Author's Note: Thanks for the review!

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Last time:

Suddenly, Sam felt a presence behind him. Whipping around, he felt the keys fall from his now slackened fingers. Mouth open, Sam gasped out the name of the person he and Dean had been searching for.

"Dad?"

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The man stood in front of him. The only way to describe his father's appearance was haggard. He looked completely exhausted; uncombed hair and wrinkled hair presented these facts.

John Winchester walked into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. "Sam," he said quietly as he stared at the son he hadn't seen since the young man walked out of his life nearly two and a half years ago. He inched closer to him, his arms raising as if he was going to hug Sam, but dropped to his side suddenly, aborting the gesture.

Surprise was an understatement at that moment in time. Sam was seriously floored. "Dad, are you alright? Where have you been? We've been searching for you for six months, Dad! We've been leaving messages everywhere."

John rubbed his face tiredly, before walking away and turning his back. "Sam. I have no time for this. I came to let you and your brother know that I took care of Anderson. He's not going to be a threat anymore." He looked around the room as he spoke, taking in the 'spartan' look both his boys adopted, mostly due to his training.

Sam swallowed hard, getting upset. "What did you do to him? Is he dead?"

John turned to face him, his face emotionless, but his eyes sad. He scoffed before responding. "Do you really think that I'm a monster, Sam? You really think that I'd kill a human being?"

"I just don't know what you're capable of now, Dad. I mean, you disappear on us for months—just giving us damned text messaged coordinates to send us on your damned hunts." It was honestly stated. Sam truly didn't know what had gotten into the man he called his father. He never thought that he'd abandon them.

His father straightened, as if in 'attention' position. "I did what I had to do, Sam. I don't need to explain myself to you. I gave you and Dean my orders and I expected you to follow them. Now, where is Dean?"

"Shit, Dean!" Sam smacked his head with his palm before bending over to grab the keys that he'd dropped earlier. "Dad! Dean's—he got hurt and—god, I don't know how to explain this—but he's not himself. He's run away and I've got to find him."

Rushing past his father, Sam reached the front door of the motel room before an arm stopped his panicked flight towards the parked car. The force sent him spinning against a table, his butt cushioning the collision. "Dad, stop it! I need to find Dean."

Personal space was invaded purposefully. "Sam. I want to know what's going on."

Sam pushed his father, using both hands. "There's no time, Dad!"

The man pushed back, flinging Sam back against the table. "REPORT!" It was an order, one that Sam knew Dean would automatically answer. The problem was, he wasn't his brother.

Putting up his hands in the universal 'surrender' sign, Sam nodded, hoping that the quicker he explained the situation, the faster he'd be able to search for his injured brother.

Gesturing to the seat across the table, he waited for John Winchester to sit before telling him succinctly what had happened at the Anderson Manor, leaving out the details of their previous disastrous—nearly deadly, hunt at the Roosevelt Asylum. John had sat listening to him, slumping in his seat and playing with his wedding ring when Sam reported Dean's current mental condition.

"Dad," the man lifted his chin from his chest to look into his son's eyes, "We need to find Dean. He's—Dad, he's been through so much lately. I mean—he only has nine years of memories. Last night—the reality of EVERYTHING, well, it hit the both of us with a sledgehammer. When Dean runs off, usually it's to a smoke-filled tavern filled with drunken gamblers. I have no idea where he'd go now."

John had sat back in his chair, staring at his ring as if he was in a trance. He sat there for a few minutes, just thinking. Sam was practically vibrating in his chair, waiting for him. Finally, it seemed like a million years later, John stood up and spoke, "I'm confused, Sam. Did something else happen last night that you're not telling me?"

Sam's head tilted to the side, "What? No."

"See, Sam, that's why I'm confused." He started pacing the room, before turning to face his youngest once again, "Are you sure that Dean's run away?"

Hitting his palm flat against the table with frustration, Sam started huffing, "Dad! He's not here! Of course, he's run away and we've got to go find him."

"No, we don't, Sam." It was said matter-of-factly.

Whipping his hand through his short hair, Sam was furious. "Dad, what the hell are you talking about? We have to go!"

John walked up to him, and placed his hand against his shoulder. "Sam, listen to me. I know your brother—Dean would never run away from you. NEVER, Sam. Not even as a child. Sam, Dean would never go anywhere without you. So, just sit down, don't move and wait for him to get back."

Sam sat, not because his father had told him, but because he needed to. His father was right. He couldn't remember a single time throughout their entire childhood in which Dean wasn't by his side, whether during the day or at night. It was Sam that instigated their separation in his early adolescent years—not wanting to 'tag-along' anymore—not Dean. He was tired of being the 'Baby Sammy' that followed his big brother, he wanted to be Sam Winchester, not Dean's shadow.

"Dad, where are you going?" Sam called out. He had been so deep in thought that he didn't notice his father opening the door to walk out.

With barely a glance behind him, John simple stated what he believed. "Sam, you and Dean don't need me anymore. I'm tracking the monster that killed your mother—and your girlfriend." He sighed, "I heard about it, and I'm sorry, Sammy. But I need to leave. I know the both of you will be fine without me." He looked at his son once more before he left, "I usually tell this to Dean, but Sam, look after your brother."

Closing his eyes at the sound of the door clicking shut behind him, Sam rested his head against his shaking arms. His head suddenly too heavy for him to lift. It wasn't fair; their lives were just not fair. And for a moment, Sam imagined that this was what Dean had felt when he'd told him he was leaving him to go to Stanford.

He didn't know how long he stay resting against the table; it could've been minutes or hours. Time had stopped, leaving Sam with nothing other than his own memories and thoughts. It wasn't a day-dream, those were fun fantasies. This wasn't a fantasy—there was nothing in his memory that would be considered 'fun'. It was all duty, discipline and training. Their father's idea of a 'fun-family-vacation' was a camping/hunting trip. It was probably the main reason that the both of them hated camping; it was something that had been forced upon them. A training camp, without the outside reliance of technology. Though, it brought a smile to his face to remember the games that his bored big brother would come up with while they were stuck out alone—'survival training'—in the middle of the woods.

The door opened slowly. The noise jarred Sam from his thinking, his neck cracked as he rapidly lifted his head from the table. The sight of his brother's sneakers as he pushed the door with them made Sam jump up and run over to the door. Dean was clutching two brown-paper bags in his arms, they were overflowing. Walking, over to the table, he grunted as he finally had somewhere to lay down the filled heavy bags before they ripped.

Sam watched him set down the bags. He had both hands covering his mouth, not wanting to start screaming at him the moment he walked in. Gulping a couple of times, Sam waited for Dean to turn back to him. "Dean," he spoke softly, "Where were you?"

Dean looked up with wide eyes, not understanding. "I went to the corner store, Sam. There's no food here and you've got to eat."

"You were hungry?" Sam pointed to the chair, wanting them both to sit down before staring the serious part of their conversation.

He sat at the appointed chair, rummaging through the bag happily. "No. But I thought that you were. I got you some peanut butter and grape jelly. It's your favorite."

Sam put a gentle hand against Dean's stopping him from his motions. "Dean. Why didn't you wake me?"

Worry filled his now young looking face, "'Cause you were sleeping, Sammy. I didn't want to wake you." Dean put his other hand on top of his brother's. "Are you mad at me?"

Completing the chain by putting his other hand on top, Sam shook his head 'no'. "No, Dean. I'm not mad. I was worried about you. I thought that you had—uh—run away or gotten lost or something. Why didn't you leave a note?" He smiled gently, trying to take the harshness out of the words.

"I was only gone for like an hour, Sam! I thought that I'd be back with breakfast before you even woke up." He was arguing.

Dean always argued, Sam thought, shaking his head. Holding out a hand, he hoped to prevent it from escalating. "I still need to know where you're going, Dean. It's dangerous and I want to know, alright? Next time, I want you to tell me, even if you have to wake me." He was frustrated, worried, and a little angry—not at Dean, but about the position he was now in.

His brother pulled away from him, turning his body around so that he faced in the other direction. His head drooped down, and he had lifted his legs so that they were pressed against his chest. Sam could see the stress running through his body as it tightened.

Sighing, Sam mentally kicked himself before getting up to kneel in front of his brother's chair. "Dean? I'm sorry. I know that you were trying to help."

Hiding his face, Dean mumbled softly, "I'm still your big brother, aren't I, Sammy?" Lifting his tearstained face, Sam had never seen his brother look so upset.

Immediately, without hesitation, Sam answered, "Of course, you're my big brother, Dean. Why would you ask that?"

Sniffling, Dean cried, "I'm supposed to take care of you when Dad's not here, Sammy. He's not here, so I have to make sure you eat, take a bath, and get to sleep on time. It's my job. I'm your big brother." He looked devastated. "But you don't want me to take care of you anymore because I'm broken." His lips quivered as more tears filled his eyes. Dean only let one sob escape before jumping out of his chair and running into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

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To Be Continued…

Personally, I think that last paragraph rocked! I had to retype it numerous times, however. But it turned out awesome.

Okay, I know Dean's not the emotionally stunted 27 year old hot-head anymore and I really didn't want to make him a 'cry-baby', but the poor guy's been under a lot of stress, both physical and emotional, so I think he's entitled to cry when he wants to.