A/N: Hey people

A/N: Hey people! How ya all been? After a long hiatus of the most horrible of writer's blocks I think it's possible I'm finally back. :) Thank you to those who reviewed the first chapter. As you noticed I put 'teaser' after the chapter title…This was because the text that wasn't in italics was just a taste of what is coming up later in the story. So no answers to why the Winchesters were in a fire or what happened to Dean. Not yet anyway. I hope you're not too disappointed. Well, on with the story… -- Kel

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CHAPTER TWO

A year after the escape…

"Life goes on, with or without you. One person's world shattering does not affect another's. So when the moving wheel that is life leaves everything that's been wounded behind, ruthless in its momentum, everyone else scurries after, trying to keep up…" -- KelBub

--

Pleasedontpleasestopjuststopitplease.

A sharp stab sent him reeling into a black hole of endless pain. And again, and again.

'Don't knock him out! I want him to feel it.'

--

Dean awoke with a gasp, agony fresh in his mind, sweat soaking his shirt. It took a second for him to realize he was on a couch, not a floor, and that he was safe, that it had just been a bad dream. Just a dream. Releasing a soft breath he tried to shake the mental image of himself lying on that cold tiled floor, broken and bleeding. It was a hard image to shake.

"Bad dream?"

Dean jumped at his father's voice.

"Jesus Christ, Dad," he hissed after a moment, "Give a guy a heart attack why don't you?" He sat up and dragged a hand over his eyes indolently. His mind was still reeling from the dream a little bit and judging by the throbbing behind his eyes he would probably have a hell of a headache later on. Great.

John observed him from his seat across the dark room, brown eyes lingering on his oldest for a moment, before going back to cleaning the shotgun in his hands, rag dragging over metal the way his son's hand had just dragged over his face. He said nothing.

"What time is it?" Dean turned on the small lamp sitting by the couch and squinted towards his dad.

John glanced at his watch. "6:04."

"Where's Sam?"

John looked at Dean for a moment, really looked, like he always did whenever he caught his son having nightmares. But other than his son wearing pyjama pants two inches too short for him, everything seemed fine. His son seemed fine. Maybe he was fine? No, who am I kidding, John thought. If things were really that simple we wouldn't be here to begin with.

"He's asleep. In the back."

Dean nodded now, remembering. "And he's slept all night?"

John nodded. "Yeah. So far."

Sam had been sick for over a week with a fever that had been hard to control and a wheezing and coughing that had kept all three of them awake for the better parts of the nights. It was only about two days ago that things had finally made a turn for the better.

As Dean had noted and triumphantly told John; 'The creepy 'dead man' wheezing has stopped, the coughing is getting less frequent and the fever spikes are less…spiky.' In the Winchester household this called for celebration and the festivities were spent in bed, catching up on much needed rest. Well…for some.

Dean moved stealthily through the small cabin, bare feet warm against the cold floor. He treaded carefully over the parts where the floorboards had split, over holes made from branches growing clear through the wood. The branches were gone now – the holes weren't. He stopped at the door of his brother's room and listened. There were soft snores coming from inside, Sam was sleeping peacefully. Dean closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing hard at the memory of himself alone in his bedroom, peaceful and almost asleep…before the door was kicked open… He shook his head hard, trying to chase away the memories. He tip-toed over the threshold, casting a nervous glance in Sam's direction. He didn't want to wake his brother, but he didn't want to be alone either.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Life was funny in a way. Most of the time life was pretty crappy, but sometimes it dealt you the most precious of gifts. Like right now when he saw the boy across the street. It was the guy…the best friend. And now, them alone in the night, was the perfect time to say hi. Revenge was within reach.

The boy walked fast, no doubt wanting to get home and out of the rain. He had no idea he was being followed.

He'd waited, biding his time. Now it was here and he was ready. A hand on his shoulder and the boy whirled around; eyes confused at first…and then came recognition.

"You."

That was one of his last words.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The escape

They left the black Mustang at the side of the road. They didn't need it anymore. Sam would call Tina later and tell her where she could pick it up. John didn't waste any time and soon they were driving away in the Impala, all their stuff packed in the trunk. Dean was quiet, distant, he hadn't said a word since they got in the car.

"Did you cover your tracks?"

John looked at them in the rear-view mirror, his question directed at both of them. Sam glanced at Dean, unsure of what to reply. His brother was still not saying anything.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"People are gonna be looking for you two. You don't just disappear without people noticing you're gone. So, did you cover your tracks?"

Sam glanced over at his brother again, not sure what to say. Had they covered their tracks?

"Well?" John demanded.

This time Dean responded, he sounded tired. "No one knew where we were going, if that's what you mean, and we didn't leave anything behind that could lead them to us."

"Good. Let's keep it that way. No contacting old friends, no looking back. We have to fly under the radar."

John's words had a certain finality to them and nobody in the car said anything after that, letting 'no contacting old friends', 'no looking back' eat away at them in the silence. Maybe Tina would never get her car back.

--

They crashed at a motel eight hours out of the city and during the long drive there John had had all the time in the world to think about what he'd brought his sons back into. He didn't have a home to offer them, not if being a family didn't count as having a home. He'd saved his oldest from a life of abuse which sure as hell made it all worth it for him and Dean. But he'd also pulled Sam from a caring family, from people that could offer him safety, a roof over his head, financial independency – even love. His love for Sam was greater, he was his father after all, but he'd known nothing but crime, one after another, and a life on the road for a long time. He had nothing to offer but love and a pathetic promise to always try to keep his boys safe. Would it be enough?

They paid for a twin bedroom and Sam got one of the beds, Dean the other. John sat in a chair by the door all night, waiting, waiting for something that would fuck all this up. In the same moment he'd gotten his sons back an old fear had awakened inside of him. The fear of losing them. He'd lived with this fear since Mary's death and now it was back, tenfold. His boys had lived ten years without him, without learning how to protect themselves from all the evil in the world. Did Sam even remember there were such things as monsters? Did Dean?

"Are you okay, dad?"

His eyes cut to the bed that was closest to the door and from where Dean was now looking at him. His son was so beat up John could see the bruising even in the dark and his heart bled.

"Dean," he whispered, swallowing the lump in his throat, "Do you remember when you were young?"

His oldest son was fair-skinned, much fairer in his complexion than himself and Sam. His features were softer. His hair was light…more like Mary's. Even the small freckles on his nose could be traced back to her. His eyes though, they were a combination of both his parents'. Not blue like Mary's. Not brown like his. Hazel. But as they looked at him now in the dark, they were almost black.

It took a while before his son answered.

"A little. I didn't want to forget but…" His voice trailed off painfully and John knew what he was thinking. It was hard to remember without pictures and without faces to remind you.

"What do you remember?"

Dean breathed in softly, closed his eyes as if to call forth in his mind what had been locked away for so long. "We travelled a lot, stayed in different places. Sam was just a baby and you taught me how to take care of him…"

"What else do you remember?"

Dean replied, eyes still closed, "We were in the woods. It was night and Sam and I were alone in the car. I was afraid because you'd been gone so long. I remember I wanted to go look for you but I couldn't."

"Why?"

"You'd told me not to."

John drew a shaky breath, this he remembered all too well. "What happened then?"

"I opened the door…" Dean paused and whimpered softly. It was almost an inaudible whimper but John heard it. "It was all my fault. Everything. I didn't realize…" He fell silent as guilt took over.

John got out of his chair and sat down on the bed next to Dean. He hesitated only for a second before putting his hand on his son's shoulder.

"Dean, I'm sorry." And, God, he was. "It wasn't your fault. None of it."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Dean woke up to a hell of a headache just like he'd predicted. He was curled up in the chair next to Sam's bed and his whole body ached from him having slept like that. He stretched his arms back and winced when his shoulders cracked loudly. Sam was still asleep next to him, his breathing slow and even.

"Dean." John appeared in the doorway suddenly, two duffel bags in his hands. "Wake your brother, we're leaving." He tossed the bags to Dean who caught them without saying a word. "You know what to do." And with those words his dad was gone. Dean sighed. He should've known they would be moving on as soon as Sam got better. They'd been in the same place for almost two weeks, which was way too long by John Winchester standards.

"Sam," he said, shaking his brother gently. "Wake up. We gotta go."

Sam groaned at first, not asleep but not quite awake yet.

"Sam!"

Another groan. "What?"

"We're leaving. Pack your stuff."

In the end it was Dean who did both of their packing; jeans, socks and t-shirts thrown haphazardly into the duffels. Sam would've folded them. "C'mon," he said when he was done, "Dad's waiting."

--

Fifteen minutes later they were driving away, leaving another town, another temporary home behind them – like always. Dean never questioned it and neither did Sam but sometimes he found himself wondering what the hell they were still running from.

Six hours later when they stopped for gas, John turned around in his seat, fixing both his sons with a glare and Sam knew something was terribly wrong. "You got ten minutes to pee and stretch your legs," John said, "Go!" Dean got out of the car without a word and Sam followed suit. While Dean headed straight for the bathrooms, Sam went inside the station house and walked up to the cash register. The man behind the desk was his dad's age but fatter, his large belly resting on the table top. His nametag read 'Barry'.

"Yeah?" The man greeted. He looked bored.

"Is there a pay phone here somewhere?" Sam asked.

"Out the back," came the reply. The man was looking out the window at John refuelling the car, not at Sam, as he spoke.

"Thanks."

Sam cast his father a quick glance before he rounded the station building and went up to the pay phone. Putting the receiver to his ear he fed four five-cent coins into the machine and pressed the numbers to the person he so desperately needed to talk to.

They answered on the second ring.

"Hey. It's me," he said.

"Sam." She sounded relieved when she said his name. "I've been so worried about you. When you didn't call last week I thought maybe the police had gotten to you."

Sam coughed into his fist. "I'm fine," he said. "We stayed at the cabin longer than planned and there were no phones nearby so…"

"How's Dean?"

She always asked about him.

"He's good." He paused shortly before continuing. "I just wanted to let you know that we're on the move again and that I'll call you as soon as I know where we'll be staying. So, talk to you soon, okay?"

"Sam. Wait." She hesitated, voice trembling a little. "I need to tell you something…"

Sam checked his watch. His ten minutes were almost up and he needed to take a leak before they got back on the road. "What?"

It took a moment for her to answer. "Sam… Dean's friend Kyle was knifed down two days ago. He's in the hospital, they're not sure if he's gonna make it."

Sam inhaled sharply. "What?!" He'd heard her well enough but his mind was spinning all of a sudden and it was as if her words didn't make any sense. Knifed down? It just couldn't be.

"The cops don't have a suspect. They think it was just a random act of violence and that Kyle just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"My God…" Sam whispered, still not believing he'd heard her right. "I can't believe it…"

"I know. It's horrible." She forced back a sob. "I know Dean haven't been in contact with him since you guys left but I thought he'd want to know."

Sam leant on the glass of the phone booth for support, his legs suddenly too weak to carry him. This would kill his brother. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by Dean calling his name from afar.

"Sam!"

"I gotta go," Sam said hurriedly into the phone. "I'll call you later."

He hung up before Tina got a chance to say anything.

The walk back to the car was hard, his feet heavy and his eyes hot and stinging. All he could think about was Kyle and what a good friend he'd been to them and how devastated Dean would be after Sam told him.

TBC

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