A/N: Hello, thanks for reading. No response, people? Really? Nothing? Where have you all gone? I miss you all. Please review, reviews make me want to post more often.

I do not own Supernatural or its characters.

Chapter 10

John showered, grabbed a few hours sleep, and then they hit the road. Dean was used to the cycle by now. Pull into a town, unpack the car into some seedy motel room, Daddy would be gone during the days, and sometimes overnight. He was instructed to stay inside, take care of Sam, and not answer the phone or door for anyone. Eventually, Daddy would kill whatever it was he was hunting, and the cycle would start all over again.

Sam started walking a short time later. John came home one day to find the toddler standing on wobbly legs in the middle of the kitchen floor, Dean a short ways away kneeling down, "Hey, Daddy! Sammy and I are working on something! Stay there! Come on, Sammy! You can do it! Come on!" He gestured frantically, and Sam looked around, before carefully picking up one foot, and taking a few hesitant steps toward Dean, until he collapsed exhausted in his brother's outstretched arms. The boy lifted him up into a hug and cheered.

John smiled sadly. He remembered Dean's first steps, and he had always imagined Sam's would be like them, toddling across the floor at their house toward John, Mary standing off to one side, smiling and laughing. Damn, he missed her. He rarely wrote about his personal life in his journal, but he did record that, writing as though Mary could read every word, and, somehow, he could tell her.

It was September, and Daddy had now been gone for two days. Dean sat, bored, watching Sam pull himself to a standing position using the cabinets, babbling something Dean could never understand. Apparently it was something absolutely hilarious, given that he was giggling hysterically.

"You're really funny, Sammy," He said sarcastically. The toddler looked around at him, hazel eyes wide and questioning. Then he released his grip on the cabinet, scrunching up his face in concentration as he toddled towards Dean. He held up his arms, begging to be held, "Dee!" Dean rolled his eyes and complied, "You do know that's not my name, right?"

Sam giggled at that, and started babbling again, very seriously, as though saying something of immense importance, while trying to climb Dean like a mountain.

"Sam, no! Sammy, stop! Okay, that's enouph." He put him back down, and Sam stared about, frowning, as though confused as to how he had ended up back on the floor. He looked back at his brother, puppy dog eyes big enouph to make the toughest competition melt. Dean could never hold out against it long.

He let out a frustrated breath, "Fine," He picked Sam back up, standing to prevent climbing, and got an idea. He sat on the floor, Sam in his lap, "Hey, how much do you know? Can you tell me... my name?" Dean pointed to himself. The toddler looked confused for a moment, then seemed to pick up the rules of the game, "Dee!"

"Good. What about, uh, that?" Sam stared in the direction he was pointing, then looked back at Dean.

"That's a phone. Can you say it? Phooone."

"Fo?" Dean stared at him, "Close enouph. And that?" Sam appeared similarly unknowledgeable about that item.

"Table. Come on, Sammy. Say it! Ta-ble."

"Ta-buh." They continued this game for some time. Eventually Sam went to sleep. Dean got up, laid him down in his crib, then considered what he could do. The cartoons here were awful, and he'd seen them all anyway, what few toys he had he was heartily sick of, and it wasn't time to eat. What he really wanted was to go outside, he hadn't seen grass in weeks. Well, not in daylight anyway, but leaving the room was strictly on Daddy's 'no' list. He rechecked the salt lines, again, which took all of two minutes, then lay down on his bed, upside down, his shaggy hair almost dragging the floor. He was so bored.

Something on Daddy's nightstand caught his eye, a book. He considered. What could possibly be inside? He frequently saw Daddy writing in it, and he always kept it close and away from the children. He climbed off the bed and walked towards it, slowly, instinctively knowing he wasn't supposed to touch it even though he had never been told. He lifted it carefully, as though handling a sacred object, a piece of his father, one he could touch, could interact with if he could discover its secrets, unlike the man that sometimes sort of lived with them. He set it down on his bed and lay on his belly, legs in the air, and opened it.

It occurred to him that this would have been a far more fruitful exercise if he had known how to read. Still, there were pictures, carefully drawn by Daddy, or in some cases, pasted in from another source. They were of fantastic creatures, strange, morbid, bizarre. He was entranced. Did such things really exist? Is this what Daddy spent his days hunting? His gaze drifted to the writing and he wished he could understand it. His Daddy had written it, after all. He wasn't around to talk to, but Dean imagined reading the words he wrote would be the second best thing. He knew what he wanted to do now. He would learn how to read, and then he would read the book from cover to cover. It would also be useful for taking care of Sam, being able to read labels and bedtime stories and anything else needed. He decided to ask Daddy next time he saw him. Daddy could teach him.

John returned a couple of days later, bothered and concerned, brushing past Dean's greeting like the child wasn't there. He went to the bedroom and furiously started packing. Dean followed him, "Daddy?" John moved a packed duffle to the door, once again ignoring his son. Dean asked again as John moved back to the bed, "Daddy, what's going on? Is there anything I can do?" John looked at him, "Yes, yes there is. Go pack everything up, your stuff, whatever else needs doing." Dean nodded, and left to complete the assigned task, 'his stuff' understood to include Sam. He turned back to his father a second later, "But, what's going on?" John paused, then spoke, "Dean, I have something I need to do. We need to get out of here as fast as possible. I'll explain in the car, okay?" Dean nodded and went to work. Ten minutes later, they were gone.

John turned to his son, sitting in the passenger seat, the boy watching him with an expression that demanded answers, "So, you want to know what's up?" Dean nodded.

"Okay. There's a hunt I'm going to help Uncle Bobby with, very important, very dangerous."

"What sort of monster, Daddy?"

"Never mind that. It's not important. Now, this is too dangerous for you and Sam, so you're going to spend a little time at a friend's place."

The boy smiled, "Are we gonna go see Uncle Bobby?"

"No. There's a friend of his, great guy, or so he tells me. You're going to stay with him."

Dean sat back in his seat, pouting a little. He wanted to see Uncle Bobby. He missed him. He remembered Cindy and wondered if Uncle Bobby was going to be the same, someone in his past that he never got to see again. He felt tears forming in his eyes at the thought, and one welled over to roll down his cheek. John rolled his eyes, "Come on, Dean. Don't start crying. Crying's for babies, or civilians. Not soldiers like us. Buck up, it's not so bad." Dean turned toward the window, trying desperately to get his body under control. Daddy was disappointed in him, crying like a baby. Come on, Dean, just stop. Still the memories just wouldn't stop coming, and he shortly found himself in a worse state than before.

John sighed, frustrated, and scanned the radio, finally settling on Harden my Heart by Quarterflash.

John sat with his sons in the back of the church, listening to the pastor giving his sermon. John hoped the man finished up soon. He had places to be.

Finally the service ended. John waited until everyone left, then approached the pastor, collecting bulletins left by the choir.

"Pastor James Murphy?"

The man looked up, "That's me. What is it?" realization came over his face, "You're John Winchester."

John nodded, "Yeah. Bobby told you what's going on?"

"Yes. He said Daniel Elkins is putting together a team to finish off the vampires. Is that true?"

"Yep. Pretty much every damn hunter in the country. I- I mean-"

Pastor Jim gave a wry smile, "It's not the worst language these walls have seen."

"Sorry. Anyway, so, I'm leaving my boys with you, and I'll be back after the hunt to pick them up."

"Okay. Just bring their stuff in, and I'll see you soon."

John and Dean unloaded the car, then John left. Jim approached the young boy, sitting on the pew, holding his brother protectively. He shrank back into the seat as Jim approached, "Are you a monster?" He whispered, eyes wide with fear and his voice wavering slightly.

Jim's heart broke. What sort of person would tell a five-year-old about monsters? He crouched down, "No, I'm not. My name is Pastor Jim, I'm going to take care of you for a while."

"Really?"

"Yeah." The child looked down at the duffels, "Where should I put my stuff?"

"We can worry about that later. For now, how about some lunch?" He stood up, holding out his hand. The boy hesitated, then took it, and Jim led him off to the kitchen.