I am so very sorry for the long delay between chapters 8 and 9 that I'm giving you a double whammy. How's that for a sincere apology?

Don't be too annoyed at Dean and John. They're just really overwhelmed and they don't know how to deal with their own feelings, so running away is, for them, the best option.

Dean couldn't tell what John was feeling after leaving Harry behind. His face certainly didn't show the faintest trace of guilt of regret as he concentrated on the road ahead, his eyes only wandering if he saw a movement in the forests around them. Dean suppressed a sigh, wishing he hadn't waited outside Harry's door for so long. He'd heard muffled sobs, and he was still hearing them although they'd been on the road for an hour already.

He snuck a glance behind him. Sam was sulking in the back, and refused to look at him no matter what. He was hidden behind a pile of duffles and plastic bags, a large hoodie engulfing his small form. Dean shifted and stared out the open window so he wouldn't have to endure his silent family.

They stopped at a gas station half an hour later. While John filled up the tank, Dean walked into the nearly empty food mart. The cashier was unfriendly (Dean made sure to say "Christo," but all he'd gotten was a dirty look) and rang up his chips and soda pop with a surly air.

Dean pulled the Impala's back door open purposefully and yanked the hoodie away, only to stare uncomprehendingly at the empty seat in front of him.

"Dad!"

There was a swift clank as John replaced the nozzle.

"What is it?"

"It's Sam. He's gone!"

"What?"

His father's face paled as he pulled out his cellphone. Dean saw his fingers shake as he dialed a number.

"Bobby? Bobby, is that..."

His face darkened at whatever it was that he was being told.

"Why the hell didn't you call me right away?" he exploded finally. "No, you listen, Bobby, he's my son, he..." He stopped abruptly. "It's none of your business. Tell Sam I'm not coming back for him... No, I'm not! He'll get a whaling when I... Bobby? Bobby!"

Breathing heavily, John snapped it shut, his jaw working in anger. Dean jumped when his balled fist slammed into the roof of the car.

"Dammit! That little..." he muttered a string of unintelligible expletives.

"Where is he, Dad?" Dean asked, swallowing his anxiety as best he could.

"At Bobby's, stubborn mule that he is. He pulled a fast one on us. The in and out."

Harry listened to the rumble of the motor as he sat on his bed, still clutching his book. He couldn't bring himself to watch them go. It was silly of him to feel that way, as he'd really only known them for five days, but he couldn't help it.

"Hey, kid."

Bobby gazed at the boy with a softness in his eyes that quickly vanished as Harry looked up, his green eyes troubled and confused. Bobby swallowed the irritation that was building up against John inside him.

"I've got some potato chips and milk in the kitchen if you want 'em," he said, picking his words carefully. The boy frowned.

"You have chips?" Then his face reddened. "Oh, right. Chips."

Bobby smiled, but was careful to make it good-natured and not mocking.

"No need to sit up here and roast. It'll reach ninety-five degrees by mid afternoon, says the weatherman. You can read just as well in the living room."

He received only a very small smile in return, but the boy did get up and follow him downstairs, clutching Peter Pan to his chest protectively. Casually, Bobby poured out two glasses of milk and dragged out one of the wooden chairs. Harry gave it a wary look and sat down gingerly, but didn't touch the glass. Bobby let him be.

They sat in silence for a while, Bobby sipping his milk and staring out into the yard absently. There was an old '57 Bel Air rusting near the corner of his property. It wasn't in bad shape, but he'd left it alone for a while as the owner had died and consequently wouldn't need it quite as urgently as some of his other, living clients. He could paint it its original coral and white after cleaning it and replacing the engine...

A small clink jolted him back to the real world and he looked through the corner of his eye at the messy-haired boy beside him. He'd reached out tentatively and taken the glass, and was now sipping it slowly. The corner of Bobby's mouth twitched the tiniest bit and he returned to contemplating the Bel Air. He would have to check the transmission as well... fix that cracked windshield.

He knew he wasn't really thinking about the car, but he also knew that he couldn't – and shouldn't – push the silent boy. Goodness knew the kid had enough to bother him without adding a nosy old man to the mix. Harry would talk in his own time.

Or he probably would have talked in his own time if the front door hadn't squeaked open. Bobby was on his feet immediately, and he motioned for Harry to stay seated.

"Uncle... Uncle Bobby?"

He relaxed. Then he rolled his eyes and threw open the kitchen door.

"Sam? Why aren't you with your Daddy?"

But of course he knew why, and he felt a swell of pride because Sam was Sam, and of course he'd do this.

"Sam? Why aren't you with your Daddy?"

Harry stiffened, almost dropping his glass in surprise. What on earth could Sam be doing here? He was suddenly worried about him. Bobby Singer was chewing Sam out, but even he could tell that it was mostly affectionate ribbing.

"You're an idjit," Bobby was saying fondly, as Harry crept to the doorway.

Sam protested vehemently.

"I'm not! You know they were being unfair, I couldn't let 'em leave him here by himself!"

Bobby grunted.

"What am I? Chopped liver?"

"Don't be silly, Uncle Bobby," Sam said patiently. "You know that's not what I'm talking about."

Bobby chuckled and smacked the back of his head.

"Well, come on in, kiddo."

Sam's eyes flicked towards the kitchen.

"Harry!"

Startled, Harry found his arms full of a dingy sweatshirt and a mop of curly brown hair.

"I didn't go, I got out the other door. Dean used to do that all the time when he was..." Sam loyally gulped down the rest of the supposedly confidential information. "They won't know I'm gone for a while," he boasted. "Dean'll just think I'm in a bad mood or something."

Harry patted his back awkwardly, unsure of what exactly a hug entailed.

"Won't he be dreadfully upset?" he asked uncertainly. "I don't want to cause trouble."

Sam seemed to hesitate for a moment.

"I don't... know exactly," he admitted. "I guess so, maybe. I hope not."

Bobby Singer coughed.

"Well, you two," he grumbled. "How about if you both sit down and I'll see what I can find foodwise. Sam, you can take a look at what's on TV."

Sam brightened visibly.

"Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?"

Bobby shrugged, but his eyes twinkled.

"I dunno. You tell me."

Sam darted off to the living room and presently they heard a triumphant yell as the hoped for show apparently was found. Harry gave Bobby a questioning look.

"What's Teenage Mut... Mutant..."

"Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles," Bobby supplied. "I'll not even try to explain. Sam'll tell you all about it."

Sam was giggling like the seven-year-old he was, his earlier wise demeanor gone, as Harry walked in. He was lying on his stomach on the grubby but soft carpet that covered the floor in front of the television set. Harry suspected that it had been put there for this very purpose.

"There's Leonardo, and Donatello, and Raphael," Sam crowed happily. "And there's... Harry, hurry up, you don't want to miss this!"

Review, please. I love it when you do!