"And I'm tellin' you that it's gone on long enough!" Bobby snapped into the phone. He was straining to keep from shouting—not out of any consideration for the pig-headed idjit on the other end of the line, but for the twelve year-old sitting in the next room. He took a deep breath. "Listen, the kid's worried sick, John. The longer this goes on, the less he eats and the less he sleeps. Hell, he ain't even interested in going to school any more, and that should tell you something right there. Don't you think Dean's learned his lesson? It's been almost two months. If you ain't bringing him back soon, at least let me tell Sam where he really is."

Bobby growled as John started to respond and cut him off. "You've got a week, Winchester. Then I'm tellin' the kid the truth." He slammed the phone back down on the receiver less forcefully than he would have liked.

A few seconds later, "Uncle Bobby?" asked a small voice from the door. Bobby turned to see Sam standing in the door to the kitchen. He was staring up at him with eyes less hopeful than they used to be. "Has Dad found Dean yet?"

Bobby sighed and put a hand on Sam's shoulder, steering him back into the kitchen. "Not yet, son."

Sam nodded, and Bobby saw a little more hope die in those tired eyes before he looked down and they were covered by his hair. Bobby nudged him toward the table and returned to the stove, dishing up the breakfast he'd been working on when John called. It was looking a little over done, but it wasn't like it mattered—Sam probably wasn't going to eat it anyway.

It had been over a month since John had dropped him off, and the kid had been looking worse every day. Apparently, John felt no need to tell his youngest that his brother was safely tucked away in a boys' home—no, he thought it was better to tell Sam that Dean was lost on a hunt. Sam was under the impression that John had left him with Bobby in order to more efficiently look for Dean, when really, John was letting Dean stew for a while, and had found a couple weeks of Sam without his big brother to be more than he cared to handle.

Naturally, Sam had worried at first, but understood that his dad could hunt better alone. He had been sure that Dad and Dean would turn up any time while he waited at Bobby's. As the days stretched into weeks, Sam's worries had grown. Maybe he couldn't help hunt as well as Dean could have, but he was great at research. He started begging Bobby to take him back to his dad so he could help, digging through Bobby's lore books in the meantime. He stopped talking quite so much after his dad shut that idea down over the phone, but continued to research on his own, eating and sleeping less, though Bobby had noticed that when he did sleep, his arms would always be carefully folded around the toy airplane Dean had given him for his birthday.

The worry had continued to consume him, and he was going down in a spiral of fear, exhaustion, and guilt, thinking he should be doing more. Bobby glanced over his shoulder to where Sam had retaken his seat. He'd always been small for his age, but now his clothes hung off his scrawny frame even more than usual. The look was compounded by the fact that he was wearing one of Dean's shirts…had been for two days now. He was leaning into his hand, tracing absent-minded circles into the table with a slightly shaky finger.

Bobby sighed, loaded two plates with food, and carried them to the table. Sam said nothing as Bobby placed his in front of him. "Sam?" Bobby asked carefully. "You alright, son?"

Sam sniffed and didn't look up. Bobby reached a hand across the table and gently tilted Sam's face up to meet his eyes. Tears glistened in his eyes and he hastily pulled away from Bobby, swiping at his eyes with a sleeve.

"Hey," Bobby soothed. "It's alright."

Sam shook his head, exhaustion feeding the flowing tears instead of allowing him to stop them as he obviously wanted to. "It's been so long," he whispered. "What if…I mean, I've looked everywhere, Uncle Bobby. I keep checking the local paper every day, and they've never said they found a body or anything, so he's gotta be alive, but if he is, why isn't he back? Something really bad must've happened to keep him from coming back, 'cause Dean's a good hunter, and he'd get out, but what if he's locked up or something ate him or something and, and there's no…there's not anything left to find? I don't know what else to do, and Dad won't let me help, and—" He broke off with a sob and slumped miserably onto the table, head down in his arms.

Bobby walked around to sit next to him, looping an arm over the shaky, too-thin shoulders. "It's gonna be alright, Sam, you'll see. You're right, Dean is a great hunter, and he wouldn't let some fugly get the drop on him. Your daddy'll find him, and he's gonna be okay. I promise." He hated himself for lying to the kid, especially as the weeks had progressed and he got to see up close and personal what it was doing to him. He kept reminding himself that the reason he hadn't told Sam the truth was because he figured it would wreck his relationship with John—kid had so little to start with, Bobby didn't want to take that away.

Screw that, though. John was taking it too far. He'd give him his week, and then the truth would be out. Sam deserved a hell of a lot better than this. "In fact," he added as Sam sniffed again. "Your daddy just told me he had a lead."

Sam's head jerked up abruptly. "Really?" he breathed, blinking up through red, puffy eyes.

"Mm-hmm," Bobby lied.

Sam wiped at his eyes again. "That's, that's good, right? I mean it's a good lead?" he asked hopefully.

"Your daddy reckons so." Bobby smiled as Sam drew in a few deeps breaths and worked to calm himself down. "Don't give up just yet."

"I'm not," Sam said vehemently.

"Good." Bobby patted his shoulder and returned to his side of the table. "You gonna eat that?" he asked, gesturing with his fork at Sam's plate of bacon, eggs and toast.

Sam swallowed. "I'm not really hungry."

Bobby sighed inwardly. Maybe he'd give John a week. All bets were off if the kid kept tryin' to worry himself to death. "You ain't been hungry for a week. Keep this up, there ain't gonna be much of you left for your daddy and Dean to come back to." Sam looked down and nudged the eggs around with his fork, but didn't eat any. "Just the toast?" Bobby suggested. "Please?"

"I'll try," Sam agreed. Slowly, as if each bite was painful, he nibbled on the dry bread, shaking his head at the offer of jelly. It would have to do.

Over the next couple of days, Bobby gave up on trying to make him go to school. It no longer provided the distraction it once had, and Bobby was none too keen on the exhausted, shaky and obviously underfed preteen drawing the attention of CPS. Sam drifted around the house trailing that airplane around by the wing, still poring over Bobby's library, dozing fitfully on the couch, picking at his food and staring at the phone with a mixture of hope and fear.

The call never came. John, ornery old coot that he was, showed up on the doorstep instead. His knock startled Sam from where he sat on the couch, staring at the wall and halfway asleep, and he leapt up and ran to the door. "Dad!" he called, reaching it as Bobby swung the screen door open and jumping at his dad. John caught him with no trouble, his eyebrows drawing together at how light he was. "Did you find him, Dad? Where is he? Is he okay?"

"He's fine, kiddo," John said, lowering him to the ground. "I found him and we're gonna go get him. Go grab your stuff."

Sam's face lit up in a smile Bobby had missed dearly over the past weeks, and he was out of the room like a shot and tearing up the stairs.

"What the hell happened to my kid, Singer?" John demanded, once he was sure Sam was out of earshot.

Bobby glared back at him, not moving aside to invite him in. "He spent the last two months scared sick that his brother might be dead, that's what happened," he snapped.

John looked like he wanted to say more, but Sam was back, duffel bag looped over his shoulder. The wing of the airplane was sticking out one end of it. He flung his arms around Bobby's waist. "Thanks, Uncle Bobby."

"You're welcome, Sam." Bobby thumped him on the back and Sam pulled away, smiling, then raced out to the car.

Bobby's smile faded as he turned back to John. "Don't you ever do anything like that to that boy again," he warned.

John marched back to the car, and Bobby waved at Sam through the back window. He hoped the kid would get some sleep in the car, though he knew the chances of that were slim until he set eyes on his big brother again. He wished he could be there to see the kid's eyes light up when he did.

Seven hours and a few hundred miles away, Dean was saying goodbye to Sonny, wondering how mad Robin would be about the dance, and then not caring about a bit of it the moment Sam looked up and met his eyes. Sam was out of the car and scrambling across the damp grass, slipping to his knees several times and seemingly unaware of it as he raced toward his big brother.

"DEAN!" Sam shouted, and Dean grunted at the impact as Sam collided with him and locked his arms around his chest. "You're back, you're back, you're back," he kept repeating, crying and laughing all at once and holding on to Dean as if he would never let go.

Dean dropped his bag and returned the embrace, resting his head on top of Sam's and burying his face in his hair. This whole normal life thing had been great, but this kid right here was home. "I'm back, Sammy," he agreed. He pulled back and knelt down so he could see his face, dabbing at his tears with his sleeve. "I'm back."