A/N: Vivi here! Y'all are lucky I had one night off this week and one burst of motivation to write. I've had writer's block so bad lately. (That's why Enter the World is like two weeks behind now.) Hopefully that goes away soon. You know what would help? Lots of reviews... *wink wink*

Warnings for language, violence. All previous warnings apply.

Enjoy!

Previously on John's Boys:

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.

John searched for nearly four hours. He had no idea how Dean, in the shape he was, could get away that quickly and disappear like he had. The Impala went all over town, starting with the nearby streets, then fanning out, moving toward the city center where he expected Dean would try to go.

As a last ditch effort, John went back to the house and immediately tried to call Dean's phone. It was either disconnected or dead.

"Dammit." John set his phone back on the counter and closed his eyes, which were starting to get that annoying stinging sensation. He didn't know if it was lack of sleep or emotion, but it was annoying all the same.

At least Sam was still fast asleep when John checked on him again.

"Maybe I can have the police help me look. He's in no condition to be out on his own; he'll understand when I explain it to him. He can't stay angry at me for dragging him back. Not when he has life threatening injuries and isn't thinking straight." John picked up his phone.

Then he froze.

On the little screen was a flashing symbol telling him he had two voicemails. He hadn't seen that earlier. One was from Dean's phone. The other was a number he didn't recognize.

There was no hesitation in John's mind as he pressed the phone to his ear.

It wasn't Dean's voice that came through, though.

"This is Officer Morton, I'm with the Temple PD. We picked up a young man a few minutes ago. This number was listed as 'Dad' in a phone we found in his pocket. We're going to need you to come down to the station and answer a few questions for us. Come as soon as you can."

The friendly computerized voice told him that the voicemail was from nearly three and a half hours ago, just a few minutes after John realized he left his phone at home. He kicked himself for his mistake.

The second voicemail was just as disheartening.

"Mr. Winchester, this is Officer Morton. I called this number earlier from your son's phone. I'm going to need you to come down to the station within the next three hours or we'll have to call CPS and transfer your son to a facility better equipped to handle juveniles. This is your last warning."

That was from an hour ago.

John was back in the car within ten seconds.

He arrived at the police station fifteen minutes later.

They probably think I'm a terrible parent. John tried to push his guilt aside as he walked through the doors.

At the front desk was an officer, looking bored as he stared at a computer screen. "How can I help you?"

"I'm here for my son. Officer Morton called me."

"Name?"

"John Winchester." I'm pretty sure I don't have any warrants out anymore.

The man reached around the computer screen and picked up a clipboard, checking through a few sheets of papers before looking back to the screen. "He called you three and a half hours ago, and then one hour ago, correct?"

"Yes. Is there a problem?"

"Officer Morton to the front desk. Morton to the desk." The officer before him spoke into the phone and his voice was projected through a speaker system that was presumably throughout the whole building. "Take a seat." John was directed to a small grouping of chairs lined up against one wall.

Police stations always made John feel nervous and guilty. At first, it was because he visited every police station in every town he and Sammy went to, putting out a missing child report for Dean. He never stopped doing that, no matter what his status with the law was. There was even a report out in Orem for his missing son, filed before they found Dean. Sam never knew. John never told him.

As time went on, the nerves came more from having brushes with the law, warrants out for his arrest, the risk of having Sam taken from him. He still filed a missing person's report for Dean everywhere they went, but he had to be Dean's 'uncle' sometimes.

Now, the nausea and rushing thoughts were from all the things he imagined could have happened to his son. The officer never said he was okay. Maybe the gang found him. Maybe he was mugged. Maybe he was hit by a car, or had an asthma attack. He had left his inhaler at home- the spare was in John's coat pocket, where it lived ever since Dean got his new one. Maybe Dean tried to mug someone else. But that wouldn't be like him. He could have gotten into a bar and been found to be less than twenty one; in his condition, John didn't doubt that some goodhearted bartender would call the police to get the kid out of danger. And out of his or her way. Maybe Dean called John himself before he was picked up. Maybe he just went for a walk and got lost and John didn't have his phone to answer. Maybe Dean called the police to get help and now here John was, practically four hours later finally arriving to take his kid home.

Or maybe Dean wasn't even conscious.

He hadn't been the one to leave the voicemail, after all. An officer called from his cell phone. Usually the officer would have given him a chance to call himself, to explain what happened and ask for help personally.

But Dean wasn't the one who called.

Either he didn't want to talk to John, or he couldn't.

"Winchester?"

John looked up to see a police officer in full gear, looking directly at him from a door just behind the front desk. Quickly, John stood and went to the man, who was shorter than he and holding a clipboard. "Is my son alright?"

"Follow me."

Nobody told John if Dean was okay. Officer Morton just drilled him with questions, all of which he could answer truthfully because Dean was his son and there was nothing fake about that. He was asked about Dean's relationship with his family, if he was provided for, if he was going to school, how he acted around family and strangers, on and on about Dean's life and behavior. John seemed to appease the man after about half an hour of questioning.

"Are you aware that there are missing child reports out for your son, Mr. Winchester?" Officer Morton asked, turning the computer screen so that John could see it from the other side of the officer's desk. There he saw dozens of entries, all with the same information, most with the same picture of little, five year old Dean. When Dean would have been ten, John got his five-year-old photo age adjusted, so he had an idea of what the kid could look like now. He did the same thing again when Dean would've been fifteen. The artist's rendition was close, but not close enough, apparently.

"Yes. I was the one who filed those." John pointed to the little box on the screen next to one of the entries that read his name as the person making the report. "You can fingerprint me if you don't believe me."

"Are you aware that these reports go back to when your son was five years old and continue on until two weeks ago?"

"Yes."

"Why is that?" The officer looked suspicious. He had every right to be.

John told him the truth. He had to force the words out; it was the first time he was telling anyone outside his hunting network the whole story. "He was kidnapped when he was five. We were on vacation." Well, he was mostly telling the truth. It had to be convincing, after all. "I left he and his year and a half old brother in our motel room for a few minutes to get some ice. My youngest was sick, he had a virus and a fever, poor kid was miserable." That last bit was true. Sammy always got viruses at least twice a year, ever since John could remember. He'd actually drugged Sam to sleep the night he went out and lost Dean. Sammy was still asleep when John found him in the closet. "When I got back, the door was kicked in and Dean was gone. Security footage that the police found later that day showed three people kick down the door and-"

Dean? DEAN?!

John swallowed hard. "And carry him out, toss him in a car. Didn't get the license plate, it was too far away." He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. They weren't people. They were the vampires I didn't kill. The ones that got away from that nest. After a few moments, he looked the officer in the eye. "Is my son okay? He's here, right? He didn't have to go to the hospital?"

"Why would he need the hospital?"

"He- he was in a car accident a few days ago. Messed up his head and beat him to hell. He's got a nasty concussion, been makin' him act weird the past few days. His arm is in a sling; it was dislocated." John said, wondering how the officer wouldn't have noticed that. "He's here, right?"

"Why is there a report for your son two weeks ago, John?" Officer Morton dodged John's question, wanting to get all his information before he reunited the pair.

"Because I only just found him." John was getting angry. Who the hell did this guy think he was, keeping John from his son? From the kid he'd been trying to find for twelve years?

"And you didn't report that?"

John rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. "He had pneumonia. He'd been living in Orem, homeless, and he was on death's door when I found him and took him to the hospital. Reporting him found never even crossed my mind."

"I'll fill that in, then."

John's eyes narrowed. "How did you know who my son was? He left his wallet at home." And he doesn't know his real last name. Did he actually use Winchester voluntarily?

The officer sighed heavily and looked back to John with only a hint of irritation in his expression. "When he wouldn't identify himself, we fingerprinted him. He hasn't said a word since we picked him up. Just sits there, stiff as a board." Morton looked back to his computer screen.

"Did you tell him his prints got a match?" John asked nervously. If they had, then the cat was out of the bag. Dean would know he really was John's son, and he would be pissed that John hadn't told him. That could be why he was refusing to talk to anyone.

"No. I see that his mother is deceased?"

John, relieved but strangely disappointed at the whole fingerprint ID situation, silently thanked his wife that she made the whole family go and get their prints registered a few months after Sam was born. Had Dean ever been successfully fingerprinted in the years after his kidnapping, the authorities would have located John and the pair would be reunited. Too bad Dean usually avoided the law or wormed his way out before his prints could be taken. If he doesn't know, then why is he being so quiet? "Yes, she passed away in a house fire shortly after my youngest was born."

"Sorry for your loss." The officer seemed sincere, even though he didn't look up from his screen. After a few tense moments, he picked up his clipboard once more. "Well, everything checks out."

"Is he okay?" John asked, trying to sound both compliant and forceful at the same time. No one told him what had happened. He needed to know.

"Follow me."

"Uh, can I get a copy of those print results? The ones you identified him with?"

"Yes. Follow me."

John stood and followed the officer back the way they came for a short ways before ducking down another long hall and entering locked door that the officer had a key to.

Behind the door was another hallway, but this one was lined with bars. The officer led John past about six cells on either side of them, some holding frustrated looking men or women, and some empty. Then he stopped at the end of the hall and nodded to the cell on the left.

"Dean?" John stood close to the bars after he realized that the figure seated in the corner, on a hard looking bed, was his son. He didn't look any worse for wear, but he wasn't moving either. John wouldn't know if he was actually okay until he walked.

Dean looked up with wide, fearful eyes at John's voice. He made no other action, said nothing. How did John…? Maybe he woke up and saw that I was gone and… and called the police? That doesn't sound like something he'd do. That doesn't make sense... Oh, they took my phone. The cops probably called him.

He probably doesn't even want to be here. He knows I ran. I left the house. Why did he come for me? That familiar warm feeling filled Dean's chest again at the look of concern- and lack of anger- on John's face, but with it came a gnawing shame. He had some kind of punishment coming. He just knew it. There was no way he couldn't. Slowly, it dawned on him why John had come. The bottom dropped out of his stomach. He's holding me for Lucy. She's probably on her way right now.

Officer Morton flipped through his keyring until he found the right one. He opened the sliding door of Dean's cell and stepped aside. "Dad's here to bust you out, kid. C'mon."

Slowly, Dean stood.

And John was furious.

"Where's his sling? And why the hell does he have a limp?"

The officer flinched slightly at John's outburst, but held up a placating hand as Dean trudged out of the cell, holding his arm, and stood next to John, eyes down. Dean hoped if he kept his eyes down and was as unthreatening as possible that his punishment would be less severe; maybe he would even have another chance to run before Lucy came. Acting submissive usually boded well for Dean if Jerold was involved. He didn't leave marks if Dean wasn't protesting. Not Lucy, though. To her, it didn't matter if Dean was stone-still, silent, writhing in pain, pleading, or unconscious. The woman was merciless. Dean still had nightmares.

"No personal possessions in the cells, Mr. Winchester. He'll get everything back when you sign out."

"His arm was dislocated. How long was he in there without the sling? You could've done irreparable damage to my son's shoulder."

He's still calling me his son? That's gotta be a good sign, right? Fathers don't hit their sons… right?

"Calm down, sir."

"Why is he limping?" John growled, looking his son up and down one more time. Dean was trying to look small, avoiding eye contact, and holding his bad arm with his good arm; none of those things were reassuring in the least. He had an abrasion on his forehead and cheek and some dirt caked into the front of his clothes, worse at his knees. If they tackled him, we're going to have a problem.

"My fault." Dean said quietly, not looking up.

"Why is he limping?"

"Your son ran from us when we told him to stop." Officer Morton said as he closed the cell door. "He didn't give us a choice."

John turned to Dean and put a hand on his good shoulder, trying to get him to look up. He wouldn't; he just turned his head away from the hand and closed his eyes, head hung low. Like he thought he was going to be struck.

He hiccupped.

John felt sick.

"What did they do to you?" John asked as gently as he could manage. If Dean was hiccupping, something bad had happened. "Hey, hey. I'm here now, you don't have to be scared."

"Taser. Caught his leg, he fell in the grass beside the sidewalk. He'll be sore for a while but there aren't any lasting effects. Just be glad it wasn't mace." Officer Morton said as he shrugged past them on the way out. "Follow me."

"You tased my son? Did you not see the sling? Did you not see the black eye?" John knew the police had every right to stop someone who ran from them by whatever means necessary, if they thought it worth the effort. But he was still pissed. Dean was already sore enough. He didn't need that. No matter what he had done.

"No. We didn't. He ran away from us, Mr. Winchester." The officer walked kept going, motioning for them to come.

Father and son followed the officer back to the room where John was interviewed. Officer Morton sat behind his cluttered desk and set about filling in some paperwork while John gently pushed Dean down into a chair before taking the last seat beside him. Poor kid was shaking and still hiccupping. "We'll get you some medicine and ice for your shoulder, okay? When we get home." John said quietly, trying to ease his baby's nerves.

It didn't work. Dean didn't respond in any way. Not externally, at least. You put on a good show, John. I'm sure the cop believes every word you say. Too bad I know you're working with Lucy. Too bad I let myself believe you cared about my wellbeing.

John frowned at the apathetic look on his son's face. Part of him was angry that Dean went out in the first place- he still didn't know why- and part of him was angry with the officers for hurting his son. Part of him was overjoyed that they found Dean, and part of him was glad that Dean wasn't hurt any worse. Part of him worried about why Dean was shaking and hiccupping this long after being tased, and part of him was worried about Sam waking up and finding himself alone in the house.

All of him just wanted to leave the police station with his boy intact.

"You gonna run from the police again, Dean?" Officer Morton asked as he straightened his papers and looked them over one more time.

"No, sir." Dean's voice was uncharacteristically small.

"Gonna go for walks alone at night anymore?"

"No, sir."

"Gonna listen to your Dad and stick to the straight and narrow?"

"Yes, sir." The response was barely a whisper, accompanied by a hard swallow and a guilty look to the floor.

"Pops, you gonna have speaks about this with your son?" Officer Morton looked up and set the forms on the desk between them with a pen on top.

"You better believe it."

The officer reached behind him to an old looking printer and retrieved a few sheets of paper, which he held out to John. "Before I forget, here are those print res-"

"Thank you." John said loudly and quickly, taking the papers and folding them so the words couldn't be seen. Dean didn't need to know about the print match just yet. They were only to be put to use if Dean didn't believe him when John decided to tell the kid about his father. His real father.

Morton frowned at John for a few seconds before he collected a small stack of forms from his desk and straightened them. The stack was placed in front of both Winchesters. "Sign here, Mr. Winchester, and you two are good to go. Front desk will give you your stuff back, kid."

"Just like that?" John asked, suspicious as to why they were being let off so easily. What had Dean done?

"Yeah. My partner and I just figured we scared the kid. That's why he ran. We were asking if he wanted a ride home. Kinda late at night to be walking around town alone."

He didn't do a thing. He was just trying to leave and the cops got in the way. "Thank you, officer." John meant it with every fiber of his being.

"I'm glad you found your son, Mr. Winchester." Officer Morton smiled and stood, going to the door and opening it. "Twelve years is a long time to wait."

A/N: Don't forget to leave me a review! See you next week (hopefully)!