…shakingly began to dial his brother's number. Which went straight to voicemail.

Sam slowly lowered the phone, his hands trembling violently as he clasped them tightly against his legs. A pit of apprehension began gnawing at his stomach, making his insides feel like acid. Staying with Bobby. Why the hell was Dean staying with Bobby? His brain was reeling trying to piece together what had happened from the small amount of information that Bobby had left him in the message.

He hadn't heard from John since he left two days ago, which was decidedly unlike his father. He and John could play the silent treatment for ages when they were together, allowing the anger to rest in the air, swelling like a balloon until Dean finally broke them down enough to start talking to one another again. But when Sam stormed off…. that was a different story. John's controlling side couldn't cope with not knowing where his sons were, and when Sam had tested him on it in the past, his father was manic—almost unrecognizable from the level-headed hunter that he so often portrayed.

Even when he was a teenager and would try to go spend the night at a friend's house, John would call him obsessively, spitting message after message into his voicemail threatening him to come back immediately or to not come back at all. He never meant it though— if Sam refused to come back, he would always just show up and fetch him like a lost puppy. That was why Sam had refused to leave any clue as to his whereabouts when he had left the other day. So many of Sam's attempts at normalcy had been ruined by his father showing up unexpectedly on his friend's doorsteps in the middle of the night, his dark features pressed together into fake worry as he would explain a non-existent family crisis and drag Sam away into the darkness. Those were the times when Sam felt the least in control of his life. Even when John left them stranded at some backwater motel with only a fake credit card to buy groceries for weeks on end, he felt more in control of his life than the moment John strolled through the door. After years upon years of this, he was suffocating. He and John couldn't even stand in the same room anymore without one of them screaming at one another. It's a wonder Dean could stand it. It was a wonder Dean could stand a lot of things…

Sam shook his head quickly, feeling his breath hitch in his throat as his mind began to wander to things that he didn't want to think about. He looked down at his hands clenching desperately at the meat of his thighs, the tendons in his hands painfully apparent underneath the blanched skin. Forcing them to relax, he took a breath and felt dull throb echo up the upsides of both his legs where his fingers were digging in. Don't think about it.

But he couldn't not think about it. Since the first night that he had figured out that John treated his older brother differently than he did him, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. He still remembered figuring it out—the muffled shouts of pain out in the hallway and the cursing in the other room; he had thought that his father had accidentally left the television on. On getting up to go turn it off, Sam was surprised by the door opening quietly—he could've sworn Dean was in bed—to let in his 10-year old older brother, his face turned downward. Curious, Sam flicked on the light to see Dean's small frame supporting a collection of tennis-ball sized bruises lying dotting sporadically over his torso. Dean's stance of dejection quickly turned into surprise as he caught Sam's eye and desperately scrambled to turn the lights back off. When Dean normally would've railed into him about staying up past his bedtime, he had only been able to muster a "Go to bed, Sam." as his voice leaked out choked up with tears and embarrassment. Sam had spent that night listening to Dean moaning and crying in his sleep—not the last time that he would have to do so.

Ever since that night, Sam knew. And he knew Dean hated that he knew. Sam had tried to talk to him about so many times over the years, but Dean absolutely refused to treat it as anything but hunting injuries. And when he was that young, he couldn't confront John or talk to Bobby about it—he was too scared. The brothers had generally functioned over the unspoken understanding that talking about it wasn't going to help anything. Deep down, Sam knew that both of them harbored the fear that addressing the issue would've somehow made things worse. John really only made it a point to hurt Dean in what he considered to be instances of discipline, so at least they could prepare. Through an unsaid agreement, Sam sit would anxiously in the room that his father had sent him to when needing to "talk" with Dean about something and wait until Dean almost collapsed through the doorway before helping him to the bathroom to clean up. It was never anything too serious, and his injuries were always concentrated in the same areas, so Sam would set to methodically cleaning up his injuries as Dean sat on the floor, leaning his head against the toilet as he closed his eyes and tried to steady his breath.

And then the next morning, they wouldn't talk about it. None of them would talk about it, as if it never happened. It was a sick and twisted cycle that they'd been stuck in for ages—another reason Sam felt like he needed to escape. He'd begged, begged, Dean to leave with him for years, but there had never been anywhere for them to go. They had no other family, no car and no money to leave with. And now that they were old enough and Sam had gotten into college, he had asked Dean to go with him, and Dean had turned him down. He'd rambled on, making excuses about hunting and loyalty, but Sam was convinced that he was too afraid to leave the only life he'd ever known—to start over fresh 19 years into life. But the other night, Sam knew he had to leave. With or without Dean, he had to leave. No matter the consequences.

All this thinking was making him feel sick to his stomach.

Sam couldn't shake the idea, the deep guttural pit of guilt currently gnawing at his stomach, that whatever was happening with Dean and Bobby had been in some way caused by him leaving. In fact, he was almost sure of it. But he had known the risks when he left and had chosen to do it anyway. He wasn't going to let John win just by the threat of violence to Dean. He'd tried, unsuccessfully, to get Dean to go with him, and he knew that he had to try and escape before he was stuck in this life forever. He was proud of his decision—running to Stanford had moved him that much closer to forging a life of his own. But that didn't mean that he still couldn't check up on Dean. Picking up the phone, he slowly dialed Bobby's number, the apprehension beginning to pulse throughout his body again and tingle through his fingertips.

"Sam?"

He felt a feeling of relief wash through him as Bobby's gruff voice came through the phone.

"Bobby!" His voice came out a little louder than he had expected. He felt himself pause a second as he struggled to form a question out of all the thoughts jumbled through his brain. "Is…Dean there?"

He heard only the slight buzz of electricity from the phone as Bobby paused. Finally, he asked "Have you talked to Dean yet, Sam? Or your dad?"

"No, I just turned my phone on right now. Got your message saying that Dean was staying with you. Where is my dad? Why is Dean with you?"

He could almost hear Bobby's frown through the phone as he let out a big sigh. God, he sounded tired. "Look Sam, I don't want you to worry, but I don't want to lie to you either—your dad did a real fucking number on him this time." Sam felt his stomach fall to his feet. Bobby continued. "I picked him up early this morning passed out on the sidewalk in front of the motel door after he called me, Sam. He called me. I've pulled tooth and nail to get that boy to talk to me about John his entire life, and last night he just willingly called me to come pick him up at 5 in the morning. I really think your dad scared him shitless."

Sam felt anger scream through his body as he pictured his older brother laying helpless outside of that disgusting motel. His jaw clenched and voice flat, he asked "What did he do Bobby?"

"Broke a couple of his ribs for sure. The kids been coughing up blood all morning. I thought he might've had a concussion, he's been slipping in and out of consciousness all morning, but I think it may just be from the heavy bruising around his face. Sam, I don't know what got into your dad, but I've never seen Dean this bad before. It's like he lost all control…'' Another sigh.

Sam could feel his heartbeat thudding through his head uncontrollably. "Where is he?"

"John? He came by an hour ago or so. Fucking coward took one look at your brother and hightailed it out here so fast he nearly ran out of the house. I've strongly suggested with my old pal Remington here that he'll be staying off my property until I tell him he can come back. Gotta warn you Sam, when John stopped by, he mentioned that he was about to be on his way to track you down. I'd keep an eye open for yourself and don't stop till you reach California."

But he wasn't going to reach California. Not yet anyway.

"Don't worry Bobby, John isn't going to need to track me down. In fact, if he stops by, tell him I'm going to be coming right to him." He clicked the phone shut, the resolve of his decision throbbing through his veins like a drum beat.

He felt angry, hot tears slide down his face as the feelings of rage and guilt knotted up in his chest overtook him for a second. He was never going to be able to leave, was he? He was going to spend the entirety of his life trying to run away only to be dragged back when everything went to shit. But he couldn't leave Dean like this—not after it had been his fault, again. He wasn't a child anymore and he was no longer too scared to stand up for his brother. No, not scared… he was angry. He was furious, every part of his body aflame with hatred for the selfish son-of-a-bitch that had been ruining their lives since the day they were born. If John thought that he was going to get away with this, if he thought that he was ever going to get away with this ever again in his entire life, he had another thing coming.

Letting his rage propel his actions before he could change his mind, he hurriedly went to the nearest ticket stand, bought a return ticket and hopped on the closest bus heading in the opposite way of California.