Chapter 3

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Dean was careful not to wake his father when he returned home from his late night stroll. It appeared as though John had not shifted his position and Dean quickly became envious of his ability to sleep without distraction.

Dean's walk had been uneventful, but he had succeeded in clearing his head for the moment, and his tired body called for sleep. Lying down once again, Dean rolled to the side and snuggled his head into the pillow, hoping that somewhere out there, Sam had a warm bed to sleep in and a pillow to lay his head upon.

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Dean's sleep was interrupted by the rude and intrusive shove he received to his left shoulder.

"Dean, we've got work to do, son" Dean mumbled something under his breath and rolled onto his back, covering his eyes with his right arm, "get a move on Dean, come on."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm up" Dean spoke through his teeth; he never had been good with mornings. Dean glanced at the clock – 10:13am – alright, maybe it was about time he woke up. That late night walk certainly drained him of his energy; Dean hadn't slept this late in a long time. He took a sleepy look around the room, noticing little change other than the few scattered coffee cups around where his father had been working.

After he'd quickly showered, Dean wasn't feeling quite as refreshed as he had hoped, despite his lengthy sleep.

"You want coffee?" he asked John, who now sat on his bed with research papers scattered around himself.

"Yeah, get some breakfast too" he returned, without looking up. Dean swiftly grabbed his keys and wallet and headed out the door, almost overwhelmingly keen for the hot, bitter taste of a good brew.

After successfully picking up two coffees and some sandwiches for breakfast, and managing to smoothly receive the cell number of the cute waitress behind the counter, Dean headed home, ignoring the burn on his tongue when he quickly gulped down the hot beverage. Turning down one of the many back roads that led to the sleazy motel that he and his father called their temporary home, Dean couldn't help but notice the poor condition of the houses along this road and those neighboring.

Hell, the motels we stay at are the damn Radisson compared to these dumps.

As his steaming hot coffee spilt onto his fingers when the car bumped over a pothole, Dean noticed that the road didn't seem to be in great condition either.

"Shit" he cursed, pulling over to the side of the road, moving his cup to the cup holder and wiping his hand down on his jeans, his body far too used to injury to be bothered by a bit of coffee. The coffee that had spilt on the seat, well that was another story, there was no way Dean was going to led any harm befall his baby, and so he gingerly wiped down the spilt liquid from the seat.

The car was parked near the end of the street; Dean glanced to the final house on that side of the road, taking in the scrubby, uncared for garden. The paneling on the outside of the house was worn and the paint job faded and peeling off in some sections. The windows were dusty and you could barely see in them, bar one – on the second story of the house, one window was kept spotless and squeaky clean. Weird, Dean figured.

The clock now read 10:45, and Dean started up the car once again to head home. Driving away from the house that he surmised could use a little bit of TLC, Dean shot a glance to his rearview window, and, in the distance, he could make out the tall, lanky figure of a teenage boy, seemingly limping out of the house and down the front steps. A worn, yellow backpack was hung loosely on one of his shoulders, and his long, chestnut hair hung almost over his eyes.

Couldn't be Sammy, Dean thought to himself, that would be way too much of a coincidence.

Still, Dean wished that he had gotten a better look at the boy, who now walked slowly in the direction away from the impala, and eventually was out of sight as Dean turned the corner.

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"SAM," Ted barked at the sleeping Sam from the doorway to his bedroom, the boy now startled awake by his ridiculously loud call. "Get the hell up and out of bed, now. You still haven't cleaned up the mess from yesterday, and I want some breakfast." Sam, fearful of what may happen should he disobey, quickly stood and pulled on a shirt, before following Ted's slightly overweight frame down the staircase. Ted was mumbling something to himself along the lines of stupid lazy piece of shit, but Sam's mind was elsewhere this morning.

While the inside of his mouth and throat still burned with the pain of the ammonia he had swallowed early that morning, Sam was eager to get out of the house. After managing to clean up most of the bloodstain on the carpet, and simply hoping that Ted wouldn't notice the remnants, Sam fixed Ted some breakfast, sneaking a bite or two of a piece of stale bread as he cooked, thankful that Ted's eyes were fixed on the newspaper clippings around him at the table.

He was researching a hunt, something local, vengeful spirit he figured. Some military psycho killing young women at an abandoned house outside of town, the usual. Ted had been working that same case for about two weeks now, and he was really struggling to come up with some answers as to who the hell this guy was. Ted had delegated some of the research to Sam to do about a week ago, but after Ted had knocked him around a bit too much and given him a concussion, Sam was struggling to focus so Ted had to take over again.

In all honesty, Sam hated hunting with Ted. It reminded him of his family. While he'd only known about the existence of the supernatural world and the true occupation of his father for a year when Ted took him from them, he was well aware that his father and brother continued to hunt after he disappeared. Ted told him that he'd met John before, at a place called the roadhouse. Ted explained that this was a place at which hunters often met and discussed cases. But, as Ted had refused to tell Sam any more in regards to his relationship with his father, Sam had stopped asking long ago.

After cleaning up Ted's dishes from breakfast, Sam went to his bedroom and pulled on a clean outfit. Well, as clean as his outfits can get; Ted refuses to wash Sam's clothes, and Sam isn't allowed to mess with Ted's stuff – the washing machine included. So, some nights when Ted was out for long enough, Sam would wash his clothes in the bathtub using soap and water. Sure, he could use the washing machine, but the risks were far lower if he could just tell Ted that he'd had a bath.

After dressing, Sam quickly washed his face in the sink, forcing himself not to open his mouth and look inside, fearful of the sight of his burnt tongue and cheeks.

Sam took a look around the room he called his, gazing at the sodden mattress in the corner of the room on which he slept, the cupboard that held his two pairs of jeans and three shirts. On top of the cupboard sat a notebook and a pen, which Sam quickly threw into his second hand backpack. Slipping into his sneakers, Sam headed down the staircase and, in passing the mirror that hung on the wall next to the stairs, noted the deep purple bruise on his left cheek that Ted had left there last night. Sam figured his back probably looked the same; it ached where Ted had punched him.

Silently, Sam stepped towards the front door and opened it gently, trying to avoid the accusing eyes of Ted. He failed.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Sam's voice was hoarse from his injuries and speaking pained him unimaginably. "School" he quietly responded, hoping that Ted would not force him back inside; he hadn't been to school in about a week, and he was going a little stir crazy.

Not to mention, school meant he was away from Ted.

School meant he could probably steal something to eat from someone else's bag.

"You tell 'em you fell down the stairs, you hear?" Ted ordered, referring to the purpling bruise on Sam's face.

"Yeah" Sam whispered, thanking whoever it was up there that he was allowed to go to school today, slamming the door shut behind him. Excitedly, Sam stumbled down the steps and wandered in the direction of the school, aware that his tardiness would get him in trouble, but just thankful that he could go at all.

In the distance, Sam spotted an old black Chevy Impala. The car looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place it, and before he could get a good look, the car was around the corner and out of sight. Sam's mind wondered, thoughts of the car, his home, Ted, his family. God, he wanted to see them so badly. He thought about them the entire walk, what were they doing? Where were they? Who were they with? Were they safe?

Sam carried on his way to school, wondering if his family ever thought of him, too.

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TBC