Part Two

He woke to Sam shaking his shoulder roughly. "Dean, wake up, we overslept. C'mon, it's seven fifteen, we're gonna be late for school."

He cracked his eyes open with a groan. His neck gave a painful twinge when he sat up, protesting the awkward position he'd been laying in, curled up on the couch on the scratchy pillow cushion. He raked a hand through his hair and stretched, trying to soothe the ache in his shoulders and lower back.

"What time did you get back in last night?" Sam asked. He was rushing around, stuffing books and papers into his backpack and fumbling for his shoes. "I didn't hear you, so I guess it was pretty late… Did you make my sandwich yet?"

He took a breath, steadying himself. "Not yet. We're not going to school this morning, Sammy. We're taking the day off."

He'd made the decision last night, just before he'd fallen asleep. John might be released in the morning and it wasn't out of the question that he'd want to skip town right away. They needed to be ready. School wasn't a priority right now.

But Sam just shook his head, not even looking up as he tied his shoes with quick, impatient movements. "I've got a math test today. You can stay here if you want, but I'm going." He hefted his backpack over one shoulder, then paused, frowning. "Hey, where's dad?"

"Put your bag back down and listen for a minute, okay? Sit down," he said more forcefully, gesturing toward the other end of the couch.

His brother huffed in aggravation, then flopped down next to him, keeping his backpack clutched in his lap. He glanced impatiently at his watch, then looked at Dean. "What?" he snapped. "I'm late."

"We ran into a little problem last night at the cemetery. Some cops showed up after we did the salt and burn." Dean paused, because he didn't know quite how to phrase this. "They, uh… took Dad in for questioning."

"Questioning?" Sam's mouth literally dropped open. "You mean they arrested him? With handcuffs? Reading him his rights and everything?"

Sometimes he wished Sam weren't so sharp. "They didn't read him his rights, but, yeah, handcuffs."

"Why didn't you get arrested too?"

"I was hiding and they didn't see me," he said, hoping Sam wouldn't press for the details. Dad was arrested because he was so busy yelling at me he didn't notice the cops until they were right on top of him. Yeah, sorry about that.

Sam shoved the backpack onto the floor, then slumped back, biting his lip. "This isn't a little problem, Dean, it's huge! What are we going to do?"

"It's not so bad," Dean said quickly. "I think they'll probably just let him go with a warning, but he might, you know, have to pay a fine, or get a little jail time."

Sam's eyes grew wide and solemn. "Jail time? For how long?"

"I didn't say he was going to jail. That's the worst-case scenario. You know Dad, he'll talk his way out of it and probably be home before lunch."

Sam was quiet, digesting this. "Maybe," he said finally, his mouth twisting into a pessimistic frown. "It's against the law to dig up a grave. I mean, that's really serious. Cemeteries are hallowed ground."

"They didn't see him dig up the grave. He was standing next to a grave that was dug up, shoveling he dirt back in." Even to his own ears, it sounded ridiculous, but for his brother's sake, he tried to sound confident. "They can't prove anything."

Sam glared at him irritably, refusing to be mollified. "No judge is going to believe that. Did you burn the body? That's a crime too. That's even worse. Is it a felony or a misdemeanor?"

"If he doesn't admit it, it's just circumstantial." He paused. "And how do you know about felonies and misdemeanors, anyway?"

"We learned about them in school. Social studies." Dean nodded, unsurprised. His brother took school seriously and never forgot anything he learned. Dean knew—vaguely—about felonies and misdemeanors too, but only because of L.A. Law reruns.

"Well, it's a misdemeanor, I think." I hope. "And it's his first offense. So don't worry."

He reached out a hand to rub through his brother's hair, mussing it up just to annoy him. Sam shrugged off the touch, squirming away. "Leave me alone," he said sourly.

"C'mon, let's have breakfast, and then—"

Sam turned a suddenly furious glare on him. "Stop treating me like a little kid! What if they find your fingerprints on the shovel? What if the police come here? What if they think Dad was, I don't know, some kind of psycho or something, and they come looking for evidence?"

Damn it, he's started with his questions. Sam was smart, and he watched the same crime shows Dean did. "They can't come here without a warrant, Sammy"—Could they?—"and they didn't see me, I told you."

Sam's expression became hard and stubborn. "What if he can't post bail? We don't have that kind of money."

"We'll get it. Pastor Jim will help us." Pastor Jim wasn't rich by any means, but at least he had steady employment. Surely he'd be able to lend them some money if they need it.

"Dean." There was a sudden note of fear in his brother's voice. "What if they figure out Dad has two kids, and he's in jail, and there's nobody looking after us? He can't lie about that. They're gonna find out and send somebody here to get us."

Somebody meaning Child Protective Services.

For years, he'd had nightmares about CPS finding out the truth about how they lived and what his father did. In his dreams, Sam would be taken away, or he'd come home to discover Sam was missing, and Dean would search endlessly for his brother but never find him. He'd wake up, heart pounding, still overwhelmed with desperation and terror for a second or two, until he came back to himself and recognized his brother's sleeping form in the bed across the room.

"That's not gonna happen," he said sharply, as much to himself as to Sam. "And I'm looking after us."

His brother nodded and slumped back, looking only partially reassured.

Dad called half an hour later.

He snatched up the phone after the first ring, almost shaking with relief when he heard his father's voice. "Dad, are you okay?" Sam pressed up next to him, and he held the phone a little way out from his ear so Sam could hear too. "When are you coming home?"

"I'm fine. I'm waiting for the arraignment, to talk to the judge. Should be today or tomorrow."

"Great. That's good."

"You stayed home from school, I take it."

"We thought you might call," he said quickly. "We didn't want to miss it." The rule was they never stayed home from school unless they had a temperature of 103 or higher. No exceptions.

"Sure, son, that's fine."

"It is?" It was the last thing he expected his father to say.

"It's okay if you take a day or two off school, in these circumstances," John added in a softer tone. "I know you're probably upset by what's happened, and it's natural for you boys to want to be together."

Sam shot him a look that said: What the hell?

"But you shouldn't sit around all day," his father continued, without waiting for a response. "Go outside, get some exercise. You kids should take in a movie or go bowling like we did last month."

The last movie they'd seen in a theater was Home Alone 2 for Sammy's 9th birthday. They'd never even been to a bowling alley. If they wanted to play with a ball, John had told them more than once, they could take their butts outside and do it for free.

He wondered if the cops had knocked his father around a little. Maybe he had a concussion.

"Dad, are you sure—"

"Tomorrow too," his father interrupted, cutting him off. "I don't want you to see my absence as an excuse to get lazy or mope around the apartment. You two should get out," he said with undeniable emphasis, and Dean's brain finally clicked into gear. "Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. I understand." Sam was giving him a bewildered stare, as if he and his father were both lunatics, but Dean could recognize an order when he heard one.

"One more thing. I haven't been able to get hold of Jim Murphy yet. I want you to call him. Tell him…" John sighed, and Dean's stomach clenched. "Tell him I may need some help with this. You still know the number, right?"

All through his childhood, If I'm not back in time, call Pastor Jim had been John's standing instruction, just before he left on a hunt. Dean hadn't actually seen the pastor in years, not since he was about twelve. He knew his father talked to Jim every few months, but he and Sammy were old enough now that they didn't need a babysitter when Dad went off on a hunting job, even if it lasted a few weeks.

He still remembered the number, though. It had been drilled into him often enough when he was a kid.

"Of course. Anything else?"

"If Jim doesn't answer, try Caleb. Oh, and as long as you're calling Jim, tell him to swing by and pick up that old toolbox of his that I left in the trunk of the car."

The only toolbox in the trunk was John's, but Dean said, "I'll tell him, no problem, Dad. Come home as soon as you can."

He hung up, then sat down heavily on the couch, lost in thought.

Sammy started pacing around the tiny living room, shaking his head. "That was really weird. Why would he tell us to go to the movies? He always says it's a waste of money and we can wait until they show them on TV! This doesn't make any sense…"

Dean snorted. "He doesn't really want us to go to the movies."

"And what did he mean, give Pastor Jim back his toolbox? There's no extra toolbox in the trunk."

"Think a minute, Sammy. You know what's in the trunk, right? All those guns and knives and stuff… He means we should give it all to Pastor Jim until Dad gets back. Maybe he's worried the cops'll get their hands on the car."

Sam's brow furrowed. "He said, go outside and get some exercise. Are we supposed to go train now? We never do it in the middle of the day!"

He was a little amused at his brother's confusion, then sobered, remembering his own shock and denial the night before. Sam had had less than an hour to take it all in, and John's veiled hints and odd behavior obviously hadn't helped. "Relax," he said, trying to project a calm he didn't feel. "We'll call Pastor Jim and tell him what happened. Caleb too. And then we're gonna pack up the car because Dad wants us to get out of the apartment. That's what he was hinting at."

"Why didn't he just say so, then?" Sam asked suspiciously. "It didn't even sound like Dad. He didn't get mad when you said we stayed home from school. He said it's okay to be upset…"

"I dunno, Sammy, maybe he wanted to make a good impression on the cops." Despite everything, Dean started to laugh. Dad had probably gotten a kick out of pretending to be Single Parent of the Year. "Or maybe there's a TV in his jail cell and he's sitting around watching Oprah."

Sam was smiling, but his eyes were worried.

Pastor Jim didn't pick up. There was no answering machine, either, so he couldn't even leave a message.

When he tried Caleb's number, he got a recording: The number you have reached is out of service.

Great. They didn't have any other emergency contacts. They had no relatives to speak of and John had never told them how to reach his army buddies.

"Go pack up your clothes and stuff," Dean told Sam. "I'll do Dad's things."

He looked around the tiny living room, where his father slept on the fold-out couch. Clipped newspaper articles about the animal attacks and sightings of the creature he was hunting were spread all over the kitchen table and taped to the walls. If the cops got a good look at that, to say nothing of John's journal, he'd be screwed. They'd probably lock him up in some maximum-security psych ward, just on principle.

He gathered it all up, including the journal, and stuffed it into his school backpack. Then he fished out Dad's hidden stash of money from the couch cushion. He counted it carefully: two hundred twenty three dollars.

Not nearly enough, if Dad needed it to make bail.

The rest of the job was relatively easy—Dad had a routine for packing up too, of course—and they were ready to leave within the hour. Dean washed the breakfast dishes and made peanut butter sandwiches with the last of the bread while Sam took out the trash and cleaned the bathroom.

He tried Pastor Jim again, but there was no answer. He'd wait a few hours and call again from a payphone.

It occurred to him, as he closed the door behind them, that his father would have no way to contact them if he needed to. But he'd be home today or tomorrow, so what did it matter?

He drove the Impala to the parking lot of the complex across the street, within eyesight of their own apartment, and they waited.

It was incredibly boring. And uncomfortable, after a few hours: cramped, stuffy, and hot. He didn't want anyone to start asking questions about why they weren't in school, so they stayed in the car. He reparked about once an hour, moving up and down the street, always staying in sight of their front door.

Sam read The Hobbit and worked on math, and Dean brooded. He was supposed to be reading Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle for English, but he couldn't really concentrate. He dozed off and on. They drove to McDonald's for meals and bathroom breaks, but mostly, they watched the door of their apartment and waited for John to show up.

He didn't.

Dean wasn't particularly concerned, since Dad had said he might not see the judge until tomorrow. He told his brother to be patient and helped him study for his history test until it was too dark to read.

Sleeping in the Impala was impossible, at least for him. After he made a quick raid into the apartment for pillows and blankets, Sam stretched out in the back seat and fell into his usual deep sleep within minutes. But Dean couldn't find a position that didn't make his legs cramp and his back ache.

By morning, he was in a foul mood.

"Ugh," he groaned when he realized he'd parked the car at an angle that sent the sun's first rays straight into his eyes. "Sammy, wake up." The car was stuffy and smelled of French fries and sour breath.

Sam snuffled and stretched. "What time is it?"

"Time to find a bathroom and brush our teeth. Open your window, the car stinks."

By the time they were waiting in line for the McDonald's drive-thru, Sam was wide awake and bombarding him with questions, as if a good night's sleep had sent his brain into overdrive. And Dean had no answers for most of them.

"What if Dad comes by while we're out getting breakfast? How will we know he's home?"

"He'll make a signal," Dean said, hoping he was right. "He'll open the curtains or something. We'll know."

"What if he goes looking for us? He'll never find us!"

"We have the car, Sammy. He's not going to get very far on foot. He'll just wait for us."

He used the pay phone outside McDonald's, but Pastor Jim was still out and Caleb's phone gave him the same recorded message.

"How come Pastor Jim's not answering his phone?" Sam asked as they pull away, unwrapping his McMuffin.

"How should I know?"

"You called him three times yesterday. Do you think he's on vacation?"

"He doesn't get a vacation, dufus," Dean said in his best you're-so-dumb tone, hoping Sam would back off the subject. The fact was, he had no real idea of what a pastor's job entailed, other than leading church services. "He's the pastor. That's like the priest in charge. He's probably out visiting some sick old lady or something."

"I'm sick of sitting in the car. Why can't I go to soccer practice, at least? If I don't show up today I won't be able to play in the game on Saturday."

There was a fair chance they'd be in another part of the country by Saturday, but Dean didn't say that. "Dad'll be back by the end of the day. You can miss one practice, Sammy, it's not the end of the world."

"What if the judge doesn't let him out today?"

"Course he will," he scoffed. "He's not a murderer or a bank robber. The judge has to set bail and then he'll come home."

"How much is bail?"

Good question. Cash amounts were never mentioned on the TV shows he watched. "I don't know. Don't worry, Dad'll come up with the money."

"Why can't we just call the jail and ask what's happening? Can't we go visit him? We're his kids, they have to let us in."

Dean sighed. It probably made sense to a twelve-year-old. But it was clear enough to him that two minor, unaccompanied children of an inmate couldn't just present themselves to the local lockup and ask to see their father. Not if they wanted to saunter back out again at the end of the visit, anyway. "It doesn't work that way, Sammy. We just have to wait and see."

But John didn't show all morning, and by mid-afternoon, his brother was beginning to drive him crazy with his questions and his pestering.

Still no answer from Pastor Jim.

When he got back after his fifth call, he could tell there was going to be trouble. Sam had his gaze fixed on the Movie Gallery across the street. Before his brother could get the words out, he made a pre-emptive strike.

"We're not going to the movies, so don't even bother asking. Dad didn't really mean that."

Sam scowled, shoulders slumping. "You don't know that. He said it like an order."

"Well, I'm in charge now, and you have to do what I say." He turned the key in the ignition and the Impala rumbled back to life. "We're going back to the apartment to wait."

They parked across the street and finished their meals, Sam pointedly ignoring Dean's attempts at humor, including tossing French fries at him and burping on purpose.

"Stop pouting," Dean finally told him irritably.

"I'm not pouting."

Whatever. He could ignore Sam too. See how he liked that. Anyway, the sleepless night and greasy food were acting like a sedative, and he could barely keep his eyes open.

"Gonna take a nap," he said, hunching down into a semi-reclining position. "Keep an eye out."

Sam waited until a minute after he'd closed his eyes before announcing, "I'm bored."

Oh, crap, not this. "Thanks for sharing, buddy," he grumbled, not bothering to open his eyes. "Read your book."

"I finished it."

"So read it again."

"How about we go to the library? I can get out another book."

"Not in the middle of the day when we're supposed to be in school."

"I need to pee."

"Be my guest," he grunted out, exasperated. "There's a tree right over there."

"Gross, Dean."

"Why don't you work on math? Get ahead in your workbook."

"I worked on it for an hour yesterday. I'm all set with math."

"Read my book, then. Or write your own book, for all I care. Just shut up so I can get some sleep!"

By the time Sam had subsided, agreeing in the end to organize the mess of torn and mis-folded maps in the glove compartment, Dean couldn't get to sleep anyway.

Two hours later, the worried voice in the back of his head saying something's gone wrong had become a panicky shout. His father should have been home by now.

He hadn't asked his father where he was being held, but he could make a good guess. The local jail was east of Elkhorn, on an isolated stretch of County Road about four miles away. He'd passed by it often enough on their weekend runs. The jail probably had visiting hours, but there was just no way two teenagers could show up there without an adult, asking for their father. It would be like ringing a bell and telling CPS they were available, ready to be picked up and carted away.

If his father needed money for bail and couldn't get hold of Pastor Jim, he knew, the most obvious place for him to get it was from his boss at Elkhorn Auto. Dad must have some back pay due. Maybe the manager, Joe something-or-other, would advance him some money. At the very least, Dean could ask him to call the courthouse and find out what was happening.

They'd waited long enough, he decided. Time to get some answers and figure out what to do.

It was a little after three when Dean pulled into the parking lot of Elkhorn Auto.

"Wait for me here."

"Wait in the car, really? Big surprise." From what he could tell, Sam had been spending the past day and a half perfecting his girly scowl, complete with a sigh and a disgusted eye roll.

"Just do it. I need five minutes, that's all."

Sam made a pointed show of slouching down in his seat and staring at the book in his lap as if it was the sole focus of his concentration. His expression was a decent attempt at I-don't-give-a-shit, but Dean could feel the anger coming off him in waves.

Well, so what. He didn't blame his brother for being fed up with hiding out in the car—God knew he was sick of it too—but Dad's orders were clear enough. Sam should just suck it up and stop whining.

Dean pushed the car door closed with a satisfying slam.

He was directed to a small office at the back of the garage. The door was partially open, and Dean could see a balding, powerfully-built man about his father's age sitting behind a desk, punching numbers into a battered desktop calculator with his left hand and jotting something down in a notebook with his right. Joe Hamilton, Manager, proclaimed a small sign on the desk.

He looked up when Dean knocked on the door. "Can I help you?"

He stepped up to the desk. "I'm John Winchester's son. My name is Dean."

The man's welcoming smile lost its openness, and his eyes narrowed as he looked Dean up and down. After a few awkward seconds, he leaned forward and stuck his hand out, and Dean grasped it firmly. "Joe Hamilton. Your father's a good mechanic."

"Yes, sir." The man gestured for him to sit in one of the two chairs facing the desk, but he shook his head. "I just wanted to know if you've heard from my dad, yesterday or maybe today."

"Yeah, I got a call from him 'bout two hours ago, as a matter of fact."

Bingo. "Can you tell me what you talked about?"

Hamilton nodded slowly, pursing his lips. "Well, I guess you've got a right to know… Have a seat."

He sat reluctantly, his stomach knotting.

"I take it you're looking for him," Hamilton said, giving him a look that was part sympathy, part caution. "Have you heard from him at all?"

"I know he's been arrested, if that's what you mean." Dean kept his tone matter-of-fact. "He called us yesterday morning."

"All right, so you know that much." Hamilton looked relieved. "What exactly did he tell you?"

"He said he's supposed to come up before the judge, or maybe he already has. We haven't heard from him since then, and I thought maybe he told you what was happening."

"Well," Hamilton said slowly, as if he was weighing his words, choosing what to say. "He told me he needed a certain sum of money for bail, and he asked if I could advance him some cash."

The man's reticence was making his insides clench, but he pressed, "Did he say how much?"

"He sure did. It was a pretty hefty amount."

"We don't…" We don't have much money, he almost blurted out."Uh, we don't have any relatives around here. That's probably why he called you."

"Well, that's a damn shame, but..." Hamilton paused, then leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Do you know what your father's been arrested for?"

"Uh, no sir."

"When he spoke to me, John said it was a trumped-up charge. Said he'd been walking around in the old Dunbar Cemetery, minding his own business, and the police nabbed him for trespassing."

"Dad has this thing about graveyards," he said as casually as he could, like it was a family eccentricity. "I know it's kinda strange, but he likes the quiet, or something. Sometimes he walks around 'em at night."

Hamilton sighed. "Look, son, I've got a brother-in-law who works in the county sheriff's office. He asked around for me. Turns out your father wasn't exactly telling the whole truth. It's a little more complicated than that."

So much for Dad being able to talk his way out of anything. "What's he charged with? I really need to know."

"First tell me who's 'we.'" Dean looked up at him, confused. "You said, we don't have any relatives around here, we haven't heard from him since yesterday. John told me he's a widower, so who's we?"

What did this have to do with anything? "I've got a brother, Sam. He's twelve."

"And how old are you?"

"I'm sixteen. And a half."

Hamilton's expression softened. "Who's been looking out for the two of you?"

"We're fine, sir," Dean said firmly. "We've been staying with our neighbors. What's my dad charged with?"

"Damage to a cemetery, among other things. They think he dug up a grave and burned a corpse." Hamilton made a grimace of disgust, and Dean tried not to wince. "And he was carrying a loaded weapon at the time. Those are serious crimes. They set the bail high."

"How…" His voice cracked, and he stopped, embarrassed. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "How much is the bail?" It came out steadier this time.

"Higher than I'm willing to pay," Hamilton said flatly. "I'll be frank with you, son. Your dad's what they call a flight risk. He's new around here, and from what he told me, he moves around a lot. He's got no property, no ties to the community. The judge probably doesn't think he'll show up for his trial, so he set the bail high enough to make sure he doesn't run. I like your dad, but I'm not willing to put myself into debt for him. I'm sorry."

"I understand." Dean could feel sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.

Dad's not getting out of jail. He's not coming home. We're on our own.

He was suddenly aware that Hamilton was looking at him, a pitying expression on his face that made his ears burn. "Uh, thank you for telling me, at least." He felt his throat closing up and slammed his mouth shut. There was nothing else to say, anyway. He nodded to Hamilton and left.

He walked out of the garage, hardly aware of where his feet were taking him. How the hell was he going to tell Sam? His brother thought Dad would be showing up any minute, hopefully before his soccer practice that afternoon. But Dad had already met with the judge, and the bail had been set so high that he—

The judge doesn't think he'll show up for his trial.

Those are serious crimes.

He felt his heart start to pound as Hamilton's words finally sank in. There was going to be a trial, and if the judge decided he was guilty, Dad was going to prison, maybe for months. Maybe longer.

Dad wasn't coming back. Not anytime soon, at least.

"Dean, wait!" He turned to see Hamilton striding up to him out of the building, clutching a white envelope in his hand. "Hang on, I've got something for you."

Wordlessly, he took the envelope and peeked inside, eyes widening.

Five hundred-dollar bills.

Oh, God. It wasn't enough that this guy thought his father was some sort of deviant and wouldn't help him get out of jail; now he was obviously feeling sorry for them and trying to assuage his guilt.

"Sir, we don't need your money," he said coldly, meeting the man's eyes with a blaze of anger. "We're fine."

Hamilton stepped back, his hands held out in front of him in a conciliatory gesture. "Relax, I'm not offering you a handout. That's your father's wages right there, give or take."

Dean blinked. "Oh. Uh, sorry."

"Doesn't look like he's going to be around at the end of the month to collect 'em. So the money's yours."

He stuffed the envelope in his pocket, grateful and humiliated. "Thanks, then." His voice felt raw, as if it hurt to say the words.

He turned to the car, where his brother was sitting wide-eyed, watching the whole interaction.

Shit.

Sam insisted they leave a note for John, slipped under their apartment door, just in case. Gone to PJs, it read. Call us there.

"He's not going to get the note," Dean told him, trying to keep his tone gentle. "I told you why."

Sam lifted his chin stubbornly. "Maybe he will."

He didn't argue.

It was a six-hour drive to Blue Earth. Sam fished out a map of Wisconsin from the glove compartment and announced he was the navigator, and Dean gave him a small smile. Sure, let him feel like he was contributing.

But he drew the line when Sam dug out a handful of cassette tapes from the bottom of his backpack and dumped them in the box they kept on the front seat between them. "What the hell? Where'd you get these?"

"One of my friends gave 'em to me. He's transferring his music collection to CDs. Everybody is."

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Don't get excited, here. The music's got to pass the test before we play it."

"I knew it." There it was again, the patented eye-roll and scowl. "Don't tell me, the test is whether it's your kind of music or not."

He grinned. "Can't have little brothers thinking they can just run the place when Dad's away."

"Like you'd dare to have your own music. You only play what Dad likes."

The remark stung more than it should have. Music was one of the few things he and his father enjoyed together. "No, squirt, I only play what I like. We just happen to have the same good taste."

"This music is good too," Sam told him earnestly. "You just have to give it a try."

"All right, hit me." He dropped his smile, and gave Sam his best pseudo-sincere, you-can-tell-me-anything face. "What is it? Madonna?"

Sam flushed. "Not Madonna, okay? Green Day, R.E.M., Billy Joel, James Taylor, Mariah Carey—"

"James Taylor, are you kidding?" He shuddered. "Thought I raised you better than that."

Sam shook his head, looking resigned and unsurprised. "Never mind. You're such a douche, Dean."

"I'm the big brother," he said, grabbing a Zeppelin tape and shoving it into the player. "That's just the way it is."

By the time they pulled up to the Church of St. John the Apostle that evening, it was after nine. It'd been nearly four years since Dean was last here, but the sight of the huge stained glass windows, lit dimly from within, and the clean modern lines of the building, felt familiar and safe.

It was a fleeting illusion.

"I'm Father Davis, the assistant pastor. Pastor Murphy's on sabbatical," a young red-haired priest informed them, looking at them quizzically. "He left for Costa Rica about three weeks ago and won't be back for six months. And you are…?"

It hit him like a punch to the gut. Costa Rica, where the fuck was that? And for six months… He felt like his last lifeline had just been snatched away, leaving him helpless in the waves.

He realized belatedly that the pastor was giving him a concerned look; his shock must be written all over his face. "Uh, that's too bad," he said quickly, aiming for a light tone but not quite managing to hide his disappointment. "Pastor Jim's an old friend of our father's. We were just… just driving through the area. Thought we'd stop by and say hi."

"I'm sure he'd have wanted to see you. It's a shame you missed him."

Understatement. "I guess Dad didn't know he was away." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam watching them anxiously.

"It came up pretty suddenly," the man told them genially. "Something to do with his research, I think. He corresponds with colleagues all over the world, you know, does a lot of consulting on the occult. He's quite well known in his field."

A hunt, Dean translated. Or some ancient text he was going to translate. Perfect timing.

And now he was at a loss. His entire plan had hinged on talking to Pastor Jim, and then, somehow, bailing his father out of jail. He hadn't even allowed himself to consider anything else. But obviously that wasn't going to happen.

"Where's your father, kids?" Father Davis asked, smiling down at them. "It's late and I was about to close up, but I'd be happy to talk to him. I have Jim's address."

"He's in the car," Dean said, just as Sam piped up, "Dad's not here."

For a second the pastor looked perplexed, then his smile disappeared and his demeanor became more serious. "Well, which is it? In the car, or not here?"

He shot a glare in Sam's direction—Shut up—and met Father Davis' eye. "He's in the car, like I said. But he's asleep. It's been a long drive." He paused. "If you give me Pastor Jim's address, I'll see that he gets it."

Naturally, that didn't fly.

Sam folded under direct questioning ("He's a priest, Dean! It's a sin to lie to a priest!") and a few minutes later, Dean found himself having a one-on-one talk with the assistant pastor in his study while his brother waited on one of the pews.

"So," Father Davis said slowly, "you drove your brother all the way here from—Wisconsin, did you say?—just to talk to Pastor Jim, who's a friend of your father's… who isn't here with you." Dean nodded. "Where are your parents, Dean?"

"My mother died when I was little. And I'm sorry, Father, but it's none of your business where my dad is."

The pastor seemed unperturbed by his belligerence. "Is he in some kind of trouble?" When Dean didn't answer, he continued, "Are you?"

"Look, it's nothing you can help us with," Dean said firmly. "Thanks and everything, but we're fine, really."

"You're runaways."

Dean didn't say anything. Let him think that. What did it matter?

"Do you want to tell me what made you leave home?"

"No, sir."

"Are either of you injured or in need of medical treatment?"

"No, Father. We're fine, really."

The man frowned impatiently. "Well, I think we've just established that you're not fine, but I'm glad you're both all right physically. Do you have somewhere to go from here? Some relative, or a friend you can stay with?"

He'd been going around and around with that question for hours, but he kept coming up blank. But the pastor was giving him an odd, sympathetic look he didn't like, and it was clearly time to move on. "Thanks for your interest, but you don't have to worry about us. If you could just give me Pastor Jim's address, we'll be going."

But Sam had fallen asleep in the pew and Dean was exhausted, and Father Davis was persistent. They ended up spending the night in the spare bedroom at the rectory.

The next day, Father Davis took them to Harbor House.

Harbor House was a no-frills emergency shelter for homeless teens run by the church up in Minneapolis, and it was a lot better than living in the car, Dean supposed. It was clean and there were regular meals, and Sam could spend his mornings in the learning center with a tutor, so he didn't have to miss much school.

But it was a temporary solution, and Dean still couldn't figure out what to do.

He refused to cooperate with Gloria, the youth counselor, although he knew she meant well. But what was the point? "I don't want to talk about it," he told her gruffly. "We ran off because we had no choice, and we can't go back home. End of story."

But they'd been there for two weeks already, and three weeks was the limit at the shelter. Gloria kept trying to get him to form an "action plan" and talk about his options. He knew he needed to make some decisions, but none of the alternatives looked good.

"We can put you into a group hostel, what we call transitional housing," Gloria told him. "You can work and go to school, and we'll teach you the skills you'll need for independent living. But your brother's too young for the hostel. He needs a supportive family environment and we can't provide that."

Family environment, right. Over the last two weeks, he'd heard enough horror stories about disastrous placements and abusive foster parents from the other kids at the shelter to make him rule that out completely as an option. Under no circumstances was he letting Sam near Child Protective Services on his own.

So he stalled, hoping something would happen. Maybe if he had a little more time, Dad would come up with the bail somehow. Or Caleb would start answering his phone. Or the judge would decide Dad was innocent and just let him go, and things would go back to normal.

In the meantime, Sam wasn't handling it well.

"I hate it here," his brother informed him for the tenth time when they met up at lunch. "I want to go home. When are we leaving?"

"I'm working on a plan," he said, with as much confidence as he could muster. "We'll be out of here by the end of the week." That part, at least, was true.

"What if Dad gets out and comes looking for us? We're in Minneapolis now! How's he gonna find us?"

"He'll know we went to Pastor Jim's. Father Davis will tell him where we are."

"But what are we doing here?" Sam's expression, resentful and angry, sent a pang of guilt stabbing through his chest. "Why can't we just go back to our apartment? We can wait there for Dad to come back."

Dean sighed. Sam still thought he could go back to the soccer team and class 6B.

Sixteen was a hell of a lot older than twelve.

He searched for some easy way to explain things to his brother. "We don't have money for the rent, Sam. Or the electricity or the food, or—"

"You could get a job, Dean! You're over sixteen."

But two weeks at Harbor House had been a quick education on living under the radar. He knew getting a legal job would mean using his social security number… which would tip off CPS. So would registering for school or trying to get medical treatment.

So instead of answering his brother, he tried to change the subject. "What's the matter, Sammy? Are the other kids bothering you?"

Sam scowled, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. "That's not it."

"Look, if anybody's getting on your case, let me know and I'll deal with them. You don't have to be scared of anybody."

The minute the words left his mouth, he knew it had been the wrong thing to say. Sam's eyes darkened and his jaw lifted stubbornly. "I know how to take care of myself," he snapped. "And I'm not scared."

But Dean knew he was lying.

He wasn't sure why. Sam didn't scare easily, and he could hold his own in a fight, thanks to their father's training. Maybe he was just freaked by hearing these street kids brag about where they'd been and what they'd done. Most of them were older, seventeen or eighteen, and they were a little rough.

He reached out a hand to his brother's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Relax. These hotshots couldn't make it through an hour of one of Dad's weekend drill sessions and you know it."

Sam shrugged off the touch, twisting out of range with an angry glare. "Forget it. I don't need you to protect me, I just want to leave." He grabbed his tray and headed toward the kitchen, not bothering to wait for Dean.

What hurt was that Sam wouldn't even look at him.

When he found his brother later that evening, bent over a dresser in one of the boys' bedrooms, all he could think was: this is all my fault.

Sam had been on his own all afternoon, and Dean hadn't chased him down, thinking he needed to blow off some steam. But when his brother hadn't shown up for dinner, he decided to go looking for him.

It was the closed door that first alerted him to the fact that something was wrong. There were four large bedrooms on the second floor, and the House rule was that doors always stayed open. A muffled sound from behind the door had him moving in that direction without thinking twice.

When he stepped inside the room, horror left him momentarily speechless. His brother was shoved against the dresser with one of the older boys—Taylor, his mind supplied, a sullen 18-year-old from St. Paul—pressed against him, holding his hands behind his back. Sam's jeans and underwear were pushed down around his ankles, and a piece of fabric was stuffed in his mouth, stifling his cries as he struggled.

"What the hell," Dean snarled, and then Dad's training kicked in.

His forearm was wrapped around Taylor's throat from behind before he was even aware he was doing it. He pressed down against the boy's windpipe in a chokehold and dragged him backwards off Sam, then threw him down and began pounding into him with his fists.

He was consumed by rage, on fire with it, as if his skin couldn't contain his fury and the only way to relieve it was to hit something—Taylor—over and over again.

"You miserable little pervert!" he spit. "You're dead, man. That's… my… little… brother!" He punctuated each word with a punch, feeling the satisfying crunch of the boy's nose breaking. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sam straightening his clothes and wiping his eyes.

Ohgodohgod, how far did this go?

He kept up the attack until Taylor was curled into a ball, covered in blood and whimpering. Then he stood up, aimed a final, vicious kick at his ribs—"Shut the fuck up, you piece of shit," he hissed when the other boy moaned—and turned to his brother.

"You okay, Sammy?" he asked, then cringed at the sound of his own words. Of course he wasn't okay.

Sam's eyes were rimmed with tears, but he nodded.

"Did he…?" He couldn't get the words out, couldn't even phrase the question. It made his stomach churn just to think it. Sam was twelve, just a kid, for God's sake.

His brother shook his head and dropped his gaze to the floor. His cheeks and ears were flushed with shame.

Damn it. There was probably a right way to handle this kind of situation, but he had no idea what it was.

Reaching out a cautious hand, he brushed his brother's hair out of his eyes, where the sweaty strands clung to his forehead. He bent down slightly so he was at eye level with Sam. "Did he hurt you, Sammy?"

"No." It came out in a whisper.

"Tell me the truth," he persisted. "I need to know. It's okay, you can tell me."

"He didn't…" Sam paused. "He didn't do anything. Not yet." His voice broke on the last word, and that was when Dean understood that beating up Taylor might have helped him, but nothing he did could make up for what his brother had just been through.

He glanced back down at Taylor, his gaze fixing on the fly of his faded jeans: unbuttoned, but only partly unzipped.

Not rape, at least. But almost as bad.

His words from their earlier conversation replayed themselves in his mind, like the script from a bad movie.

If anybody's getting on your case, let me know and I'll deal with them. You don't have to be scared of anybody.

Some protector he'd turned out to be.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "God, I'm so sorry."

Sam shrugged and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "'s not your fault."

But it was, and the wave of shame and guilt that engulfed him made it hard to breathe. He was disgusted with himself, for his indecision, for his stalling, for his ridiculous hope that his father would miraculously appear or that somebody would rush in and save them, would take them away from this situation and fix everything.

Nobody was coming. That was the bitter truth, and it was about time he recognized it. Dad was in jail, nobody was coming to help, and it was up to him and him alone to take care of the two of them.

Well, now he had an action plan, all right. Gloria would have been proud of him.

It was after midnight by the time they hitched their way back to Blue Earth.

They walked the final mile along Route 169 back to St. John's, not saying much. Dean walked in front, carrying both their bags, Sam stumbling along just behind him.

The Impala was right where they left it, in the parking lot behind the rectory. The contents of the trunk seemed untouched, and the white envelope with their cash was still stuffed in the glove compartment behind the maps.

He slid into the front seat with a grateful sigh, breathing in the familiar smells of leather and leftover fries. Sam climbed in next to him, closed the door, and curled onto his side, resting his head against the window. The sight of his brother's hunched form was an accusation.

He reached back and grabbed one of the pillows and a blanket. "You go to sleep, Sammy," he said gently, tucking the blanket around him. "We've got a long drive ahead of us."

"Where are we going?" Sam's voice was quiet and tight and hopeless.

A muscle in Dean's jaw twitched and his fingers flexed around the steering wheel. But he kept the rage out of his voice. "Back to Wisconsin."

Watch out for Sammy. You're in charge. How many times had Dad told him that when he was younger?

Everything was suddenly so clear.

They rode along in silence for a while, while James Taylor sang a lullaby about a cowboy. The music was soothing and lyrical, and Sam snuggled into the pillow and closed his eyes.

"Just rest. I'm gonna take care of you. Don't worry about anything."

He let the words of the song and the rumble of the engine wash over him, lulling him into relaxation.

"I've got this," he said aloud, even though Sam was already asleep.