A/N: Vivi here! It's a day late (because I wrote most of it today because I didn't feel like memorizing pharm stuff) but it's a couple thousand words longer than usual (not intentional, but there you go). I didn't have a lot of time to review this chapter, so please excuse my spelling or grammar errors.

Warnings for abuse and language.

There's a lot of time jumps in this chapter, so use your context clues to get oriented. Almost every line break is a time jump. But not all of them. Stay on your toes!

Also, remember when I said the last chapter almost had one more line? Mwahahaha...

Previously on John's Boys:

John watched Dean duck his head, trying to hide his face and the emotion John knew was attempting to break him from the inside out. Please don't cry again, Dean. Sam's not dead, he's right there, whining about his homework, eating an orange. Maybe I should… but what if you think I'm lying? If I tell you now, you'll will flip and leave because I 'replaced' your brother with Sam. But dammit, you don't have to be in so much pain and it's killing me to watch you go through this. "Boys, there's something I need to-"

Bobby had the worst timing.

The buzzing phone shattered what fragile resolve John had worked up. It was on the counter, making all sorts of noise and ruining the biggest moment of John's life. He let his head fall into his hands, a frustrated growl being the only sound besides that annoying buzzing in the tense air.

Dean flinched as his eyes snapped to the sound. "Who- uh, who's phone is that?" He dragged his good arm across his eyes and stood, desperate to get away from the awkward situation he'd jumped into. The phone wasn't his. At least he didn't think. He was pretty sure his didn't look like that. And the caller ID read 'BS' and Dean had no idea what that meant. "It says BS. John?" Dean picked up the phone and held it right next to John's head, which was still in his hands. "I think it's for you."

John took the phone, trying not to rip it out of his son's hand and pitch it directly through the drywall, which would startle them both and undoubtedly open a whole new can of worms. "Thanks." He stood and went outside, shutting the door firmly before answering the little torture device. He quickly walked around the house, far from the living room so the boys wouldn't hear.

"John-"

"Dammit, Bobby, can't I spend one evening with my family in peace?"

Back inside the house, Sam was dying to know what Dad was about to say. It sounded important. Something that Dad thought both he and Dean needed to hear. He could only guess at what it was. Had Dad picked up on vampire activity nearby? Did they have to move again? Did something happen to Caleb or Pastor Jim or Uncle Bobby? Was their card denied? Did they finally get traced for Dad's credit card fraud? Were they giving up hunting for good this time? The suspense was killing him.

Sam decided he could maybe finish his homework before Dad got back… or just say he finished it and do it later, or during class tomorrow. Or maybe not at all. Dad would love that. Who needed to know about Juliet anyway? She could wait until after Sam knew what was going on.

He turned to look over his shoulder, where he expected Dean to be standing, wondering what was happening just like Sam was. He wasn't there.

Dean had already quietly retreated to his room, shutting the door behind him, leaving the light off. He settled on his bed and tried to calm the panic in his head. Why did I do that? They didn't need to know about my brother. Get it together, Dean. This isn't what they signed up for. Maybe… maybe I have more reasons to leave than I thought. I'm a danger and a burden to them. But I'm not ready to go- I don't know the city, there's at least one gang after me, and I couldn't run from anyone if I had to. It'll be a week at least until this concussion goes away and probably two more before I can take the sling off and actually use my arm. If I leave, I'll probably get kidnapped again or picked up by the cops … if I get lucky. Which isn't likely. In all my time at the last city, I was only taken to the station twice. This place is probably no different. What's the better option here: die alone on the street or be slaughtered alongside the Winchesters when Winthrop finds me? Can't be long now. Two years is already way overdue for a visit.

Can't let that- let him get to Sammy. I won't.

"John-"

"Dammit, Bobby, can't I spend one evening with my family in peace?"

What the hell? Is that- Dean stood and rounded the bed to stand before the window. Very slowly, he parted the blinds and looked out to see John, on the phone, leaning against the house not a foot from his window. Dean could hear everything.

"When have you ever spent an evening with your boy in peace?"

"It's been a while. That's why I'm trying to make the time. And the effort."

"He been ornery lately?"

Who is that? Who is Bobby? Dean let the blinds close and quietly took a seat next to the window. He didn't feel bad about eavesdropping. Rarely had. If someone was going to say something out loud, it was meant to be heard. So what if he heard it, too? That info could prove valuable in the future.

"You have no idea; it's worse than it usually is. He's been a nightmare."

Who are they talking about? Sam? Can't be. He's not that bad; kid might spit some fire but he's pretty level headed most of the time. Then… me? John told someone about me? Dean felt his chest clench. If John told someone where Dean was, then Winthrop was probably halfway there already, if not in town that very moment. He must've had a reason, though. A good reason. Right?

"Give the boy some slack, John. He's been on the run for too long already and kids need more structure than that to come up healthy and, well, normal."

"But he's not normal, Bobby. You and I both know that. I think all this is just because he's got a bug messin' with his system. He's been quiet recently and it's just starting to flare up again."

"Quiet? Since when?"

"Since… y'know. The kid."

What kid? He- he didn't tell anyone I got Sam attacked by a gang, did he? I wonder how fast John's people can run…

"He takin' it hard?"

"Yeah."

"Always was a bleedin' heart. He'll come around. Speakin' a that, I need you to do something for me."

"What is it now?"

"Don't get that attitude with me, John. You know you owe me one; said so yourself."

"Yeah, I remember."

"That woman who was lookin' for the kid you lost, she wants him back. Still. And she won't stop calling me. As in, ten times a day won't stop. I've damn near lost my mind because of that pain in the ass. Wants your number, always asks all teary-eyed and sincere until I tell her no. She's threatened me more than you have, John."

John lost a kid? But how- he's so protective of Sam. How could he lose a kid? When? Who was it? Was it… how many other kids did he have? Sam hasn't mentioned any siblings. Neither has John. So whose kid was it? Must have been that woman's kid. What could John have done to take a child from their mother like that?

"You give her my number?"

"No. But I'm fixin' to if this keeps up. I want you to call her. Tell her what you told me and get her off my back."

"Bobby, I don't want anything to do with this."

And he's trying to avoid her? John's not that kind of person… is he?

"Neither do I. So call the woman and end it."

"Bobby, he told me what she and Jerry did to him."

In an instant, every hair on the back of Dean's neck was on end, his heart pounding, his every muscle tensed to make a quick escape should he need to. John was talking about him. And if Dean understood the conversation, he was the kid John lost.

And Lucy was the woman who wanted him back.

No no no no no. This is not happening. How does she know who John is? How does she know I'm with him? What's going- this can't be happening. She can't ruin this for me, too… but it makes sense. I've never had anything this good and there's probably a reason for that. I'm nobody, I have no one. My own father isn't even looking for me anymore. I don't deserve a single good thing in this world and it's about time the world got its shit together and reminded me.

Tonight then. I'll leave tonight. John will tell Lucy where I am and I can't be around when she comes. What if John tries to keep me here until she gets here? I- I can't fight John. There's no way. Not after all he's done for me. Not after he treated me like his own kid.

But I can't go back to Lucy.

If… if I leave right now, while he's still outside, around the house, I have a chance.

"Well, tough shit. I get that he didn't have a silver spoon kind of life, but the woman raised him and you are the last person to see him. She just wants her family back, John. You know what that's like."

"I never hurt my children. They never went without food or medical care or protection."

"But they did, John. That's why you only have one son now, remember?"

John had another son?

"I will not call that woman, Bobby."

"Then she'll call you."

"Bobby? Bobby? Dammit."

Move. Dean stood from where he had been sitting and picked up his coat, fishing out his beads and stuffing them in his pocket. He then went directly to his bedroom door, without the coat. Nothing in the room belonged to him. He had no right to take any of it. He needed it, sure, but it wasn't his and he wasn't about to steal from the only people who had shown him any compassion in the last decade or so. Even if they might be working with Lucy.

He felt bad about stealing the clothes he was wearing, but he didn't really have a choice.

"Hey, Dean. Everything okay?" Sam asked as Dean walked by fast, on a mission to miss John on the way out. Sam was just packing his bag, hiding the homework he didn't want to finish before Dad came back.

"Yeah, Sammy. Everything's gonna be okay." Dean couldn't bring himself to look at Sam. He didn't want to see the disappointment that might be in his eyes. Or the suspicion, or the worry. A clean break would be easier for Sam. Sure, he would wonder what happened for a while, maybe a few days, maybe even a week. But he would forget soon enough. He had John, and his new friend. Chase? No… Casey? Carmen? Cas. He had Cas now. Sam didn't need Dean anymore. He survived his whole life with just his father anyway. It's not like Sam ever needed Dean. He never needed to know how much he meant to Dean; really, it was pathetic that Sam was Dean's first and only real friend. The two 'friends' Dean had at that one high school just sat at the same table during lunch and study hall. They spoke to him at least once a day, asked how he was and kinda listened when he lied about the bruises. He… he hadn't heard from them since they went to college, two years after he dropped out.

Needless to say, the skies were never as bright as they were when Sam and John were around.

Dean didn't want Sam's disappointment etched into his memory. He had enough rejection and pain and death there. All that Dean wanted to remember of Sam were the happy things, like his smile, his laugh-

The baby had dimples.

Dean paused with his hand on the doorknob, shocked at the image that jumped into his head. Chubby, reddened cheeks complete with dimples and the laugh he remembered earlier. Without thinking, he looked back to Sam, shock written all over his face.

Sammy had dimples, too.

Don't do this again. There's no way the Winchesters, out of all the fathers and sons in the world, could be my family. I killed my brother. There's no way Sam's the kid I left in that closet. I just- I have to go. Now.

Dean was almost pushed over as the door opened against his hand, bumping into his good shoulder before he realized what was happening.

Too late.

"Dean? Sorry, kid. I didn't know you were standing there." John came in and closed the door as Dean slowly backed away across the kitchen floor. "Somethin' wrong?" Concern immediately had John on high alert. Dean was acting funny again. That was never a good sign.

"Uh, no. Just- I just have a headache. Think I'm going to bed." Dean turned as quickly as he thought he could get away with without upsetting John and went to his room, firmly shutting the door. He sat against the wall and let his head rest on his knees, struggling to figure out how he could get away without being caught.

John was as confused as Dean was nervous. "What's up with him?"

"I don't know. He went to his room when you left and then he came out in a hurry and looked like he was going outside. He said everything was fine." Sam set his back pack against a kitchen cabinet and joined his father in looking down the hall at Dean's door. "I don't think I believe him."

"He say anything else?"

"Nope."

John, puzzled at the newest shift in Dean's behavior, turned to Sam and saw the back pack closed with all Sam's homework materials gone from the floor. Even Sam's not that fast. "Finished already?"

"Got the paper written out, and the references are done." Sam said. It was true that the references were complete; Sam had actually noted the lines that he used in his paper when he found them. And it was true that the paper was written out. Just not all of it. But Dad didn't need to know that part.

"That didn't take long."

"I work fast."

"Alright." John could only halfheartedly worry over Sam's homework. There would be other assignments; if he failed this one, the others that John could check would buffer it out. "It's late."

"I know." Sam rolled his eyes without thinking, earning a stern glance from his father. "I'm going, I'm going." The kid trudged off to their room to get ready for bed. The movie was over anyway.

What has gotten into Dean today? He's never acted like this. John wanted so badly to go to his son's room and ask about it, but Dean shut his door and already had the light off. He wanted to be alone and John knew that pestering him when he had a headache was probably not the best idea. We'll see what the morning holds, I guess. If he's still out of it, straight to the doctor. If not, I'll think about letting him go to school.

Dean listened as the Winchesters went about their nightly routines with only minimal bickering. A few minutes later, the hall light was shut off and all sounds in the house ceased.

Well, nothing's going to happen tonight, right? And if I hear something, I can always go through the window. I'll just get up before them and head out before they even know I'm gone. Dean fiddled with his cell phone until he got the little alarm thing to work. It was set for five, just a half hour or so before John usually got up. Plenty of time. He put the phone in the pocket of his jeans so the vibrating ringer would wake him up for sure.

Dean pulled his green, softest-he'd-ever-had blanket up to his chin and tried to enjoy his last few hours of domestic paradise.

"Get up."

Dean groaned and forced his eyes open. There wasn't much to see besides total darkness, which was strange.

"I said get up."

Something heavy and hard slammed into Dean's left shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise.

"You lazy ass piece of shit, if you don't get a move on I'm gonna lock the door tonight and you can sleep in the shed again."

Dean took the object thrown at him into his lap, finding the strap before shouldering it and opening his door. The air that night was frigid to say the least, impairing his sore joints and aching muscles as they shivered angrily to generate heat. No way was he going to stay in the shed that night. Not if he could help it.

A blinding light burned itself into Dean's retinas, making him see stars as his lids slammed down and his arm came up to cover his eyes.

"Move it!" Jerold hissed from the porch, where he already had the lights on and the door open. "You're letting the cold air in." Dean knew he would've shouted if the neighbors didn't live so close. Their house was only a few yards away; that was why Jerold insisted on coming home only after dark, when they couldn't see injuries or blood.

"Sorry." Dean muttered, jogging as quickly as possible to the house from the old truck after slamming the door shut. His thigh, already bruised from carrying the bag earlier, protested as the thing bumped again and again on that same spot. Hours of carrying the heavy gear bag had not been kind to Dean's body, but it wasn't the worst he'd ever felt. Not even close. He tried to focus on that.

"Get in there." Jerold grabbed Dean's coat- an old one of Jerold's that had a few too many holes for the older man to wear anymore- and pushed him through the door, nearly flooring him in the process. "Lucy, I'm home!"

"Welcome back, Jerry." Lucy called from upstairs, where she was probably reading in bed. "Kid with ya?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Good."

"I want those cleaned and ready by tomorrow morning, Ross." Jerold said, pointing a bony finger at the bag over Dean's shoulder. "No more slacking off."

Dean desperately wanted to remind Jerold that he had school tomorrow and it was already well after midnight. His cuts alone would take him an hour to fix up before he could even start on the weapons. But Dean didn't say a word. He knew the consequences of bringing up his education and it wasn't worth it anymore to stand up for himself. So Dean simply nodded and used his automatic response, engrained in his very being after eight years, half of his whole life, of living with the Ross'. "Yes, sir."

"And quit bleedin' all over the place, would ya? Don't stain the rugs again." Jerold grumbled as he made his way upstairs, probably to go to bed.

"Yes, sir." Dean watched Jerold disappear around the bend in the stairs and listened as his footsteps faded down the hall. He hated scrubbing blood out of the rugs; it was a nightmare. Dean could feel the warmth oozing from his arm and streaming lazily down his pant leg; he held his arm close to his body so the blood would land on him and not the truck seats or the floors in the house.

He could feel the stinging pain that screamed from the edges of the werewolf's claw marks, too, but tried to ignore that.

Once he felt he had enough energy to make it to his room, he crept quietly over the wooden floors, skirting around the rug, and over the kitchen tile. With his good arm, he quietly and carefully opened the basement door- solid cherry wood, Lucy was very proud of it and she told him all the time not to get anything on it- and went downstairs.

The lightbulb clicked on at the pull of the string and illuminated his living space. Way at the end of the basement, Jerold had been kind enough to put up a few pieces of plywood to give Dean some privacy. It also served as a hiding place for when the police came asking about this or that. There were cardboard boxes and totes- mostly decoys, empty- stacked haphazardly against the plywood, hiding it from view. Dean trudged around a few boxes that weren't empty and tugged a bookcase away from the opening in the plywood. Inside the small, open space was his bed, an old but relatively nice twin mattress with a few scratchy, itchy, but warm blankets on top. His clothes were neatly folded and stacked on a cardboard box at the foot of the bed. His book bag leaned against the box, mostly empty and forgotten.

Dean set the weapons bag on his mattress and toed off his shoes in the corner. He kicked himself for having walked through the house without taking them off or at least wiping the mud away first, but he could clean that up when he was done with the weapons. And he could clean those as soon as he stopped his arm from bleeding.

He didn't even register the way the plywood floor, laid on top of the dirt floor of the basement, grabbed at his socks as he walked. Callouses had formed on his feet; it was an achievement Dean tried to accomplish every summer, early on. Calloused feet didn't ache as bad when you had to walk miles in shoes two sizes too big for you. Calloused feet didn't bleed as bad, or get hurt as often.

If only Dean could do the same to the rest of his skin. His left forearm had two gashes in it from deflecting the worst of an angry werewolf's claws. Jerold missed on the first shot, and so did Mason, his newest hunting buddy. Dean, who was supposed to lure the thing out into the open, was left with only a bowie knife to defend himself.

He slit the thing's throat and it didn't like that, taking a few powerful swings at him as it tried to growl. Mason made his next shot right where it counted and the thing, now mostly dead, fell onto Dean. Luckily, most of the blood missed his clothes and he got out from under it quickly enough to minimize the stains that he'd have to scrub out.

The jacket was toast, though. There was no way he could wear it to school with tears like that and stains to match it. He peeled it off and tossed it in the corner, where a small pile of ruined clothes had already accumulated.

"Not so bad." Dean said to himself as he inspected his wound. It wasn't deep enough to need stitches- which almost had Dean jumping for joy- and the bleed had already slowed considerably. Quietly, Dean made his way upstairs to the bathroom and washed the cuts out with soap and water. It stung worse than the initial wound, but that was the only way he knew to disinfect his cuts. That was the only way they wouldn't get infected.

Back downstairs, he wrapped a length of clean fabric, torn from one of his ruined shirts, around his arm as tightly as possible. The bleeding stopped shortly thereafter, but he hardly noticed.

He had an entire bag of weapons to clean.

After a good long while- Dean didn't know how long, he didn't have a watch or a clock downstairs- the weapons were spotless and ready for action. He took the bag upstairs and set it in the kitchen closet, where the bag was kept. The dirt from his boots was swept up and Dean checked the time before he went back downstairs. He set the little digital kitchen timer for a few hours, just enough so he could wake up and still make it to the bus stop before the bus.

Dean made it to the bus, aching worse than he had in a long time. His ribs hurt from being mashed under the beast and he could barely move his arm. When he got to school, he went straight to the administrative office and told them he was moving. They gave him some paperwork for Jerold or Lucy to sign and send back, saying that he was enrolled in another school, or would be promptly, and where they were going to live.

Dean signed the papers at home that evening. The next day, he turned them in and walked out of the school forever. He wouldn't miss sophomore English class.

Jerold couldn't have cared less when he noticed Dean not going to school anymore, a few days after he dropped out. It just meant no more visits from the truant officer.

Lucy, however, was not as accepting. "How the hell am I supposed to have any peace around here when he's creeping around day and night?" She shouted at Jerold in the living room a few days later, with Dean standing in the doorway. Lucy knew he was there. She wanted him to hear.

"He'll stay in the basement, won't you, Ross?" Jerold glared at him, probably frustrated with having to deal with Dean's decisions again.

"Yes, sir."

"You better, you little shit, or there'll be more where this came from."

"Now Lucy, don't you go doin' that again-" Jerold started to speak, but it was in vain.

Lucy, who had been holding a mostly empty bottle of wine, whipped the thing at Dean. It connected with his head.

Dean sat ramrod straight in bed, sweating and shaking and hiccuping, his green blanket forgotten in his desperation to end the dream before the pain from the blow made it through.

"Gotta be now." Dean breathed, trying to catch his breath. Before the orders from his brain even made it to his consciousness, he was out of bed and quietly closing his bedroom door behind him. Nothing ran through his mind as he left the house, quietly closing the front door after locking it from the inside. He shoved his hand into his pocket and walked off into the night. This time, he didn't look back.

"Can Sammy have some?"

"Just one, okay? But you have to watch him. Don't let him put the whole thing in his mouth."

"Thanks, Daddy."

John watched the little blond boy carefully separate one slice from the rest of the orange and hold it out to the toddler. He laughed when Sammy reached for it but fell flat on the bed, grumbling in baby talk as he got on all fours to push himself back up. A drip of snot fell onto the bed from the baby's nose. Dean had gotten a virus not a week ago and now that he was over it, Sam had it. Fever, snot, crankiness; the whole shebang. At least the children's cold medicine John got seemed to help the tot sleep. He needed all the sleep he could get; those weird staring spells didn't happen as often if he slept through the night.

The father would never get over how smart his oldest was turning out to be. With Sammy, he'd have to wait a few years to really tell, but Dean was already the brightest in his class. His teachers told John at conference nights. John watched Dean put his legs on either side of the baby, holding him steady so he could enjoy the orange without falling over again. Atta boy, Dean-o.

Sammy laughed and held onto Dean's leg while John just smiled and continued writing in his journal, keeping an eye on Sammy to make sure he didn't choke on the fruit.

A few minutes later, John's phone rang.

"John, I found 'em. They're holed up in that old house on Hobart Road. If we go now, we can get 'em while they're sleeping and be done with all this shit."

John sighed and looked to his boys, still eating the orange on the bed. "Jeff, I have no one to watch the boys. I can't leave them alone."

"Sure you can. It's getting late, they'll be tired. Just put 'em to sleep and come roll some heads and go back when we're done. Shouldn't take long. They'll be fine." Jefferson said, his voice confident.

Jefferson didn't have kids. "That's not how it works. Sammy's sick, Dean is hardly tall enough to get him out of his playpen. There are so many things that could happen while I'm gone. I can't lose my boys, Jeff. I won't put them in danger like that."

"You're saying there's no one you can call to go sit with 'em for an hour?"

"Exactly."

"Not even some teenage babysitter?"

"Jeff, I'm not letting a teenager watch my kids. And even if I would, there aren't any available. The school's band concert is tonight and all my sitters are there with their kids."

"All of 'em?"

"Yes."

"Look, John. This nest has been targeting college kids from the next town. Wouldn't you want your boys to be safe when they go to college?"

"They're not going to college, Jeff. I need them to help me find the thing that-"

"Killed Mary. I know, I've heard it all before. But those students are dying because of this nest and we can do something about it. John, just work with me here."

"I can't go. My boys take priority, Jeff. We'll just have to go tomorrow, when I have a sitter."

"They could be gone by tomorrow. I'm going tonight, whether you're comin' or not."

"That's a suicide mission, man. You can't take on a nest alone."

"Well, it's happening. I'll be a mile up the road from the house in about half an hour. If you're not there, I'll understand. Your boys are more important than hundreds of college kids and your own hunting partner, right?"

"Jeff, don't put me in this position." John pleaded. He couldn't let Jefferson go into the nest alone; he'd be dead by the end of the night for sure, probably tortured or sucked dry. And yeah, John cared that college kids were going missing and being found exsanguinated, but his babies. They were all he had left.

And there they were, Dean making funny faces with a slice of orange in his mouth and Sam throwing his head back, laughing.

"I can't put them in danger like that."

"Just put 'em to bed. You'll be back before they even wake up. If you really want, leave a gun with Dean so he feels safe."

"What the hell is he going to do with a gun, Jeff? The recoil will send him halfway across the room."

"He won't have to use it, John. One hour. That's all I'm asking."

"I can't-"

"See you there." Jefferson hung up.

"Dammit." John growled into the disconnected phone. He put it in his pocket and stood, torn about this situation. On one hand, leaving his sons alone in a motel room went against every grain of John's being. They really were all he had left and he wouldn't be able to live with himself if something happened to them while he was gone. On the other hand, Jefferson had a point. John could just give Sammy his next dose of medicine, which would put him out for the night, and settle him in the playpen. Dean would be fine in bed for an hour while John was gone; he'd be nervous, he always was when Daddy wasn't around, but he'd be fine. And they could take the nest by surprise, clearing it out easily so that none of those fangs could kill another student.

"Dammit." John sighed, running a hand through his hair. The meeting place Jefferson mentioned was about twenty minutes away. That didn't give John much time to get the boys in bed.

"But Daddy, I'm scared."

"I know, buddy. Just keep the blinds closed and the light off, okay? Stay in bed and try to sleep. Sammy should be okay for the night. He just had his cold medicine and that makes him sleepy, remember?"

"Yeah."

"I want you to call me if anything happens, okay? I wrote my phone number right by the phone, and it's on your necklace, too. Call 911 if I don't answer or something happens to Sammy, or Sammy starts to have trouble breathing. We're at the Andover Inn; you'll have to tell the 911 person where you are so they can help you, okay?"

"Okay. Where are you going, Daddy?"

"I need to go help my friend with a project. Shouldn't take more than an hour. I'll be back before you know it."

"But I know it now."

John smiled gently, trying to ease his little boy's nerves. "Try to sleep. I'll wake you up when I get back, okay? I left a gun under the bed; I don't want you to use it unless someone comes into the room. Got that?"

"Uh huh."

John lifted Dean up and hugged him tight, feeling little arms squeeze around his neck in return. He set Dean in the bed and tucked him in, making sure he had his favorite toy and a glass of water. "You're my brave little trooper, aren't you? You can handle anything."

Dean smiled just a little and pulled the blanket up higher. "Hurry back, Daddy."

John picked up his gear duffel and shouldered it, checking on his sleeping toddler one more time before opening the motel door and shutting off the light. "Watch out for Sammy."

"Yes, sir."

Almost an hour later, John returned to the Andover Inn. All the lights were dark, as they should be. He took a moment to collect himself.

The raid had been somewhat successful. He and Jefferson succeeded in cutting down more than half the nest, probably fifteen in all. The leader, or at least that was what John thought it was, got away with four others. John was pretty sure he killed its mate. It looked pissed as it glanced back at him while sprinting off into the night.

They'd have to track those ones down now that they had their scent. Shouldn't be too hard, though. Jefferson managed to snag one of their cell phones; it was strange to think that vampires used cell phones. They could track the numbers in it, with some technological help, and get the job done. All in all, not a bad hunt.

John exited the Impala and riffled through his key ring for the motel's key. He found it and went to put it in the lock of the room he had rented.

The door was ajar, and leaning slightly away from its hinge. The doorjamb was busted in.

John leaned back to check the room number, written beside the door, and with a rush of panic, confirmed it was his room.

He drew his gun and slowly pushed the door open, adrenaline pulsing through him and blurring his thoughts into nonsense. With a flick of the switch, the room lit up, revealing scattered splinters of wood from the door frame littering the floor and a handful of chunky white letter and number beads. Nothing else seemed out of place.

Except the empty bed and playpen. And the fact that one of the boys' necklaces had to break for those beads to be all over the floor.

John could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

"Boys?" John called quietly, entering the room and pushing the door as far shut as it would go. He checked around the beds and in the bathroom first, for any intruders. Satisfied that no one was lurking in the room, he put the safety on his gun and tucked it away.

He could find whoever did this later. Right now, he had to find his sons.

They weren't under the beds. They weren't in the beds. They weren't in the dresser drawers, although John had no idea how they could get in there and close it. They weren't in the shabby old wardrobe that sat empty against one wall. They weren't in the bathroom cupboards or under the table.

John's boys were gone.

"Dean? Sammy?" He called to the empty room, hoping he had just missed a place and they were still safe.

There was no response.

John rushed out of the room and looked down the sidewalk, first to the left, then the right. This motel was just off the highway, but tucked into the forest. Trees surrounded it on three sides for at least a half mile in each direction.

John looked for exactly half an hour before calling the police.

He went back into the room to wait for them to come, trying to catch his breath and stop shaking. They're gone. They're gone. He paced the length of the room several times before the dull, brown painted knob jumped out at him. The whole room was paneled; some idiot had painted the once shiny doorknob to match.

Closet. John remembered, rushing forward and ripping the door open, only to find his clothing duffel and the boys' right where he left them. It felt like his heart dropped out of his body and crashed to the floor. They really were gone.

John jumped hard when the sneeze broke the silent, numb air of the room.

"Sammy?" He practically yelled, whipping around to face the open closet. Dropping to his knees, he pushed the duffels away from the walls gently, barely moving them, thinking Sam somehow got in the closet and hid himself.

The baby was on his back, right between the two duffels and hidden by their folds. His cheeks were rosy red, snot leaked down his face, and his eyes were closed. Sammy was sleeping just as peacefully as he had been when John left him in the playpen. John swept him up and held him close, feeling Sam's beads still snapped in the bottom of his onesie. He didn't even wake up. He just grabbed onto John's collar with one hand and sneezed again.

Sammy was fine.

But… where was Dean?

"Dean? DEAN?!"

The sound of a door closing had John's eyes sliding open to scan the room, the rest of him remaining motionless until he knew there was no threat in the vicinity.

With the room cleared, he got out of bed, trying to stop the shaking and sweating that lingered from the familiar nightmare, and checked on Sam. It was late, just past one in the morning. He shouldn't be up this late-

Sam was fast asleep, breathing easy and looking adorably peaceful in the top bunk.

Dean. John left the bedroom and stood in the hall just in front of Dean's door. He's fine. I found him, he's fine, he's asleep and I'm just hearing things. The light was off, and the bathroom light was off, too. He couldn't even hear the toilet tank filling. Maybe he just used the bathroom and went back to bed. That's probably what I heard. Even so, John listened hard for a few seconds and when he heard nothing- no snoring, no breathing, no shuffling- he slowly, silently opened Dean's door.

Dean wasn't there.

His back pack was.

His wallet was.

His inhaler was.

His coat was.

With a terrifying sinking feeling, John picked up his coat and looked through the pockets.

His beads weren't there. Neither was his phone.

John glanced into the bathroom on his way out of Dean's bedroom- it was empty- and searched the rest of the house before coming to a halt in the living room, his hands folded on top of his head as he tried to reign in his panic. He left.

Dean left. This can't be happening. Why didn't I see it coming? He was acting funny yesterday, I should've- maybe he's still nearby. Maybe I can change his mind. I can't lose him again!

John scribbled out a quick note to Sam, leaving it on the kitchen counter near the door, telling him what happened and where John had gone.

He was in the Impala and a few miles down the road before he realized he'd left his phone at home.

He didn't turn around.

A/N: I'm so mean to my characters. But oh, the plot is so rich... Leave me a review and let me know how you liked or disliked this chapter. What surprised you?