Hour two meant snacks. Now that it was hour four, that would require something more substantial. Greg was proud of himself for knowing this and having his response time down to an art.

Ding!

The oven alerted him that the nachos were done. Dean bounded into the kitchen—

And right on time, too.

"Hey, Dad."

Greg slipped on an oven mitt and pulled the Dorito-barbecue-chicken nachos out. Dean eyed them with the dewy eyed gaze of a new parent.

"How goes the Smash Brothers tournament?" Greg asked, because that metaphor was a rabbit hole he didn't want to fall down.

Dean sighed, dramatic. "I'm losing."

"For the third straight year in a row!"

"Because someone is cheating!" Dean shouted back down the hall.

"It's not cheating if you suck."

"No, but it is if you shove my controller every time I start to win!"

Clark muttered something from the living room, a vulgar word that Greg preferred to pretend he didn't hear.

Greg wanted to be sarcastic, but he was just too thrilled that exams were over and the boys were home. Now they could decorate for Christmas. Greg had hardly slept last night, hearing Dean sleep in the next room over for the first time since September.

Needless to say, the excitement hadn't died yet.

Then Dean got quiet. He leaned his elbows on the counter, decided that wasn't comfortable enough, and shifted so his ribs leaned, facing his father.

Greg waited him out. He scooped nachos on two paper plates. Then he fired off a quick text to Ed that Clark was having Sunday supper at his house. Did nachos count as supper food?

"Hey, Dad?"

This time it was a question.

Though it was spoken in total seriousness, that new facet of maturity Greg hadn't gotten used to seeing yet, there was an undercurrent more reminiscent of a young child.

An undercurrent Greg hadn't heard in years.

The oven mitt was off in record time. He put down the spatula. "What's wrong, son?"

"N-no. Nothing's wrong, I just…"

Greg shifted forward to cup his son's cheek. Dean let him, leaning into it a little.

"What was Spike's father like?"

Blindsided. Thrown for a loop. Baffled. Take your pick of cliché, for Greg was all of them.

Greg's hand dropped and his mouth worked. He settled on, "Why do you want to know?"

"He talks about his mom a lot, when family comes up in the car." Dean shrugged one shoulder. "But whenever I ask about his dad, he won't say a word. Just that they 'didn't see eye to eye,' whatever that means."

Greg scoffed before he could stop himself. "Ha. Understatement."

"Understatement?" Dean didn't miss a thing, eyes sharp. "What was he like?"

Mulling over how to answer this, Greg circled a hand. "I think Spike is trying to protect you."

"Was he really that bad?"

Greg hesitated. "No, not in the Hollywood-ized way some fathers are portrayed. He didn't beat Spike or starve him or anything over the top like that."

"But?"

It took effort to get his voice working again. Greg rubbed at his chin and then finally made eye contact with Dean. "You have to understand, the Scarlatti family didn't have much, especially when they lived in Italy. They came here to have a better life, to start over."

"O-kay…so they were poor." Dean said it as if stating a scientific fact, no judgement.

Greg nodded. "At first, yeah."

He could see by the darting of Dean's eyes and a little crinkle on the left side of his nose that he didn't fully connect these dots. A hard lump in Greg's gut melted, caramel soft for his son.

"Dean, sometimes men who've fallen on hard times, they can't see past that hand-to-mouth need to succeed, to have money and food and other resources. You follow me?"

"…No," Dean confessed, looking sheepish about it.

Greg squeezed the back of his neck with a smile. "That's okay. I think Spike would rather you didn't. It's…"

"Complicated?"

"Something like that." Greg blew out a tense breath. "Spike chose his profession for moral reasons, to make the world a better place. Mr. Scarlatti didn't understand that. In his mind, the more money you make, the better the job. Morality is a luxury that has nothing to do with it."

A tiny flicker of understanding sparked in Dean's eyes. It grew when Greg paused and Dean had time to rake this around in his mind.

"So…" Dean spoke slowly. "He made Spike feel like a failure for wanting to help people."

"That's a very simplified way of putting it, but you're on the right track."

If anything, Dean's brow drew tighter, stormier.

Greg's voice dropped to a soft murmur. "Dean, have you heard of emotional or psychological abuse?"

"Of course."

"Do you know how it plays out?"

This time, Dean hesitated. "Sort of. It's making someone feel like they have to earn love, or playing with their emotions. Some people use intimidation."

Greg's brows shot up. "You're closer than you realize. Good job."

"That means…" Dean paled. "Spike's father did those things?"

"I think, in Mr. Scarlatti's mind, he did those things out of love. Deep down, he didn't want to see Spike get hurt at this job, either physically or because he couldn't afford a better life."

With a scowl, Dean crossed his arms. "Yeah, but manipulating someone isn't the way to show that."

Greg hummed his agreement. He regarded his son intently for a moment and marveled again that Spike had been right all along—Dean would make a fantastic cop.

"Dad?" Dean's voice, if possible, sounded even smaller, younger. "What exactly did Mr. Scarlatti do to Spike?"

Heavy, dragged from his heart, Greg sighed. "That's a question only Spike gets to answer."

"But you know the details."

"I do, of course. It isn't my place to tell. If Spike wants you to know, he'll tell you."

Dean, though visibly disheartened, nodded in resignation.

Greg tweaked his nose, just like Sophie always did to Izzy. "Besides, you have a job to do: go defend the Parker family honour by kicking Clark's butt."

"Hey!"

Dean smiled at Clark's protests. "Otherwise you'll have to hear about it at work tomorrow?"

"Now you've got the right idea!"

At the kitchen threshold, Dean turned back one last time. "Is it that bad? What Spike lived through?"

Greg didn't move for a moment. He gazed at a photo on the fridge, of Spike and Sam asleep in a pair of lawn chairs, surrounded by fireflies at their camping trip. They looked painfully young.

It struck him, not for the first time, that Ed, Greg, and Wordy were all nearly old enough to be their fathers.

The lump in Greg's throat reduced his voice to a whisper. "If you want to sleep tonight—you don't want to know."

Dean's eyes widened.

Spike frowned. "Say again?"

Ben, the dispatcher on replacement until Winnie returned, patiently complied: "A little boy was spotted wandering around the gang district. Said something to the citizen who phoned it in about a gun."

Spike turned to squint at Ed in the driver's seat. He looked just as confused.

"Is he injured?" Spike asked.

"Not exactly. But there are lines on his arms like he'd been tied up."

Ed flicked the siren. "We're on our way, Ben. Tell the citizen and the kid to stay put. Call in EMS."

"You got it."

Ed put a hand to his headset. "Team One, keep patrolling. Spike and I are just checking out a suspicious call."

Leah piped up in their ears. "Let us know if you need backup."

"Will do."

"Sounds like the action is over," Spike added. "We'll probably just be taking statements."

Ed zoomed through a stoplight. "My favourite kind of call."

Except when they got there, no adults were in sight. Nobody was in sight.

The buildings went from the gleaming silver near Dundas Square to run down, graffitied, and decrepit. People eyed the cops from under angry brows and piercings and gang tattoos, some even Spike didn't recognize.

Soon, these people too faded away.

Ed parked and had his side arm out in a heartbeat. The deserted street set both their teeth on edge. "Got a funny feeling about this one."

"This is the spot," Spike confirmed, checking his PDA again to be sure. "Should be right down this alley."

Sure enough, the sounds of a child crying filtered from behind a dumpster in the alley. Ed was about to barge right in, but Spike held him back with a hand to his bicep.

"You'll scare him," he whispered.

Ed blinked, glanced at his gun, and nodded.

Spike forced himself to relax his hard stance and crouched down, approaching the dumpster bent over. "Anybody home?"

Though almost mid-December, there was no snow on the ground. A fact Spike was thankful for. It was odd for the time of year, but it helped in situations like this.

His breath puffed out in the crisp air, joining another tiny cloud behind the dumpster.

"There you are." Spike brightened. He tried on a disarming smile when a little boy peeked out from behind skinned hands. "My name is Spike. I'm here to help."

Clad only in a T-shirt and pajama bottoms, the little boy looked like he'd been dragged from his bed. He trembled, dark eyes huge and wondering on Spike. He was wedged between the brick wall and the tilted dumpster where it created a corner.

"You wanna tell me your name?"

The boy bit his lip. "Papi says not to talk to cops."

Spike rocked back on his heels. "He does? But we're here to make sure you're safe. That can't be so bad, right?"

Considering this, the boy nodded. "You are nice cop."

Spike smiled at his jilted accent, Mexican by the sounds of it. "I sure hope so. Wouldn't be good at my job if I wasn't now, would I?"

The boy tapped his chest. "Ethan."

"Ethan!" Spike crawled further into the space. "That's a great name!"

"I'm five," said Ethan, in that unprompted way of young children. "I just start kindergarten."

"Oh? That's exciting." Spike kept chattering to examine ligature marks around the boy's wrists. Bungee cords, judging by the stretch burns. "Do you like it?"

"Mhmm! Is your name really Spike?"

"Nah." Spike winked. "It's a nickname. But I like it better than Michelangelo."

Ethan clapped his hands. "Like the turtle!"

Ed coughed, making Spike deeply wish he could throw him a rude gesture. He settled for rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. That's what everyone says. So how'd you get here, Ethan?"

Ethan's grin dropped. He edged closer to Spike with a whimper. Instinctively, Spike snapped out an arm and scooped him close. Ethan shivered, prompting Spike to whip off his range jacket and tuck it around the boy. His shivering slowed.

"The evil ones took me away and put me here. Had big gun."

A red flag shot up in Spike's mind. Ethan was too nicely groomed for a kid in this neighbourhood, yet he knew the kind of place he was in.

Ed didn't invade their little sanctuary, but his head appeared over Spike's shoulder. "Evil ones?"

Ethan leaned in closer, like he was telling a huge secret. Spike mirrored the action. "You promise you won't tell them I told you?"

Spike put his free hand—his right—over his heart. "I, Spike Scarlatti, do solemnly swear."

This seemed to satisfy Ethan. "The Cortez soldiers. They had cobras on their chests."

A shiver wormed down Spike's back. Ed's sharp breath matched his own, and both met each other's eyes with a look of dread.

Suddenly all the pieces fit.

"Ethan," Spike asked, making sure to speak clearly. "Your papi does business in this area, right?"

Ethan nodded.

"Is…" Spike licked his lips. "Is your last name Montego?"

Ethan bobbed his head. "That's me! Ethan Montego."

Bad. Badbadbadbadbad.

Spike didn't have time to freak out over this rival gang war they'd apparently stumbled into. He dearly wanted to.

But the crack of a high powered rifle exploded into the alleyway. And then another one.

It was one of those moments Spike looked back on when he got older, one of those times he couldn't capture or explain to other people no matter how hard he tried.

There was an airy, dance-like quality as adrenaline reduced the passing of time to sludge. Maybe this was how ballerinas felt, pirouette carrying them in a dizzy rush while their eyes 'spotted,' locked on a fixed point.

A graceful tail spin.

Ed's breath mingled with mortar spraying off the brick wall where both bullets hit not three inches from his cheek.

The sniper's blue eyes were brighter than the colourless sky. More turquoise than the cover of the marine biology book Spike was currently reading, on his coffee table at home.

Eyes that were completely serene. Calm. Blank.

But this wasn't what shocked Spike—

It's that those eyes were locked on Spike.

There was an active shooter—"ACTIVE SHOOTER! Need backup!" Spike screamed into his mic for good measure—but Ed only stared at Spike. Totally unblinking. Even when a third round sprayed his ear.

"Ed! Get down!"

Ed didn't move at all.

Spike shoved Ethan back and darted out, snagging a fistful of Ed's Kevlar and yanking him down behind the dumpster.

Spike breathed hard but Ed didn't, like he'd gone deaf in the ten seconds since this all went to hell. Spike yelled to be heard over the incessant sniper fire.

"Ed! See those red electrical stickers on the wall? I think we tripped something!"

Nothing. No response.

Feeling a thorn of real fear, Spike tucked his body around Ethan but kept poking Ed.

"There's no person up on the rooftop across from us. It's like the arena shooting. Automatic. The rifle should run out of bullets pretty soon and we can move."

Sure enough, the hail of gunfire ceased after a minute.

Ethan's soft weeping, combined with approaching sirens, sent Spike's stomach into a nauseous roll. He trembled a little himself.

It was this jittering against Ed's arm that woke him up. Tuned to Spike's distress, he returned with a jolt.

"I see them," were the first words out of his mouth.

Spike followed his eyes to a fire escape across from them, where two youth jumped down three at a time. Tattoo cobras wound around their collars and down their chests.

Both men shot to their feet, Spike slowed by the child in his arms. He passed Ethan off to a waiting EMT across the street—"Be good, kid!" and "Thank you, Senor Turtle!"—then shunted Ed away from the SUV. "I'm driving."

Ed didn't argue, hopping into the passenger's seat.

The Cortez's beater car squealed away from the curb in a haze of smoke and Spike pressed the accelerator to the floor.

Ed was back in leader mode. He brought the radio to his lips, the coil of cord swinging when Spike banked a sharp turn. "I need an all-points bulletin out to Team One and any cruisers in the area. I have a navy, late model GT, no hubcaps, fleeing a kidnapping and attempted murder. Be advised they are armed and dangerous."

Ed paused in a rare fit of emotion, back of his hand to his lips. Spike didn't dare take his eyes any more off the road, already going at dangerous speeds, but he was dumbfounded to his core at the ashen cast of Ed's skin.

Another turn! Spike threw the wheel to the left. The two men swayed.

It happened so fast that Spike didn't have time to wonder, and the pressure wasn't faint this time, even squeezing a little.

Spike didn't look at Ed. Didn't need to—the hand on his crown said enough. Ed removed it briefly to whip off his glove using his teeth, now bare skin against the thick folds of Spike's hair.

The sensation was weirdly grounding. Spike didn't let himself dwell on it too much.

"We are in pursuit but we need a roadblock as soon as possible! Team One, you're with me. Leah, Jules, cut them off at the overpass."

Ed's voice gave nothing away, rock steady. Ready for anything. A bolt of normalcy and staid assurance in the chaos.

The hand in Spike's hair, however, didn't stop shaking for nearly twenty minutes.