Oh my goodness, so many new readers! Thank you so much for checking this out! I'd love to hear what you think. I also must reiterate – this fic is rated T with strong warnings for language and torture. If that's not your cup of tea, surely there's cute brotherly fluff on FF, too. :)

Very special thanks to wolfschild and batina34 over at TWOP for your incredibly kind and completely unexpected compliments! They made my week. Hee.

Chapter Four

The first thing Dean did was find a bathroom. When he emerged, water soothing both his dry throat and the angry wounds on his chest and shoulder, forehead finally scrubbed clean, he felt almost human again.

And then he found a phone. Still keeping an eye on the not-exactly-bustling Boonville St. behind him - he didn't know where Meg had gone, but he doubted she was far - Dean's eyes fell on the area code written in pencil.

660.

He frowned. Most kids considered it a point of pride to name the capital cities of all 50 states, but John had taken it one step farther. Dean had known the area codes and major highway routes of 700 American cities before he turned 15.

Boonville, Missouri. The very city name Dean had always pointed to Sam as evidence their father really did have a sense of humor. Just fucking perfect. And if he remembered correctly, Lawrence was only two hours away...

He called collect, praying his trusting brother would answer the random phone number and knowing he never would.

"Tell you what." John forced brightness into his tone, heart breaking as his youngest sniffled against his jacket. "You haven't driven anything until you've tried out my truck. Why don't you take it back to the hotel? I'll meet you there."

Something nearly resembling a chuckle escaped Sam's lips, but it was laced with world-weary bitterness. "Dad, I'm not 15. And even then, I wasn't the one obsessed with that stuff. Dean was."

Sam froze at the past-tense, grief tightening his throat.

"Sam" - John started, forcing himself to stop. Damnit, he really was trying. But he also knew Sam's inability to understand that was his fault, not his son's. Someone is going to have to drive the Impala back, and I don't want it to be you, he mentally told his son. Because I love you and I'm proud of you and I know how much that would hurt you and hell, why is Sam the only one of us who doesn't struggle with emotions?

Dean was easy. He was truly Mary's son and knew instinctively from day one what he'd been born to do. His oldest son could turn off emotions like flipping a switch, burying his own desires beneath the weight of his duties. Sam, however, had inherited every inch of his father's stubbornness and none of his hard-earned control.

"They're not here," Sam grimaced. He broke away from John and paced restlessly. "The hotel is a waste of time. Damnit!"

John watched silently as Sam vigorously kicked one of the wheels, only to catch a glimpse of the inside and stop, body freezing so intensely he doubted the boy was breathing, before wrenching himself out of line of sight and continue pacing again.

The inside of the car... John frowned, looking again at the blood-filled interior, scanning every inch methodically. Sam was Dean's one emotional outlet. Even when his little soldier had suppressed all others to do his job, he'd still gone home and tucked his brother in at night. He wouldn't leave Sam without something if he was even remotely able. Dean would never allow Sam to worry or panic over him. Period.

It was barely visible and painstakingly done with a great deal of effort, but it was there. Dean apparently wasn't blindfolded. John felt a genuine smile curve his lips. Well done, son.

"Sam..."

Still locked in his grief and not ready to deal with his father on top of everything else, Sam didn't turn. John sighed but allowed him his moment, studying the upholstery. In between the useless scratches marking Dean's futile defiance, he'd hidden his salvation.

I70W.

Dean and Sam's training was second-to-none, but John was not universally despised in certain circles just because of his sons. Long-memorized maps played through his mind. He rose, having fallen into a crouch to absently stroke the leather. The highway roared behind them.

They'd vanished more than half the day before. It was a ten-hour drive from Chicago to Lawrence, Kansas, but she'd clearly made several stops to torment them all and switch cars. He'd seen no indication she had help, and transferring a resisting hostage - or even just a stocky, unconscious one - to a new vehicle would've taken time. Could he still cut them off?

He had no way of knowing. But he had to try and in the meantime, he had to get Sam out of harm's way. But how could he do that without gravely insulting the boy? Perhaps by keeping him involved some way other than physical presence? He didn't need research help, but clearly Sam needed to participate.

Sam paused, noticing suddenly they'd switched places. His father now knelt next to the car where he'd previously been, staring inside. He hesitated. Dean was John's prodigal son, his true confidante and unbendable ally. Could he have misjudged the man's awkwardness for paralyzing anxiety?

"Sam," John barked suddenly. "List me all the cities alongside I-70 west."

Or, Sam thought with sheer animosity, maybe he'd actually been right all along and his father was nothing more than a stone-cold automaton. John'd probably been embarrassed he'd had fallen apart in front of police and tried to cover with an embrace which would be expected from any other father and son.

His phone rang, preempting his sharp and probably inappropriate response.

"Sam," John said, voice booming with intensity, "where is that call coming from?"

Sam rolled his eyes, his father's long lectures on the benefits of vibrate while on a job echoing through his ears. Whatever. It was clearly a wrong number anyway. Thanks, jerk. Like I needed another one.

John was still staring at him.

"I don't know," he snapped, irritation so strong he was choking on it. "660... Kentucky. Survey company."

Not caring enough for it to ring to voicemail, he hit the button long enough to hang it back up.

Dean stared at the phone in disbelief. Redialed.

"660 isn't Kentucky," John chided automatically, even as his mind went to work. "It's Missouri." Was it really going to be that easy?

That was it. "Look," Sam exploded. "If you were anyone else, I'd know you were worried and not realizing how damn remote you are. But you know what? I don't need this right now! You sure had no problem not appearing all the other times we needed you! And Dad? We lived through them anyway. We figured out we didn't need you at all. We moved on. Maybe it's time you did the same."

The strength left John's knees and he fell back against the Impala. Sam hadn't touched him - physically or mentally - but the wild hatred on his face and etched in his eyes... was this truly the little boy who'd once bragged to teachers that his father and brother were real-life superheroes?

Sam's phone rang again. John pulled himself to his feet, cold and unyielding once again. They didn't have time for adolescent grudges. Dean didn't have time for adolescent grudges.

"Answer it!" he bellowed. In a showy display of compliance, Sam flicked it on.

"Yes," he drawled into the phone, twirling his finger in circles. "I'd love to do a survey. I call it 'soda', doesn't everyone?"

And then his eyes widened and he almost dropped the phone. Standing eight feet away, John could clearly hear every word

"You'd better fucking have just woken up from a fucking coma, you fucking little piece of shit!" Dean growled.

To be continued.

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