A/N: Vivi here! It's been another busy week (shocker) so I haven't been able to write very much. But lucky for you, I wrote ahead a bit last week so this chapter is complete. Get ready for some backstory!

Previously on John's Boys:

The laundromat wasn't crowded. One older woman with curly brown hair, a slouching kid about Dean's age with short black hair reading a textbook in the corner, a soccer mom with her hair in a tight pony tail folding unmentionables shamelessly on one of the machines near the windows.

But no Dean.

"Dammit." John hissed, peering into every machine to see if maybe he had just stepped out while the clothes were getting washed. Maybe he had to use the restroom, or he got bored and just took a walk or something.

None of the machines had anything belonging to any Winchester in them.

"He walked home. He just walked home." John told himself, hurrying back to the car and getting on the street before Sam was even aware that he'd returned. Poor kid was still pretty out of it. The day had been long for everyone.

"Where's Dean?"

Apparently he was aware enough to notice that his teenage counterpart was missing.

"He walked back to the house."

Dean had not walked back to the house. It was as dark and empty as they'd left it hours earlier.

"He's not here, Dad. What's going on?" Sam asked, now fully awake and getting worried. It was strange for him to see his father get so worked up when he wasn't in the thick of it on a hunt. Since leaving the laundromat, he had been mumbling, searching the roads with anxious eyes, driving too fast, tapping his fingers on the wheel, and sending off so much worry that it hung around him like a suffocating haze. I didn't know Dad cared about Dean this much. He couldn't have thought Dean would stay very long, right? I'll miss him too, but he just didn't seem like the family type. He even said he didn't want to get attached. Then again… he seemed to like it here with us. He told me he did… What if he was more banged up than I thought and he can't think straight, or somethin' happened and somebody called an ambulance? Or what if the gang found him again? No way they'd let him walk away again.

"I don't know." The pair returned to the car and John pulled out his phone. He dialed the number he'd stored earlier as Dean's; no one picked up the first call. John swore and counted to ten before dialing again. It ran five times.

"Who's this?"

John was so relieved to hear his son's voice that he couldn't speak for a few moments. "Dean, this is John. Where are you? What happened to staying put?"

"I… Jer- er… Joh-John?"

The father froze as he heard real, actual confusion in Dean's voice. And not fully lucid, 'I don't have all the facts' confused. This was 'something's wrong and I need help now' confused. Even over the phone, the difference was frighteningly obvious. "Yes. Where are you, Dean?" Why didn't you tell me you hit your head? Hurry up so I can find you before you pass out, you concussed moron. Withholding injuries and getting yourself in bad situations- you are so grounded… Oh, I'm gonna feel like shit if you got jumped again, kid. Just be in one piece when I get to you. After all these years, please still be in one piece when I find you again.

"I don't know. I- You told me to stay?" In the background of Dean's end, John heard a siren approach. That did nothing to ease his nerves.

Please be okay. "At the laundromat, yes. But that's not important anymore. What do you see? What's around you right now? I'll come get you. I'm not mad about the laundromat." Please don't shut down. Please don't panic again and pass out before I find you. C'mon, Dean, c'mon. You can do this…

"There's a stop light. Couple houses. Really loud bar on the corner. I… can't remember how I got here." Dean sounded nervous. "I… I don't feel so good."

Shit. "Street names, Dean. The ones from the stop light. What are the streets?" John looked up as he heard a police car go by just a few streets down from where he and Sam sat in their driveway. Immediately, John popped the car in reverse and pulled out, flying down the road. He was sure it was the same siren that passed Dean just moments earlier over the phone. It had to be. It had to be.

"Uh… E-Emerin…"

"Don't move. Stay on the line."

Dean did not stay on the line. A static filled silence echoed in John's ear after just a few seconds of moving in the direction the siren came from. "Dammit, Dean."

"Where is he? Is he okay?" Sam was now looking just as frantically as his father while they sped down the busy road.

"Somewhere on Emerin Street. And no, I don't think so."

Turns out it was the same police car. Thank God.

As Sam and John approached the intersection, they saw Dean. He was sitting on the laundry bag, head between his legs, phone glowing dimly on the ground nearby. John parked in the driveway of the closest house and hurried to get his oldest son, Sam close on his heels.

"Dean. What's wrong? What happened?" He asked as he approached, looking around quickly for any potential problems like another gang or a policeman. They still didn't know how Dean got so far from the laundromat in his condition and John wasn't taking any chances.

They smelled it before they saw it. Dean had vomited on some poor guy's poorly maintained lawn. The barely coherent kid could only respond with a miserable moan that turned into a sickening gag and a series of gasping breaths.

"Time to go home, son. I've got you." John moved to pull Dean up and was violently shaken off before he had the kid on his own two feet.

"No no, please. I can't-" Dean stumbled a few steps away before coming to a halt on unreliable feet. He watched John with unmistakable fear dancing in his eyes.

He- he doesn't recognize us? What happened to him? "It's okay, Dean. It's just me and Sam. Sam, come here. Now." John motioned for Sam to come closer, knowing the kid was there even though he was trying to be sneaky about it. He grounds to Sam every time. We just need to get him in the car without too much of a fuss, so if Sammy can convince him to do that, we'll be okay.

Bossing me around again… We gotta talk about this, Pops. "It's us, Dean." Sam watched Dean drag an arm across his watery eyes and squint at them. Suddenly, his frustration with his father didn't seem quite so important. He is hurt. This is so not good. I hope Dad has a plan cuz if not Dean's gonna have a breakdown real fast. "Don't be scared."

"Please…" The sound was barely a nasally whisper. Dean felt his hand start to shake.

"We're not going to hurt you. Me and Dad wouldn't do that to you, not ever."

"Please don't kick me out. Sir."

For a moment, the three Winchesters could only watch each other, each enveloped in a snapshot of emotion all their own.

Sam was concerned; why would Dean think they would make him leave? He hadn't done anything wrong and on top of that, he had some serious injuries. Dad wouldn't let him leave tonight even if he wanted to go.

Dean was consumed with dread; after all, he ruins every good thing that happens to him sooner or later. The Winchesters were bound to see the error of their ways eventually. But he wasn't ready. He hadn't put together a way to live alone in this new city. Where were the shelters? The bad parts of town to avoid at all costs? The soup kitchens, or the restaurants with dumpsters that weren't locked down tight? Where could he sleep in relative safety when the shelters turned out to be full for the evening? Were there even shelters here? Was homelessness a punishable offense in this city? He didn't want to be sent back to Lucy if he was identified. Maybe if he begged John, he could at least stay the night in his house. Get enough rest to survive three or four days of alertness until he learned the way of the land. Already, his head felt sloshy and his limbs were both lead and jello at the same time. He wouldn't survive tonight if he was sent away, not with his head still bleeding and his shoulder fucked up and his back spasming painfully every few seconds. Easy pickin's don't last on the street.

John's heart just about broke at the words his little boy spoke. The father had been expecting another episode like the ones in the woods and the hospital when Dean didn't even recognize them because he was so ill. But that wasn't the case anymore. Not even close. "Dean, I will never 'kick you out'. That was part of our deal, remember? We want you here, with us." I can't lose you again, kiddo. I- I just can't. I wouldn't push you away to save my own life.

Dean just stared at the man in fearful disbelief and tried to breathe. "I screw- screwed up. My arm, 'n the fight, 'n leavin' my- my post. Why aren't you mad? I don'… I jus' don'…"

"Why don't you come on back to the house and get some rest, huh? Let me check you over and maybe get some medicine and food into you. We can talk about this tomorrow, when you feel better." John nodded his head, hoping Dean would understand the question with the obvious fog that clouded his brain. Slowly, carefully, John took a few steps toward the boy, not willing to let him take a tumble and really break something this time, even if the close proximity frightened Dean. He would rather control the frantic, disoriented version of his son than lose him to his injuries or a sudden spike of adrenaline. John was sure that if he tried hard enough, Dean could outrun him. The weary father would do anything to keep from losing his boys again, even if it meant scaring one and having to build their relationship a third time.

Dean sniffed his nose, his mind falling blank except for one word: please. After a few seconds, he nodded hesitantly, swaying dangerously back and forth as his breath hitched with occasional hiccups. His eyelids started to slow their blinking as they watched John get closer in a sort of numb disconnection. Please.

In a breathtaking show of trust- at least to John- Dean took a few steps toward him before stumbling and falling. Luck was on the father's side though. Dean was just close enough for John to catch him before he hit the ground.

Dean accepted the pain of impact as soon as he realized he was going to fall. What were a few more bruises to his already abused body? But then… it never came. Strong, fatherly arms slowed his descent and held him firmly against the most stable thing in his life.

The landing was certainly not kind to John's knees, but he hardly noticed the pain. His son was back in his arms, and in one piece. "Easy, tiger. Just relax. You're safe now. You're safe with us." John gently pulled Dean to his feet, holding him close for the first time in years, desperate to stop his son's suffering. His heart dropped when Dean's breath started catching in his throat. That only meant one thing. You were right, Mary. I'm terrible with tears. Please- a little help would be appreciated right about now.

Dean let his walls crumble. He was too weary from pain, from exhaustion, from that dreaded adrenaline withdrawal to keep them in place any longer. Dad… With shaking knees, he leaned into John's embrace, burying his tear stained face in the familiar leather jacket while he gripped John's arm as tightly as he could. The sobs crept up on him, leaking out before he even knew they were there. He- he's here and he still loves me. He came back for me. He- he-

"Just breathe, Dean. Deep and slow." John gently squeezed the back of Dean's neck, knowing that the old way of calming his child still worked. It had worked when he was younger, and it had worked back at Dean's junker of a car. Within thirty seconds, the sobbing had stopped. His hiccups were slowing and the irregular, jerky pattern of respiration became more gentle and smooth. John had to smile, just a little bit. Thank you, honey. "You're safe. I've got you."

John could have sworn Dean nodded, but the action was done before he could really tell.

"Let's get you home." After doing a quick visual once-over for broken bones or gushing blood, he guided the unsteady teen to the car, where he was put in the backseat to lay down. Dean fell asleep almost immediately, exhaustion finally claiming him. John wasted no time retrieving the laundry bag and phone, tossing them carelessly in the trunk.

Sam was relieved to see that Dean was mostly okay, even if he did end up having a breakdown. His imagination had been running wild, thinking up every potential bad situation Dean could have gotten into. But he didn't run away. He wasn't attacked again. He hadn't fallen victim to his injuries. He was just confused and disoriented from what had to be a nasty concussion. The same thing had happened to Sam in the past- he knew what it felt like and he couldn't blame Dean for the rather emotional scene that just played out. Sam realized for the first time in all his life that he had taken safety and the feeling of being protected for granted. He always knew that if something happened, Dad would protect him at all costs. No wonder Dean cried. His safety was probably conditional, never guaranteed. He never had a dad like Dad.

As John got his little family back on the road, Sam looked over the bench at his sleeping companion. The color of his skin wasn't the best, and he stank to high heaven, but he was safe and that was all that mattered. Everything else could wait. Although Sam really didn't think he should be sleeping like that with a head injury that had already produced results like those of the past hour.

Once back at their house, Sam manhandled the laundry bag inside like he was asked while John quietly roused his sleeping son and carefully eased him upright once more. He was fine until John sat him on the couch. After that, he just collapsed against the back, his head resting on the edge and angled toward the ceiling with his eyes closed.

"My pee is- is pink."

The voice was just a wisp of a sound, nervous and scared and helpless and exhausted. John turned around from where he had been locking the deadbolt on the door. "Excuse me?"

"Bloody piss. I don' know what to do. Am I dying?"

"How did that happen?" John asked, going to sit next to Dean, facing him. Dean's words were a bit slurred, but the blood in his urine was a more pressing issue. A ruptured kidney could become lethal pretty quick. John wasn't going to take any more chances with this fragile life. "Did you knock a kidney?"

"I don' know. I got kicked, n' body slammed onto concrete. I think. 'm sorry."

Dammit, Dean. Why didn't you tell me earlier? "How much blood?"

"Jus' a little. I… I really don' feel good." What's wrong with me, Dad? It hurts. Everything hurts…

"I can see that. A little blood is okay for a few days. We'll keep an eye on it. Where else do you hurt? What doesn't feel good?"

"Back, both- both arms, head, groin, sides… stomach…" Dean winced as he lifted his head painfully off the couch. It weighed a ton. He looked guiltily first at the floor, then at John, knowing that the man would be upset that he withheld information from him. Dean had been steeling himself for the anger and frustration and rejection he was sure John would have in store. But the father wasn't looking at him at all.

John was glaring at the bloody spot where Dean's head had been resting. When he looked at Dean, the kid visibly flinched. "I'm going to look you over. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to yell at you. I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to do, okay? But I need to address those injuries before they get out of hand. Do you understand me?"

Dean looked at the carpet and nodded. He knew this was coming. But in his hazy brain, he couldn't remember how he was supposed to feel about it. He thought maybe… nervous? Or embarrassed? Scared… panicky? Nothing seemed to make sense. So he just stayed still. That is, until his only useful hand and his jaw started to quiver ever so slightly. They must've known how to feel.

John took his time looking over Dean's head. It was bleeding in two places. He obviously had a concussion; another one, or maybe the fall to concrete just made his original case worse. The wound on the back of his head looked like a scratch from an impact, but the side of his head had a torn gash in it. Something hit it with force. And John tried not to let the fact that Dean was shaking and breathing in gasps and pants alarm him too much. He had a feeling those symptoms were because of how close he was to the freaked out kid. John knew he needed to be steady and reliable for Dean. His son was just starting to trust him; he admitted his injuries without being pressured to, knowing that he would receive care with no strings attached. They were finally making progress.

For the first time, Dean didn't hesitate to remove his shirt when asked. He felt weird in his own head and incredibly sleepy. If the man beside him was saying anything, it wasn't making it to Dean's brain.

John had to keep Dean sitting upright when he fell asleep. With the head wounds cleaned and dressed, John moved to checking out the bruises on Dean's arms, side, and back. His wendigo stitches were completely healed, now just pink ridges on his abdomen. The huge tree shaped bruise was almost gone, now a sickly yellow color, but superimposed on it was now a rough blackening blob midway down his back. The blob covered Dean's right kidney, which was probably the source of the blood. John poked and prodded, but Dean didn't wake up. He took that as a good sign.

Now his arm, on the other hand… John tried to be very careful in how he inspected it. If what Sam said was true, Dean might be headed back to a hospital to get that thing put in a cast. He can't keep taking the sling off. He's going to ruin his shoulder. I may not be able to protect him from everything, but I can protect him from crippling himself like this. John watched Dean's sleeping face contort in pain as he moved the arm around a bit, finding it stiff and inflamed but otherwise in working order. Probably just too sore to move. Some ice, medicine, rest- should be good as new pretty soon.

"Okay, Dean. Wake up." John put the sling back on and tapped Dean's good shoulder.

Dean groaned, not wanting to open his eyes. Was I asleep? Wha… Why's he talkin'?

"Give me your person, place, and time, kid."

Why do I have to… I'll jus' do it. He's the boss. Don't question authority. "Temple, Texas. November 3rd er somethin'."

"Name?"

"Dean Win. Wait, no- jus', jus' Dean." Dean flinched when his old surname slipped out. Winthrop branded him WIN and that was what the other fangs in the nest addressed him as in conversation. After he was rescued from that nest, he tried his hardest to forget the name. It wasn't who he was. Neither was Dean Ross. Dean knew exactly who he was: just Dean. And someday, he'd be Dean… something. If he ever found his Dad, which was a hope he'd given up on a long time ago and yet still clung to with childlike faith. It had to mean something that Dean was still alive, against all odds- maybe it meant his Dad was looking for him. Maybe he was close. Dean refused to hope, but a tiny spark of excitement shone in his bleak mind at the thought.

Win…? John's eyes widened in amazement and he tightened his grip on the back of the couch. Does he actually remember? I- Sammy's gonna have my head if he finds out I knew and didn't tell him. But if he remembers, I have a chance at convincing him that he's my son. Not just some 'homeless kid' or a 'lost cause'; he's my boy. What if he doesn't remember this in the morning? What if the concussion is just messing with his head and he just took our name as a placeholder? Or he wants it to be his name but won't let on about it. I know he likes being with us, but that much? This could be too good to be true. Better not push it, though. Can't scare him off. "Alright, kiddo. Dinner and then bed."

"What's for food?" Dean's voice was just as quiet as it had been earlier, and just as tired.

John was starting to quietly kick himself for not pressuring Dean into revealing his injuries. The longer he looked at his son, the more injuries he found. He knew Dean had to do some things on his own terms to feel respected, but he could have died that very day. From injuries that John could have addressed before they got too serious. I need to figure out how to make him trust us. Completely trust us. The words of the hospital nurse echoed in his mind: 'Just love on him', 'be patient'. John thought that maybe he could pull that off. The patience would be the hard part. After all, he had never stopped loving both his sons. "PB and J."

Dean started to try and push himself off the couch, gasping sharply at the pain in his side halfway up before falling back to his seat. That impact hurt more than trying to stand and left him slightly nauseous, fighting against the nerves that were fighting against him. "I'm not hungry." Dean forced the words out. Another lie. But there was no way Dean would be able to make himself anything that resembled food in his current condition. There was also no way he was getting to his own bed without help and that would be humiliating enough. Maybe he could just sleep on the couch that night. It only smelled a little like smoke. He'd had worse.

"You don't have to lie, Dean." John said, already returning from the kitchen with a sandwich on a plate.

Dean ate and took a few pills without a fuss.

He fell asleep on the couch a few minutes after.

John put him in bed like he used to when Dean was pint sized; Dean would fall asleep playing and Daddy would tuck him in with his favorite toy car and a glass of water on his bed stand. This time around, the inhaler joined the glass of water on the floor and pillows were piled up to try and cushion as many sources of pain as possible. It hurt to see Dean so beat up. Reminded John of just how bad he'd wrecked his child's life. "I'm sorry, son. I'm here now." John pulled the blanket over his snoring teen and tried to school his features for a confrontation with Sam about bunk beds.

The pounding echoed through the room and made dust fall from the ceiling. Dean sat bolt upright in bed and threw off the covers. "Sammy?" He called quietly across the room, trying to be silent as he snuck to the play pen at the foot of Daddy's bed.

Sammy was sleeping. Dean flinched as the door rattled in its frame, the sound getting louder and louder. He reached down and picked the baby up, barely able to get him out of the play pen without dropping him. As fast as he could, Dean ran toward the closet.

He tripped and fell. Sammy's head hit the floor, just lightly, he thought; the baby was still in his arms. Fear gripped Dean's heart as the baby didn't wake up, didn't even whimper.

Dean set Sammy on the closet floor, between two of Daddy's big duffel bags. He still didn't wake up. The closet door shut and Dean went to hide under the bed, where he put the rifle Daddy left him to protect Sammy with.

The door slammed open, sending bits of the frame flying into the room. Dean's arms flew up to protect his face; he was standing in the middle of the floor, right out in the open. Three figures entered the room, silhouetted by the light from the parking lot outside.

There was nothing Dean could do.

Dean woke gasping for air and tangled in his bed sheets. Can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe- He stood, nearly falling at the sudden onslaught of screaming nerve endings from all over his body, and pawed around in the darkness until he found the light switch. Frantically, he searched the room for his clothes-

In that moment, Dean could have cried in relief.

John had put his inhaler on the floor next to the bed.

A few minutes later, Dean could breathe normally again. He hadn't stopped shaking, but at least he could breathe. Sitting on the floor all alone, he tried not to remember the nightmare. He tried to forget that he called the baby 'Sammy'. He knew his subconscious or something had a plan to get him to stay with the Winchesters, but plugging the kid Winchester's name into his last memory of his dead baby brother was just plain vicious.

Dean didn't even try to go to sleep again. Which was probably a good thing.

He jumped when a soft knock echoed from his door. "Dean? You asleep in there?"

"Nah. No, sir." Dean said, rubbing at his eyes as John opened the door.

"What- what are you doing on the floor?" John took in the scene before him with nervous suspicion. Dean was sitting up against his bed, on the floor, facing the wall beside the door. There was nothing nearby that he could have been doing. He was just sitting there, looking exhausted.

"Long story."

"Well, I'm gonna hear it after you give me person, place, and time. You need sleep, and if you're not getting it, I want to know why."

Dean sighed and looked away. Made him mad again. At least this city isn't as cold as the other one. Makes sleeping outside easier. "Dean, Temple, November 3rd."

"Good. Now I want to hear why you're awake after the day you've had. You should be exhausted."

"Sorry."

"No, Dean- Just tell me what's wrong." John closed the door and went to sit on the bed beside Dean's head because there was no way he was getting on the floor. Not with his knees aching as bad as they were. "You don't have to be sorry."

Be honest. He can't get mad if I'm honest, right? "Nightmare."

"About?"

None of your business. "My past."

"What about your past?" John geared up to hold a stoic face while his son revealed the terrible thing that happened to him. This isn't about me. This is about Dean.

"I thought you said you wouldn't pry into my life. That was part of the deal, remember?" Dean's voice was bitter. He hadn't meant it to sound like that. But he really was tired and it had been a long time since he felt this way. A week at least. Normally he would have tried to sound submissive and small, given the man what he wanted in exchange for a few more hours of safety, but some things just weren't for public consumption. Some things were too painful to talk about.

"Right." John was taken aback by the strength of tone that he hadn't heard out of Dean since the forest. He's either healing or he's really, really hurting. I want to meet grown up Dean, figure out who he really is beyond all that fear and pain, but not like this. Not when I could still scare him off. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, but I would like to know, if you'll tell me."

"No." Please don't kick me out.

John scrubbed a hand down his face and sighed, looking down at his oldest, still seated on the floor. There were scars on his head, old ridges of tragic memories, but John already knew that. He saw them in the tent, he saw them in the motel, in the hospital, and right after he cut his hair. The sight infuriated him. The thought of anyone or anything hurting his boy at all angered him, but his head- that was a different ballpark. Lungs would be removed if John ever caught the offenders. "Alright. I'll respect that decision. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Help? You… you're already doing that. I can breathe, I have food, I'm not shivering through the night. What more could I ask for?" Dean asked quietly, turning his inhaler over and over in his hands and keeping his eyes down. "You've already given me more than I've had my whole life. I can actually live now." Instead of just dying slowly day after day.

It was like an ice pick stabbed straight through John's chest and into his heart. I'm sorry, okay? I never meant to damn you like this. I never meant to leave you- "I'm sorry." John got up and left. He didn't want to scare Dean with a breakdown or endless pleas for forgiveness or the admission that Dean was his son and he had never wanted Dean's life to go this way. He wasn't ready. Neither of them were ready.

He hoped Sam and Dean wouldn't hear him fall apart in the Impala.

Shit. How did I piss him off now? Dean watched John walk away. The man didn't even look back at him. He didn't say to leave, so… I'm good, right? He's not mad enough to dismiss me yet. If I can keep from pushing his buttons, I can probably stay until I have a plan. Just… just a few more days.

Dean didn't try to sleep that night. He knew he couldn't. Not after that particular nightmare. He never wanted to relive the moment his life went from domestic heaven to living hell.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed it! Don't forget to follow the story for updates that aren't at their normally scheduled time (I'm not very consistent, sorry). Leave me a review with any questions, comments, or concerns you have about John's Boys. I love hearing from you! See you soon!