Flagstaff

It takes a disproportionate amount of effort for John and his rubbery limbs to ascend the squat steps to the pockmarked cement porch of their dismal rental, the barrel of the shotgun scraping as it drags at his side. The ritual post-hunt full-body physical crash isn't far in his future, and he needs the thin aluminum rail to assist his climb, grateful his boys aren't outside to see their father dragging his tired body this short distance like a frail old man. Just more ammunition for Sammy, more guilt for Dean. He opens the front door and drops the key ring into his jacket pocket, struck immediately by how quiet it is in the house. The boys aren't traditionally quiet, even now that they're older and less prone to horsing around. Even when they aren't hollering at each other, Dean's usually blaring something in the tape deck of the stereo. Nothing now, the sound system is dark, silent.

"Dean?" John drops his bag next to the door, bends gingerly to prop the double-barrel against the wall, mindful of his sore midsection. "Sam?" They should have heard him in the house by now, as he's not exactly known to be quiet, either. He makes his way through the living room toward the cramped galley kitchen with slow, heavy steps, held up just short of the threshold by the sight of Dean pacing with his head down, cutting a frantic path across the stained, torn linoleum like he didn't hear his father approach, like he doesn't see him standing here now. John crosses his arms and leans against the molding, going for casual as opposed to bone-weary. "Hey, kid."

Dean startles on a pivot, trips over his own feet and falls into one of the chairs. It scrapes across the cheap faux tiling. Flustered, he quickly steadies himself against the narrow tabletop. "Dad, hey. Hi. I didn't hear you come in. How'd it go, you, uh, you okay?"

John quirks an amused eyebrow. "Yeah, Dean, I'm good. Everything went fine." His amusement cuts quickly to a frown as he surveys the room. There are some things he's come to expect from leaving his boys for a few days, like the sight of the sink overflowing with soiled dishes or the fact that every light in the damn house seems to be on. Electricity ain't free, boys. What's strange is the way every cellular or satellite telephone that wasn't in the car is lined up on the table in a neat row; what's concerning is the crowded counter behind his twenty-year-old son that somewhat resembles a liquor store stockroom. He straightens from the wall and fully enters the room, irritation giving weight to his steps and concealing his limp. "This is not why I got you that ID, Dean." He grabs up an empty vodka bottle and studies the label. Not even the good stuff. "When the cat's away, the mice will play, huh? You givin' this shit to your brother now?"

"What?" Kid's eyes are bugging near out of his head, enough to have John momentarily wondering if the booze is the only thing he's been indulging in while his old man's been away. Certainly wouldn't be the first time he had to toss Dean's room looking for a stash. "No, Dad, of course Sammy didn't…and, I mighta had a couple of…beers but, Dad, I didn't…I mean, I wasn't…"

It's not like him to ramble on like this, and John rolls his tired eyes. "What the hell're you on about, Dean? Spit it out." The hell's wrong with you, kid? His frown deepens as the silence in the house grows more pronounced. He glances at his wristwatch, sees it's well-past what any conventional family would deem dinnertime. "Your brother not home from school yet? He join another damn club again?" He knows he's throwing inquiries at Dean like high-speed pitches, but he's used to it by now.

Dean shakes his head and leans heavily against one of the chairs, wrapping his fingers tightly around the curved metal top, and averts his eyes. "No, he, uh, hasn't come home yet. Or in a few days."

John blinks. "Excuse me?"

Dean throws a hand out in a sweeping gesture to where the phones are laid out like targets in a shooting gallery. "He took off again. I looked for him everywhere, but I haven't been able to – "

"And that wasn't the first thing out of your mouth why?" The color draining from his son's face must be transferring to John's own, to judge the furious flush he feels rising in his cheeks.

Dean gapes a long moment. "Dad, I tried to call – "

John isn't about to allow this to be put on him. "And where the hell were you when he took off?"

"I was here, Dad, I swear to God. He snuck out the other night while I was sleeping."

Was passed out, is more like. John spins on his heel, knocks a cluster of empty beer bottles to the floor with a crash that communicates the accusation and sends Dean stumbling back. Glass tinkles and cracks under his boot heel as he steps forward, slamming a palm on the table. "Damn it! How many times have I told you to take care of your brother? The rules don't change, Dean. I don't care if he's two or he's twelve or he's twenty."

Dean squints, swallows. Embarrassment, frustration, and his own flush of anger play out over his features but he gives into none of it with words, just stands there and nods. The polar opposite of his brother.

John runs a hand over his unshaven face, scratching a fresh scab under his chin. He pushes his aches away for the moment, forces his voice to remain calm and steady as he asks, "How long's he been gone?"

"A coupla days."

And calm goes right out the open window. "Damn it, Dean. I'VE been gone a couple of days!"

Dean knocks his knuckles roughly against the tabletop and levels his gaze at John. There's something there he's never seen before, something he's too exhausted to attempt to define. "You've been gone almost two weeks, Dad. Seasons changed while you were away." He draws in a breath, chews the inside of his cheek. The one thing Dean's always shown that Sam never seemed to get a handle on: forethought, restraint. Something he clearly got from his mother because he sure as hell didn't get it from John. "You missed his play."

John raises his eyebrows, takes long steps back to the cache on the counter. It's damn near time for a drink, this keeps on in the direction he thinks it will. "I thought he wasn't even in this one, just running the light board or something."

"He was technical director, Dad, and it was really important to him."

John nods with pursed lips and surveys the line, checking out his options. "Maybe I should have asked the monster I was hunting to kindly stop killin' folk because I had to make the first act, 'cause my son was backstage pushing buttons."

"Maybe you just could have called 'im," Dean says loudly, but while something's cranked his volume up it's not nastiness or even defiance in his voice, just a simple plea. Maybe that's what was in his eyes, too. "He just wants to feel like a priority, Dad."

Like if John had shown up for a few more parent-teacher meetings over the years or made an appearance at a talent show, Sam wouldn't pull this bull anymore. Dean would have made just as fine an actor as Sam. John can plainly see his oldest boy is beginning to feel the truth slipping from the excuses he continues to make for his brother. These defenses sound more like lines he's reciting in his own play. Do you even buy the shit you're peddlin' anymore, Dean-o?

John drags a tall bottle from the counter, one that still contains a few inches of amber liquid sloshing around the base. "And exactly how many people do I need to allow to die for your brother to feel like a priority?" He drinks straight from the bottle, savors the burn in his throat, the heat that goes immediately to work softening the edges.

"That's not fair, Dad." Dean shakes his head, exhales roughly. He looks away, and looks so much older than his twenty years. It isn't the first time John's had to remind himself how young his boy really is. The early setting sun isn't doing him any favors, exaggerating the shadows under his eyes, evidence of his sleepless, vigilant nights, waiting up or searching for the little brother that never gives a damn what sort of damage he causes with his antics. Dean opens his mouth but lets it fall closed, holds his tongue. Exercises his mother's restraint.

But John's intrigued now, stoking a buzz that's topped off with a heaping dollop of exhaustion, and he's in no mood for these passive aggressive games when there's a son to drag home and a mess to clean up. If Dean's going to make a move now, he wants to get on with it. "What?"

"Nothing."

"No. No, go on and say it." He knocks back another mouthful of warm whiskey and dares his boy with bright, unblinking eyes. Say it. Sammy's not here to hear you, so say it.

"It's just…you don't have to agree with how he feels, Dad, but you don't have to be a dick about it."

Dean's been playing both sides for years now, telling the both of them what they want to hear, and it's some combination of built-up frustration and complete exhaustion that has John's hand shooting out to pop the back of Dean's head like he's a misbehaving boy, like he isn't a hop, skip, and a jump away from being an adult in his own right. Like John hasn't done in years.

Dean ducks away and brings his left arm up to block the swing. He immediately, sheepishly drops his arm and takes a step back. "Sorry," he mumbles. "That was out of line."

John doesn't acknowledge or accept the apology. He flattens his palms against the counter, allows himself fall into a staring match with the swallow or two that remains in the bottle in front of him. They're all playing each other in this house, and not as well as they used to. "How much cash does he have?"

"Whatever was in my wallet when he snaked it." Dean pauses for a moment, in which he actually seems to debate lying to his father. "Maybe two, two-fifty."

John shakes his head, disappointed for real and not just for show, and loses the battle with the whiskey. He pulls it close again. "Haven't we talked about keeping all your damn cash in one place?"

"Yes, sir."

"What about the cards?"

"Already canceled them." Dean's tone is steely, his jaw clenched. "But Sammy's not gonna use them."

"No, you're right, he's not." He caps the empty bottle, adds it to Dean's pile of discards. That's how they found him the last time he pulled this stunt, near eight months and twelve hundred miles ago. Sam had one credit card of his own, for emergencies only, and spitefully took it out of play, maxed it out on three nights at a mid-tier hotel chain one bus stop East of Chambersburg because John had committed the heinous offense of missing some scholastic awards banquet, held up dispatching a pair of chupacabras in Texas with Jim Murphy. Sam can't seem to grasp the fact that he will never trade an innocent life for a piece of paper, no matter what that paper might say.

Suddenly panic-stricken once more, Dean crosses the distance between them. "He could be anywhere. Dad, he could be…"

Jesus, Dean. John reaches out, grabs Dean's upper arm and squeezes, forces his son look up at him. "He's fine, Dean. He's just fucking with us." He releases his grip, eyes searching the kitchen for another drink. "Get a hold of yourself. He's still in town, most like."

"How could you know that? It's been days."

"Because he's doing this for attention, and he can't get that if we can't find him."

"Yes, sir." Gritted, forced out from behind stubborn lips that bit down around the words, that's for damn sure.

John sighs, lifts his eyes to squint out the window at the setting sun. "I'm really disappointed in you, Dean."

"I know."

It takes another week but they find him in town, just like John said they would. Actually catch the twerp walking out of a convenience mart as they're driving past. He'd been holed up in a trailer park renting a tiny rusted piece of crap for one-fifty a week, throwing all of the cash he stole from Dean into shelter, leaving pocket change for food. He's a little on the lean side, grumpy from hunger, and seems unbelievably pleased with himself. No matter how he tries, and does he ever try, John can't seem to reach a volume that wipes the smirk from his face.

The whole time John's yelling, Dean is skulking in the corner, looking sucker-punched, and John knows Sam won't ever get the chance to run out on his brother again. Knows a lot of things won't ever happen again.

Author Note: The skeleton of this scene was scrapped from my mulit-chap, then taunted me from my "drafts" folder, like "what, I'm not just not good enough for your story, but not good enough for you at all?" And I'm not about to be treated like that by a Word doc, so I made it my bitch instead. Maybe. We'll see. Thanks for stopping by!