean?"

"Don't worry, I'll get it. Come eat your breakfast." Sam scurried into the kitchen, bare feet slapping the tile floor, and b-lined for the cereal cabinet.

"Dean, we're out of Cheerios."

"I already poured you some," Dean said, indicating the red, plastic bowl to his left.

Sam took a seat on the barstool next to his brother, but paused, spoon suspended over his breakfast. "What're you having?"

"Uh…" Dean paged to the middle of the car magazine he was holding. "There's some granola up there."

Sam put his spoon down. "You hate granola."

"Whatever, I'm never hungry for breakfast anyways." Dean leaned over and dropped Sam's spoon into his bowl, spattering his brother's pajama front with little dots of milk. "Now c'mon, quit fooling around. You still have to get dressed."

Sam plowed through his Cheerios, then disappeared down the short hallway and into the bathroom where they were currently keeping their clothes. He returned moments later in jeans and navy-blue hoodie over his favorite Paul Caligiuri t-shirt (the one with "shot heard round the world" emblazoned on the back) which was tucked neatly into his belt. Dean always suspected Sam felt at his coolest when wearing a soccer t-shirt, especially since it was always a point of rebellion against John, who wouldn't allow Sam to play soccer.

Dean raised his eyebrows, watching his brother detour into the living room, picking up pillows, popcorn kernels and balled up socks from the previous night. Dean whistled. "Where are you off to?" Sam shot him a confused expression, returning quickly to his tidying in a would-be casual manner.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what's with the shirt, tiger?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

Sam stood up straight with an armload of dirty clothes. "Yeah nothing."

"Okee-doke." Dean rolled the top of the paper bag in front of him, quickly scrawling Sam W. across the side with a Sharpie marker, and held it out. "Lunch for you, Bond."

Sam took it slowly, eyes scanning the counter. "Where's yours?"

"Where's my what?"

"Where's your lunch?"

"Hey why should I answer your question if you won't answer mine?" Sam gave him the 'that's so not gonna work' look, but Dean was unperturbed. "So why the getup? I mean usually you're uh- you're all polo shirts and button-ups. Haven't seen you wear a t-shirt to school since…" He thought a moment. "Geez, I think it was since Dad stopped dressing you."

Light shades of red spread from Sam's cheekbone to his chin. "You're gonna tease me."

"Am not."

"Yeah right, and Casper's the ghost of Pinocchio."

Dean grinned. "That's how I heard it."

"Whatever, dude." Sam went to make an exit from the kitchen, but Dean caught him by the hood.

"Alright alright, hang on a sec." He held up his right hand with a soberness that looked silly on him. "I swear I'm not going to tease you."

Sam set his lunch on the table and stuck his hands stiffly into his pockets. "Her name's Sandra Mitchel, she's beautiful and she's in PE with me."

Dean was clearly having a hard time containing himself. "She your age?"

"A little older, I guess. She's a grade above me, but our birthdays are pretty close together."

"You figured out her birthday?" A smirk forced its way to the surface. "Did'ja sneak into the office and read her file?" Sam broke eye contact. "You did, didn't you?" Dean was laughing now, and Sam grabbed for his lunch. "No wait- sorry, sorry. I think it's great."

"You do." Sam looked unconvinced.

"Yeah, man, you're in with a girl a grade up, I think that's awesome."

"Well…I'm not exactly 'in' with her."

"What, she doesn't like you?" Dean gave his arm a smack. "You're the resident brain, everybody likes you."

"I haven't…really…" Sam huffed loudly. "I haven't talked to her yet."

Dean smiled at him, taking a seat on a barstool again. "Well I'm going to give you some valuable advice. Girls don't give their numbers to guys who don't talk, Sammy. They tend to assume you can't use the phone."

Sam scowled at him. "I'm sick of getting written off as a braincase. I just…" he shuffled his feet. "I'd rather wonder if she'd like me than know she doesn't."

"Hey. Word of the older and wiser?"

Sam gave him a lopsided grin. "What're you talking about, 'older'? You're only sixteen, you can't even drive yet."

"Yeah, but I've been on a date or two."

"Two." Sam held up two fingers. "Exactly."

"You want my fantastic advice or not?" Sam shrugged and made no protest. "Just talk to her. Don't- don't spill your guts or start writing poetry, but you know. Say hi or something. You never get a conversation started without at least saying hi. What's the worst she could do?"

"Call me a dork and string me up from the flagpole by my shoelaces."

"Don't be stupid. No way a girl could do that all by herself, just make sure she doesn't have any tall friends." Sam grinned. "Another piece of advice?"

"Shoot."

Dean batted around at his own head. "Might want to do something about this little number."

Sam reached for his hair, and sighed. "Oh yeah. Can I borrow your comb?"

"Go ahead."

Sam trouped off to the bathroom, and Dean soon heard the sink running. There was a brief pause, then Sam called, "You know if you'd just let me in the bedroom, I could get my own comb. My notebook's in there too."

Dean scanned the ceiling for patience. "Sammy, I told you, the bed fell against the door."

"So why won't you let me go through the window, like you did, when you got all our clothes out?"

"It's been sitting there for days. I don't want to be under it, getting into our closet, when it decides to topple over, and I definitely don't want you going in there."

"Alright, alright." Sam came up the hall, his hair now reasonably tame. "Good enough?"

"Good enough." Dean handed him his lunch. "Need me to walk you?" Sam's expression froze and it was all Dean could do to keep from boiling to exasperation. "Let it go, Sam."

"You can't keep skipping school, Dean."

"Watch me."

"Dad doesn't want you to."

"Yeah well Dad's not here right now, is he? Anyway I've got stuff to do."

Sam watched him. "What kind of stuff."

"The kind of stuff that I have to do, now do you want me to walk you to the bus or not?"

Sam shoved his paper bag lunch into his backpack, zipping it shut and swinging it back over his back. "No I'm okay."

"Okay then."

Sam went for the front door, sliding back the deadbolt, then the safety chain. He turned, hand already on the doorknob. "It's just…don't you want to go to college and all?"

Dean shrugged cavalierly. "Maybe I want to do what Dad does." That seemed to get to Sam. To Dean's dismay, it looked like he was trying not to cry. "Aw c'mon Sammy, what's so horrible about that?"

"We don't even know where Dad is right now."

"Yeah. So?"

"So is that gonna be you someday?"

Dean stood up, a little angry. "There's nothing wrong with what Dad spends his time doing, Sam. He's gone for a good reason, 'kay, so leave him alone. Don't you want to be somebody? Don't you- wouldn't you love to go on a hunt someday, alone? You against the darkness out there?"

Sam just could not understand the excited look on his brother's face. He still remembered going on that hunt several months ago, just before coming to Tennessee, when his dad and Dean had apparently taken down a werewolf. Sam was told to stay in the car while they hunted it down, shot it and burned it. He didn't want to see anyway. However, scared as he was, sitting alone in the Impala trying not to think about the whirring silence, what really bothered him was the way Dean was acting when they returned to the car. He was panting, thrilled and proud, and animal glint in his eye.

Sam tapped his chewed-up fingernails on the copper doorknob. "I'd rather go to college."

"Then go, Mr. Ivy League, no one said you had to take on the family business. Oh but before you go, here." Dean held out the cell phone. "Just in case."

"Why me?"

"I just feel better you having it."

Sam remained hesitant. "What if something comes up here?"

Dean sighed, tucking the phone into his brother's jacket pocket. "You worry too much. Now go on, you're gonna miss your bus." He started out the door. "And Sammy?"

Sam turned. "Yeah?"

Dean grinned. "Just talk to her, man."

"I know."

"Just- talk, you know?"

Sam grinned back. "Leave me alone."

"Or you don't even have to talk, you could just sort of talk."

"Shut up."

"Like take it a letter at a time, 'H…I-'"

"I'm le-eaving…"

Dean teased Sam all the way out the door, and watched him walk down the sidewalk and around the corner. Waving one last time, he went back inside. The makeshift home was ugly and empty every time Sam left. The living room looked too tidy and he felt the urge to give the clicking refrigerator a solid kick. He glanced at his watch, which read 8:03 in luminescent green letters. Darnit. He was going to be late.

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