Author's note: Mid-week update to celebrate a chapter getting done early! Also, though, I am sorry in advance about this chapter. I cried when writing it. Chapter-specific warning for suicidal ideation. So...it's early, but...sad. Sorry.

A week flies by.

They spend the night in the Roadhouse that first night. They meaning Dean and Luke, because John goes back to the motel—Ellen tells them he's left a few hours after the "incident", as she calls it. She's got a room in the back, though, and a couple of cots, and she gives them each a glass of milk like they're sad little kids and closes the door.

Despite Dean's (admittedly irrational) worries that Luke will never want him to put a hand on him again, they only use one cot, and Luke buries his face in Dean's shirt like he's afraid if he doesn't hang on, he'll get lost.

They wake up in the morning and Ellen makes pancakes and talks to them about anything but what happened. She asks Luke what kind of books he likes, how old he is, where he's been in his travels, if Dean's being too mean to him, what he wants for lunch. She skirts any talk of things Dean's sure Luke thinks he can't have—she doesn't talk much about the future, doesn't ask what he wants to do when he grows up. But the steady flow of questions he can answer seems to calm Luke.

Jo shows up just before lunch, because it's a Saturday and she got to sleep in since she doesn't have school. Dean braces himself for a shitstorm, but one stern look from Ellen and Jo's a perfect lamb, gentle but not cloying or condescending, treating Luke like a peer, not like a big brother to annoy the shit out of like she does Dean.

Luke opens up to her easily, and the fact that he treats her like a big kid does wonders for her attitude. He's got a few years on her, but Dean figures he's not used to hanging out with people younger than himself—doesn't have much of a context for it. So he talks to her like she's no younger than Dean, and she eats it up.

They stay for lunch, and Ellen doesn't open the bar until they leave, which Dean is grateful for beyond words. They eat their sandwiches in companionable silence, even Jo seeming to understand their need for quiet, munching on her peanut-butter-and-jelly and only asking one or two questions, which Luke answers dutifully.

It's a little after noon when they finally get ready to go, and Ellen hands Dean the keys to the Impala as they get to the door.

"John took a cab back," she says simply, and Dean doesn't even have to wonder whether or not that was Ellen's doing. He just draws her into a tight hug and murmurs a quiet thank you in her ear. She doesn't respond, but hugs him back.

When she releases him she turns to Luke, who looks hesitant for a second before Ellen opens her arms a little, curling her fingers toward her as though to say you gonna hug me or what?

Luke runs to her and hugs her, and she wraps her arms around him and whispers something into his ear. It's too soft for Dean to hear, but whatever it is she says makes him grip her a little bit more tightly, and when he pulls away reluctantly, his eyes are bright with the sheen of tears.

So Dean steps forward and puts his arm around the kid's shoulder, and Ellen nods approvingly. "Any time you boys are in the neighborhood," she says, "stop by. And tell that bum daddy of yours that you need to be in the neighborhood more often, Dean Winchester."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, offering her a fake salute that he drops quickly when Jo runs up to hug both him and Luke at the same time. "Oof, kid, lay off the twinkies," he grunts as her momentum staggers them both.

Luke throws him a scandalized glare while Jo cackles. "Dean, you can't say that kind of thing to a girl!"

"She's not a girl," Dean scoffs, cuffing Jo on the head and grunting when she punches him in the stomach. "She's just a Jo."

"You're so stupid," Jo says scathingly, and punches him again before grinning widely at Luke. "You're way less stupid. Don't let Dean's stupid rub off on you."

"I'll try my best," Luke promises, smiling back and accepting another hug from her. Dean puts a hand on his arm and Luke lets himself be led out of the Roadhouse while waving to Ellen and Jo.

"You were right," he says, a little dreamily. Dean cocks his head, confused. "I like them."

Dean bites his tongue to keep a pained expression off of his face, because what he'd said wasn't you'll like Ellen and Jo. What he'd told Luke was the Roadhouse will be different, and it wasn't. He flexes his right hand, feeling a pleasant ache where his fist had connected with that douchebag's nose. He isn't sorry that he decked him. He's fucking proud.

But he's sorry that it had happened at all. Under his watch. Where Luke is supposed to be safe.

When he looks down at the kid, Luke's already watching him, a little, sad smile on his face. "You did everything you could," he says, and Dean is surprised by how firm his tone is.

"I promised you'd be safe," Dean argues softly.

"I am," Luke says. "I'm safe. He didn't touch me. You didn't let him."

"He got too damn close," Dean mutters, unlocking the door and swinging himself into the driver's seat. Luke hesitates by the back door, then, seeming to steel himself, gets into the passenger's seat.

"Not too close," Luke replies. "I mean, yeah. It would have been great if he hadn't been there. I like the Roadhouse and I like Ms. Ellen and Jo. But he didn't hurt me, and you..."

Luke trails off, and Dean starts the car and peels out of the parking lot.

Just as Dean thinks it might be a safe time to ask and I what?, Luke changes the subject. "What do you think your dad is going to want to do now?" he asks.

Dean shrugs, trying to hide his disappointment. "I don't know. Probably lie low for a bit, take on a few simple cases. Find a couple of salt-and-burns or something. Recoup."

"I'm sorry we couldn't kill the demon," Luke says.

And thank God, Dean believes him.

Because there wasn't really, not really, a lot of time where he'd considered, back at the Eriksons', that Luke wasn't a white hat. That he'd somehow been playing Dean and his dad, that he was really on the demon's side. Obviously that was a stupid thought.

But there was a second or two of panic.

A second or two of this would be the worst way to lose him.

A second or two of one more person I trusted.

But the sorrow, the guilt, the down-low anger in Luke's voice tells him that his brief, quickly-suppressed fears were unfounded, which is...a big relief.

Bigger than he expected.

And he doesn't let any of that show on his face, just says, "I know. It's not your fault. The plan was bad. We'll figure something out for next time."

Luke nods. "And I'll keep an eye out," he says, tapping himself on the temple, and Dean doesn't wince but it's a close thing.

"You just relax," Dean says, and he's like ninety-nine percent sure that Luke rolls his eyes. "Seriously. You relax, take it easy for a bit. That's what Dad and I are going to do."

"Hunting ghosts is taking it easy?" Luke asks, his tone doubtful.

"Salt-and-burns are nothing on what we usually do," Dean replies, "and you know it." After the Oschaert and the Yellow-Eyed Demon, he at least ought to know it.

Luke huffs out a laugh. "Yeah, guess I do."

They drive in silence back to the motel, and Luke nods off a little. Dean lets him sleep, watching him out of the corner of his eye as the tension drains from him along with his consciousness.

Luke doesn't act like a fourteen-year-old. He doesn't talk like a fourteen-year-old. He barely looks like a fourteen-year-old...he's got the slightly juvenile look of the undernourished, and his eyes look like he's eighty. But when he's asleep, he's a kid, and he's even started to snore a little bit.

Dean likes the snoring. Dean lets him sleep.

When they get back to the motel, they're quiet going in, not sure what kind of mood they'll find John in. Dean creeps into the door first, opening it cautiously but not silently because God knows he doesn't want to sneak up on his dad.

John's sitting on his bed, going through his journal, and he looks up when the boys enter. "Ellen take care of you?" he asks.

"Yes, sir," Dean replies as Luke slides in behind him, sticking very close until they can assess John.

"Good," John says, and that's all he says. He goes back to his journal as though the boys weren't there.

Dean and Luke share a long look, and Dean shrugs and walks over to the other side of the room. He grabs a book, tossing another one to Luke.

Dean's got a book on gun maintenance, but Luke has a copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe that Dean lifted from a used book store a couple of towns over. It was next door to the gas station. No big.

Luke holds it like it's made of gold, opens it every time with gentle, reverent fingers, and Dean's pretty sure he's on his second read but he still reads it with wide eyes.

They settle in together to read, comfortable and on edge all at once. Dean wonders if they'd ever be anything else—if even without the specter of John's strange behavior hanging over them, they could ever be fully at ease.

They don't leave town. They don't have a job, but they don't leave town, either. Dean spends the time getting better, and Luke spends the time making sure Dean gets better. John spends the time somewhere else. Drinking, Dean guesses, and when John comes home late at night and stumbling, stinking of whiskey, he can't find it in himself to feel much of anything about it.

Because this time, when John comes home stinking and stumbling, Dean wasn't alone for hours on end. Luke's been beside him the whole time, force-feeding him chicken soup and reading out loud in a hesitant voice from his book, enduring Dean's endless questions about the story and relentless teasing about what a nerd Luke is. Luke's been beside him, checking his injuries and prodding gently and inexpertly at his ribs, shoving ice packs on him in what seems like a strangely sweet parody of Dean's careful facilitation of Luke's own recovery.

So when John stumbles home at night, Luke's usually already asleep, breathing deep and even, having worn himself out watching after Dean.

And when John stumbles home at night, where Dean would have gotten out of bed to make sure he didn't hurt himself at one time...

Dean pretends to be asleep, too.

It's about six days after the Incident at the Roadhouse and John is out. Luke's made canned ravioli and there's a Die Hard marathon on one of the cable stations, so they've been vegging out pretty much all evening. A commercial break starts, and Luke glances over at Dean's bowl.

"You done?" he asks, though it's clear that Dean is, in fact, done.

"Yep," Dean says, and sits up with a grunt. But Luke's got the bowl out of his hands before he can swing his legs off of the bed, and by the time he's complaining about it, Luke's halfway to the kitchenette. "Hey! I could've got that."

"I know," Luke says airily.

"I'm not a friggin' invalid," Dean grumbles as Luke returns to the bed and clambers back on. He feels the mattress dip below the kid's weight, and he can swear that Luke's gained better than five pounds since teaming up with them. "I can wash my own damn bowl."

"So could I, that first day," Luke replies, and his voice is matter-of-fact, but his words hit Dean like a punch to the gut.

"So the tables have turned?" he asks, trying to stay casual, even as he hopes that Luke can't hear the thickness in his throat.

"Yeah," Luke laughs, and the sound of it helps to ease the tightness in Dean's chest. "Basically me washing your bowl means that you're the mutant slave kid that I'm saving from a life of abuse."

"Hey," Dean interjects, startled, but breaks off when he sees the way that Luke flushes once he's heard himself talk.

"That was weird. Sorry. That was weird," Luke mutters, rubbing the back of his neck so that his arm is shielding his face from Dean. Dean puts a hand on that arm and gently pulls it down—not even that, more like suggests that Luke could put it down if he wants. Luke does, though he still avoids Dean's eyes.

"Hey," Dean says again, and Luke glances up and back down in half a second. "Listen. You don't...I didn't do anything any decent person wouldn't have. Okay? I'm sorry you've only met such shitty people that nobody thought to treat you like a human being before, but don't make me something I'm not."

"I'm not," Luke protests.

"I don't need you to see me...better than I am," Dean presses. "Like some kind of hero. I'm not."

"That's bullshit," says Luke, and Dean goes quiet. "That's bullshit, Dean. You are a hero. And not just what you did for me, but what you do for everybody you meet. I didn't think there was such a thing as a hero. But if anybody proves me wrong, it's you."

"Jo was too late," Dean jokes. "You must've already let my stupid rub off on you."

"Dean, you saved me," Luke insists.

"Come off it."

"Dean, can you be serious for a second? Please?" There's enough urgency in Luke's voice that Dean turns to him, and sees that the younger boy's eyes are a little glossy. "Don't...don't dismiss it. Okay? It's important. To me."

"I know," Dean says apologetically.

"Because you did," Luke continues. "Save me. Dean, I don't know how long I would've lasted, the way things were. I don't know how much longer I could've been strong. How much longer I could've kept going."

Dean felt his breath catch. "You don't—I mean, you didn't—"

"I didn't try," Luke says, cutting him off. "But I thought about it."

"Not since you've been here," Dean says, and it's a statement because it can't be a question, because he can't bear to think that Luke was suffering like that while he was there and he didn't notice.

"No," Luke says fervently. "No. I'd told myself last summer that if in a year things hadn't changed, and if he hadn't killed me or gotten me killed by then, I'd...look at my options." A hush falls over the room, and then Luke rushes to say, "But then your dad bought me, and then you were there, and sure, nothing's made any sense since then, but do you know how long it's been since I went this long without somebody hurting me? Do you know how long it's been since somebody took care of me? Dean, I don't know what I would've done."

And he's choking back a sob on those last words, and before either of them knows what's going on Dean has his arms wrapped around Luke's thin frame and they're holding each other and Luke's crying and Dean's totally not crying because he's a man and it's just dust in his eyes and both boys feel like if they let the other go, they'll both drown.

It's the happiest, the safest either of them have felt in their lives.

By the time John comes home, they're both fast asleep, for real.

John doesn't come home drunk.

He's roused from a deep sleep by a firm hand on his shoulder.

He looks automatically over at Dean, but Dean's still sleeping, snoring a little bit which means that he won't be easily woken. Dean never sleeps this hard. He supposes they wore themselves out with their little display of melodrama earlier.

So he looks up and he's not surprised to see Mr. Winchester looming over him. He's a little surprised that the Hunter isn't drunk, but he's relieved by the fact. Drunk Hunters are never good news for him.

"Get up," Mr. Winchester whispers, and the order is definitely that—an order—but it's not harsh. It's almost gentle, and for some reason that unnerves Luke even more.

He obeys.

Mr. Winchester's got something in his hand that he's holding out to Luke, and it takes Luke one, two moments before he realizes that it's a small duffel bag.

His heart sinks.

"I'll be better," he whispers. "Please, Mr. Winchester. I'll find the demon for you. I'll be better."

"Take the bag, Luke," Mr. Winchester says softly. "It's done. Can't change it now. Don't wake Dean."

Luke takes the bag into his hands and looks down, fighting back tears. "I can't say good-bye?" he asks, and to his shame (rule number nine) he feels a single tear make its way down his cheek.

There's a moment of hesitation from Mr. Winchester, but Luke doesn't dare to hope. He is a little startled when he hears a sort of sad roughness in the Hunter's voice as he says, "I'm sorry. He wouldn't...Dean wouldn't...won't understand. He's got a soft heart. He'll try..."

He would try to stop this.

And it can't be stopped.

Luke glances over his shoulder at Dean's peaceful form, memorizing him this way. Somehow, thinking about that, that Dean would stop this if he were awake, soothes the panic in his chest.

He can make this easier for Dean.

He can go without a fight.

He can give Dean one less thing to be angry at his father about.

If he just goes...

Then Dean can eventually pretend like he was never there.

He looks down at the duffel. "Mr. Winchester, is—is my book in here?"

"It is," Mr. Winchester replies, and Luke exhales.

"May I go to the bathroom, first?" he asks, and Mr. Winchester nods. Luke takes the duffel with him.

He pulls a sharpie out of the bag and an empty toilet paper roll out of the trash, and writes.

Once he's finished, he puts it where he knows Dean will find it, flushes the toilet for show, and walks back outside with the duffel.

"I'm ready," he says.

Mr. Winchester nods and leads him outside with this awful gentleness, this terrible reluctance, like it hurts him a little bit, too.

Luke's almost managed to calm his racing heart when he sees a figure under the yellowed light of the street lamp.

A figure in a hunting jacket and a trucker's cap.

And he grasps at Mr. Winchester's sleeve and whimpers, "Please."

"Luke, go quietly," Mr. Winchester says firmly. "You'll be okay. He's promised me he'll treat you well. You can help him like you've helped us."

And Luke wants to laugh

And Luke wants to cry

And most of all Luke wants to run

And not stop running until he can't speak the language of whatever place he's gotten to

Because under the street lamp

Under that sick crackling light

Is his former owner.

The one Dean called the "sick fuck".

The one he ran away from before he was caught and sold to Mr. Winchester.

And under that yellow light there's a sheen in the Hunter's eyes that promises retribution

And all Luke can think of is to scream Dean's name

But even that is lost as the panic overtakes him when Mr. Winchester hands him over.

Dean can't help him anymore.

Mentally, Luke calculates that he still has three months from the year he gave himself.

He sets his countdown.