Sorry about the long delay...been sick for a while now, and actually this was a hard chappy to write as it is all in John's POV...I am really hoping i got the emotions right...thanks for reading and for all the really wonderful reviews!! bambers;)

Chapter Ten

John hung up the phone and slumped down on the bed, scrubbing his had across his beard as he glanced around the crummy little motel room he had rented. Hot tears stung at his eyes, blurring his vision as he looked at his duffel full of weapons. Weapons he had used to kill every kind of creature imaginable. Weapons that he had taught both of his sons to use with frightening accuracy. Weapons that had saved his life more times than he could count. And weapons that had been absolutely useless when his youngest son had needed them the most.

I was useless when he needed me the most . . . If I hadn't been away so damn much . . . if I'd I only been there . . . damn it, why the hell wasn't I there?

He was raped . . . . He heard his eldest son's voice echoing over and over again inside his mind, and shuddered, feeling the full brunt of the incrimination behind those vile words. Although Dean might never say it aloud, the fact that he had said that he would take Sam and disappear so John would never find them, spoke utter volumes.

And the cold harsh, unrelenting truth of it was, it was John's fault. He had left his children alone more often than not. He had relied on them to take care of themselves. Had forced them into living a life on the run, never settling down long enough to have a real life. He cared more about them than anything else in the world. But for all his love and concern for their safety, he had in truth, literally fed them to the wolves. Not necessarily the kind that he could hunt and kill, but the kind that preyed on the weak and innocent.

Yanking the flask out of his jacket pocket, John unscrewed the cap, and took several long swallows of the fiery liquid, trying to build his courage to actually leave the motel room and drive home to his sons.

H-he didn't want you to know . . . was afraid of what you will think of him. It was Dean's voice he heard again as he gulped down more of the whiskey. Sam didn't want him to come home. His youngest son wanted him to stay far away, and be gone for as long of an amount of time as he possibly could, and that thought alone had him regretting his decision in telling Dean he would come home as soon as possible. John quickly downed the rest of the whiskey in his silver flask, and then reached for the phone, realizing he would only matters much worse for Sam if he went home.

He may not realize it right now, but our little boy needs you there with him. It was Mary's calm reassuring voice that John now heard inside his head, and drew on her strength as he hung the phone back up on the receiver. Dean shouldn't have to do this alone, though God only knows that he'll try is damnedest to make things better for Sammy. But that's your job, John, the job I left you with. An' you need to do this for Sam and for Dean. For once, you need to put aside hunting, an' focus on being a father to our boys.

"I'm so sorry, Mary . . . so damn sorry," John sobbed broken-heartedly, "I've screwed everything up, an' now our boys are suffering for it." His anger ignited as he thought of Sam being cruelly assault by some sonuvabitch who had a perverse fascination with younger boys. John glanced down at the flask still clutched tightly in his hand and whipped it at the wall, leaving a large, jagged hole in the drywall. Damn it, Sammy, I've only ever wanted to protect you an' your brother . . . that's all I ever wanted to do. Burying his face in his hands, John imagined the look of hatred and blame in his youngest son's eyes directed solely at him. How the hell am I supposed to face you when I know damn well this is all my fault . . . that nothin' would've ever happened to you if I had been there to protect an' watch out for you?

But whether you want me there or not, I am coming home. With head hung low, John slowly got to his feet, gathered his gear together and headed for the door.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

John pulled into the driveway of the home they were renting sometime after dark the next evening. He knew he could've gotten there a lot faster, but his own growing fears had him stopping at every single gas station and two-bit diner along the way. And now he sat alone in his truck, staring into the front window, absolutely terrified to move from his spot. For all the hunting he had ever done in his life, nothing had ever made his stomach churn in such a violent protest as walking the short distance and entering his own home.

The subtle movement of the curtains being pushed slightly to the side, caught John's eye, and without actually seeing anyone, he knew it was Dean looking out at him. Knowing he couldn't put off going inside any longer, John grabbed his duffel, got out of the truck and headed for the front entrance. Before he even had a chance to lift a hand to the doorknob, Dean flung the door wide open, and the look of unadulterated relief on his eldest son's face nearly staggered him.

For the briefest of moments, they stood staring at each other. No words were necessary as a deep understanding that only they shared passed between them. Dean then took hold of John's duffel and stepped aside to let him in the house.

"Wh-where is he?" John cursed under his breath as he heard the slight tremor in his own voice. He wanted to be strong for his sons, and was already failing miserably. "Where's your brother."

"He's in our bedroom," Dean hastily responded, his eyes rounding with fear and concern for his brother, "been spendin' most of his time there . . . he won't eat . . . isn't sleepin' hardly at all. An' when he does . . . damn it, Dad, the nightmares are so freakin' bad, an' I don't know what to do for him."

"Did you tell him I was coming home?" John asked, and from the guilty expression that crossed Dean's features, he knew that his oldest had conveniently forgotten to mention it to Sam. "So he doesn't know that I know what happened to him."

"I'm sorry, Dad, promised him I wouldn't tell you, an' if he thought I went against my word . . . ." Dean's voiced trailed off, and John understood that Dean believed if Sam thought he betrayed him, his little brother would never trust him again. "I just couldn't tell him."

"Dean, outside. Now. We need to talk," John gruffly ordered, eyeing his eldest son, and inwardly cringed when he noticed his son's shoulders droop as he lowered his head. He hadn't meant for the words to come out sounding so harsh, but had been so use to giving orders and having them followed without question that it was only nature for him to do so now as well.

"Yes, Sir," Dean mumbled dejectedly, and trudged out the front door without argument.

Once outside, Dean slumped down onto the cement steps, and purposely kept his gaze averted from John's. From the slight tremor in his son's hands as he clasped them tightly together, and how Dean couldn't work up the courage to look him in the eye, John realized the true extent of how devastated his oldest child was because he felt that he had failed in protecting his little brother. Scrubbing a hand across his beard, John let out a deep sigh as he took a seat beside Dean.

Resting his head against clasped hands, John rubbed the moisture from his eyes with his thumbs, and after a long pause, asked, "Did you take him to the hospital?"

"Wanted to take him to see a doctor, but I couldn't get him to go." Dean cast a brief sidelong glance in his father's direction, and then reluctantly admitted, "Can't even get him to leave the house now."

"An' did he tell you what happened?" John asked, although he wasn't really all that certain he wanted to know the details, but stoically listened as Dean recounted all that Sam had told him, and everything Dean had learned on his own. When his son finally fell silent and looked to him, John was forced to turn away to hide the tears now brimming in his eyes.

With a quick brush of his hand, he wiped away a traitorous tear that snaked a path down his left cheek. The very last thing he wanted at the moment was for his eldest son to see him as weak and falling apart when he needed to be the shoulder they relied upon to make it through this. He drew in a shaky breath, and pushed down his own overwhelming grief, making room to take on both of theirs, knowing Dean was just as broken as Sam.

"Dean, find out where this coach lives," he ordered, once again in control of his emotions, "find out everything you can about him, where he goes, what he does after work, which bars he goes to. Everything. Understand me?"

"Yes, Sir," Dean replied as he got to his feet, and searched his pockets for his car keys.

"Don't want him makin' a move without you bein' at least ten steps ahead of him, got me?"

"Not a problem." An audible sigh of relief issued past Dean's lips, and John could tell his eldest was glad that he no longer alone in taking care of Sam.

"An' Dean, I don't want you goin' anywhere near him without me around." He eyed his son, and as a look of understanding passed between them, John knew his eldest had plans of his own whereas the coach was concerned. "I'm serious, Dean. Don't want you anywhere near that sonuvabitch. Do I make myself clear?"

Dean gave a curt nod, but the glimmer of defiance John saw clearly etched in his son's eyes, told him that this was one order his son might actually think to disobey. Before John had a chance to warn Dean again to stay away from the coach, his son was hightailing it down the driveway toward his Impala, leaving John to either sit there or go inside to face Sam.

With a mixture of dread and rage building inside of him, John slowly rose to stand and headed into the house. At the entranceway, he hesitated, yanked the silver flask out of his pocket, and took a quick drink to regain his courage. As he stood there, he glanced around their sparsely furnished livingroom, and noticed for the first time that the television screen was smashed and several pieces of their furniture were now broken beyond repair. Walking further into the room, he stopped and ran his fingers over the holes in the drywall, wondering which of his sons had lost control of their tightly leashed emotions and allowed free reign to their overwhelming anger and pain.

His hands curled into a tight fists, and it took every ounce of sheer willpower he possessed not to strike out as well. He needed to be strong for both his boys, and to do that, he couldn't give in to what was killing him inside, no matter how much he needed to at the moment. He needs to know I don't blame him for this. Needs to know I am here for him. But how do I do that? An' how the hell do I make him see this wasn't his fault?

John took a deep breath, relaxed his posture, and took another long intake of air, slowly releasing it. Come on, John, you can do this, Sam needs you. Taking several very small steps forward, he felt his knees begin to shake and buckle as cold sweat broke out on the nape of his neck and trickled down his back. Damn it, I kill freakin' demons an' monsters for a living, I shouldn't be afraid to see my own child. But the truth was that he was absolutely terrified, and that thought had him taking a backward step to lean against the wall. His legs gave out, and he crumpled to the ground, resting his head in his hands as tears filled his eyes. What if I say the wrong thing? Do the wrong thing? I shouldn't have come home. He needs more than I know how to give. He's always needed more than I've known how to give.

At the sound of the door at the far end of the hall creaking open, John glanced up, and through blurred vision saw his youngest child standing at the entrance to his bedroom. Dark smudges lined Sam's eyes, attesting to his severe lack of sleep. His overly-pale cheeks were hollowed and gaunt, making his eyes appear all the larger and more terrified than John had ever seen them before. His clothes hung loosely on his thin frame, and John couldn't help but notice that he was wearing at least three shirts. But for as bad as Sam looked, the thing that broke John's heart the most was when he saw his youngest child's lower lip begin to quiver as his sad, desolate eyes filled with tears.

"He — he told you, didn't he?" Sam muttered, the hurt and feelings of betrayal clearly etched into his features.

"Sam, your brother was — "

"Said he wouldn't tell," Sam retreated a few steps backward into his room, "said no meant no. He said always . . . but no doesn't mean no, does it, Dad?" He took a few more back steps, and gripped hold of the door. "Cause twice now I've said no, and it didn't mean a damn thing either time."

"Your brother was worried about you, Sammy." John pushed himself to his feet and cautiously took a few steps toward Sam. "I'm worried about you." Slowly he inched closer to his son, wanting nothing more than to wrap his arms around Sam and tell him that everything was going to be okay. "I know it doesn't seem like it now, but things will get better."

Sam shook his head. "No, they won't." Tears slipped freely down his cheeks unchecked as he gestured toward John's face. "Cause whenever I look at you from now on, I'm always gonna see that look of not so thinly veiled disgust in your eyes. I was weak an' pathetic, an' no where near the kind of son you would want to have. So why don't ya jus' freakin' admit it . . . you're disgusted just lookin' at me."

"Sam, this wasn't your fault," John tried to reason, now fully understanding why Dean needed so desperately for him to come home. "An' you have to know I would never blame you for what happened."

"If I hadn't come out of my bedroom when I did, would you've come in to see me?" Sam hesitated just long enough to see if John would deny that he hadn't been thinking of leaving home without seeing him. Any small glimmer of hope Sam might have held in his hazel eyes that John didn't think badly of him, shattered and disappear when John remained stoically silent. "Yeah, thought as much . . . go back an' find your damn demon, Dad, it's all you ever really cared about anyway." With that said, Sam slammed the door shut, leaving John to collapse to the ground, a wave of insurmountable guilt washing over him.