"Demons lie, John."
That was the third time those words had come out of Singer's mouth since they left the abandoned warehouse outside of Minneapolis. John clenched the steering wheel of the Sierra with a death grip to avoid snarling at his friend, because if the salvage man tried to say it one more time, John was going to start throwing punches.
"Yeah," he seethed, swirls of red rage dancing around the corners of his vision. "But they tell the truth if it hurts more."
The entire hunt had been one enormous clusterfuck. Now exhausted, bloody, bruised and drained, John was flooring the gas pedal to race back to his kids.
Demon possessions were rare.
Even Singer, who was the hunting community's go-to guy on demonology, only came across a handful of them in any given year. Once Missouri had convinced John that it had, in fact, been a demon that had killed his Mary, it was Bobby's expertise on the subject that had been the reason John sought him out in the first place.
That was almost fifteen years ago. The Winchesters had arrived in Sioux Falls in the early hours of a cold February morning and John had unabashedly interrupted Bobby's first cup of coffee with an insistence on learning everything and anything demon related.
Bobby Singer didn't like people. In fact, the less he had to be subjected to outsiders, the better, and he really didn't like people that messed with his caffeine fix.
It was an aversion that didn't always jibe with either of his professions. The ramshackle salvage yard he had inherited from his bastard of a father did okay financially, but it could have done a lot better with an owner that didn't scare off customers with his distrusting glares and ever present aroma of whiskey.
The hunting he did so that some other poor clueless schmuck wouldn't have to kill his possessed wife, and while Bobby could pretext with the best of them he didn't actually like being around civilians once the case was put to bed.
Something changed the day the grieving little family showed up at his house. In John's eyes he saw the same pain and determination Bobby had been seeing in the mirror every morning since Karen.
This wasn't a civilian.
He already knew from Missouri that Winchester was an up and comer in the hunting world and the similarities of their introductions into the life had Bobby more willing than normal to offer assistance.
Then there were the boys.
A little six year old with spiky light brown hair and piercing green eyes that alternately glared distrustfully at Bobby and then shined wide with fear at the unfamiliar surroundings. Bobby's first glimpse of him was as he hid halfway behind his father's tall broad stance, clutching Winchester's leather coat in his little hands.
In the man's arms, halfway asleep, was a toddler with a mop of chocolate brown curls and flushed pink cheeks. He clung to his daddy like a little spider monkey, head buried in Winchester's neck and sucking a thumb that his father repeatedly removed while the two men spoke.
John was a man that was walking a precarious line between being emotionally wrecked and obsessively driven. A former Marine who had lived through the horrors of Vietnam, only to come home, marry the love of his life and father two beautiful boys before being thrown head first into the supernatural world.
Winchester feared for his boys in a way that a childless man like Singer could only guess at. Bobby couldn't blame him a bit. After only a few days in his house, he himself was falling in love with the two adorable rugrats, against all good reason and sense.
Sadly, as the little family infiltrated his solitary life, enjoying their company ripped open the gaping wound left by his last fight with his Karen over his unwillingness to give her a child. An excruciating pain that had him reaching for the bottle a little more than usual. He hadn't wanted to risk becoming a man like his father had been, but her tears over his angry words would haunt his days forever.
Dean was a tiny force of nature. A tough sturdy little boy, equal parts mischief and good manners. He hero worshiped his father and tenderly doted on his little brother. There wasn't anything little Sammy needed that Dean didn't run to provide, from a snack to a cuddle, or even help with a diaper change. John never had to tell him twice to do anything, and even childless Bobby knew that six year olds didn't just obey like that usually.
The baby was as inquisitive as every child that age. He waddled around the old house at impressive speeds, getting into everything and anything, with his hawk-eyed miniature guardian glued to his side to make sure he never got hurt. Sammy was happiest climbing all over his father as John sat hunched over Bobby's kitchen table reading every book the salvage man put in front of him.
After a few moments of jumping and tugging John would settle the toddler on his lap with a picture book of his own and the two would sit with identical distracted looks on their faces while they leafed through the pages. Dean would flop down on the floor as close to his father and brother as he could physically place himself and sit, perfectly content, as he quietly played with whatever toy had caught his interest.
What had originally started as a plea for knowledge turned into an extended stay.
For all of Bobby's abhorrence of people he bonded with John and his boys in a way he never had before. He enjoyed the lively sounds of children scampering through the aging home, bringing a semblance of happiness to the house that had been missing since Karen's death. The old place hadn't known the laughter of a child before. In Bobby's lifetime anyway.
John was proud but obviously struggling financially. His complete mania about refusing to keep his boys in any one place too long saw the little family in perpetual motion, but their nomadic lifestyle took money that was hard to come by and it was beginning to show in the well worn clothes and tattered toys.
Bobby had offered his place for as long as they needed it but John wouldn't stay without paying his way, a quiet dignity in his refusal to accept a handout even from kindred spirit like Singer. He was, in fact, preparing to leave until old Mrs. Hillstrom brought her belching heap of a Buick to the salvage yard looking for help.
The other garages in the area refused to do a nonprofitable patch job on a car with almost no book value and little prospect of repeat business, and it might have been slightly to their credit that none of them were keen to take advantage of a senior on a fixed income by jacking up the estimates unnecessarily.
Bobby's place had been her last desperate hope. He took a cursory look under the hood and sighed, scratching his head under his well worn ball cap as he tried to come up with a civil way of telling her that he agreed with the others. Fortunately for her John had come outside with the boys all bundled up for a last run around the grounds before being packed into the car for their imminent departure.
He had seen the old lady's weepy eyes and walked over to see if he could help and Bobby could see that behind the grief and obsession Winchester was naturally a kind and gentle man. Mrs. Hillstrom had tearfully choked out the story of how the ancient beast of a car had been her late husband's last gift to her and she couldn't bear to part with it. It wasn't worth nothing in Bobby's opinion, money-wise, but sometimes there were more important things than money.
John had patted her shoulder warmly, one grieving spouse to another, before telling Dean to take Sammy back into the house to look at his picture books. Without asking anyone's consent he got in the car and pulled it into the empty bay across from the house and less than thirty minutes later had it purring like a kitten. Mrs. Hillstrom was still crying, this time with joy, as she attempted to push a small handful of cash at John's chest. Only for him to waive her off and nod in Bobby's direction.
Partial payment for the last few days of room and board for him and his kids, Bobby knew. Even though the younger man was flat broke himself his pride had him doing the honorable thing.
During their initial meeting Winchester had briefly mentioned having experience as a mechanic, but Bobby hadn't realized just how skilled the younger man actually was. After that it didn't take much convincing to keep John at the salvage yard, working out an agreement for housing, knowledge and a bit of cash in exchange for occasional repair jobs.
It took a few weeks for Dean to finally relax around Bobby enough that he didn't watch the salvage man's every move with a suspicious eye when he walked within five feet of his little brother. His brilliant green eyes already had a penetrating stare enough to unnerve Singer and actually had him wondering exactly when he had become someone who got intimidated by a six year old.
The little boy wasn't a big talker either unless it was to answer one of the baby's babbling questions that only his big brother seemed to understand. Dean's entire early vocabulary to Bobby consisted only of 'Good Morning', 'Good Night', 'Please', 'Thank You', 'Yes, Sir' and 'No, Sir'.
Singer had initially been concerned with Dean's lack of vocal skills but it hadn't taken too long for him to realize that the six year old was exceptionally chatty with his father and brother when he didn't realized he was being watched. At six Dean should have at least been in kindergarten already but John had kept him away from school so far. From the limited conversation they had held regarding that decision Bobby got the distinct impression it was more over worry about having his boy among a bunch of strangers than about not wanting Dean educated.
Dean could already read, which surprised Bobby early in the stay. He soon realized though that whenever Sammy was put down for a nap, and there were no repair jobs for John to do, Dean would crawl into his father's lap and John would patiently help his son read book after book. Something the young father had apparently been doing for some time.
The little boy knew basic addition and subtraction as well. It wasn't unusual for Bobby to come into a room and hear Dean chatter to Sammy about how many building blocks he could add and take away as they made towers on the carpet in the living room. It didn't seem to matter that Sammy had no idea what Dean was talking about.
The baby would listen wide eyed and smiling to anything his big brother said to him.
Dean was obviously very bright and, to his credit, John spent a good deal of time encouraging his son's intellectual curiosity. Singer still thought the boy needed to be around more kids that just his brother but he wasn't about to pick a fight with John over his parenting choices just yet.
It took almost two months of living together for Dean to allow Bobby to be alone with Sam for any length of time. With the South Dakota weather still too cold for the baby, Dean would run back and forth between the semi-exposed bay, when John would work on the occasional repair, and the house where Sammy napped on the couch in Bobby's living room.
It would have been cute if Bobby didn't see just how frenzied the little boy became when separated from either of his family members.
The warding around the Singer home made John tolerably comfortable that it was relatively safe for his children, but only barely, and by the time Sammy's second birthday rolled around three months into their stay the protective father was chomping at the bit to be on their way again and put his newfound knowledge to use.
Although Bobby himself managed to live above board most of the time he gave John careful instruction on how to work a hunter's credit card fraud to keep his little family housed and fed. Initially, Winchester had been reluctant. His hesitation a throwback to a time when the former Marine couldn't imagine acting so dishonestly.
Eventually, the young father had accepted that it was a price he needed to pay to care for his children if they were going to continue their search instead of settling back down. John had picked up pool and poker in the Corps and Rufus, Bobby's occasional hunting partner and mentor, taught John how to use those skills to hustle to bring in some fast cash on the road.
There had only been a little money from the sale of the house in Lawrence. John and Mary had owned it just a few short years before the fire and it had a hefty mortgage that needed to be paid off first. The money had lasted for the first year or so, but John was well and truly broke now. In retrospect, as finances got tight, John had often lamented just giving his share of the garage to his former partner Mike Gunther in a fit of anger after an argument they had over John's growing absence from work and his increasingly manic insistence that the fire had been unnatural.
More worrisome had been the way that Mike's wife Kathy had grown attached to the boys with an undisguised longing in her eyes. John wasn't taking the chance that she wouldn't cross a line about questioning his fitness as a father and eventually he had just grabbed the boys and booked, never looking back.
On Sammy's second birthday they had held a small party for the baby at the salvage yard. Just enough of a celebration to take a few pictures and have a cake with two candles that Dean helped blow out. John had been putting aside his share of the cash from the repair jobs and he used a bit of that to buy some clothes and toys for Sammy and some for Dean too as a big brother present. It had seemed like a nice day.
That had been the first night that Bobby saw John take a drink of something stronger than beer.
Hours after the boys had been put to bed Bobby had walked by their room to see John sitting propped up against the headboard of Dean's bed with both of the boys asleep in his arms. The younger man was crying softly as he clutched his children to his chest, the blurry haze of whiskey making him oblivious to Bobby's shadowy presence in the open doorway. Bobby walked away quietly, unable to stomach the naked pain on John's face.
He wasn't surprised to wake up the next morning and find John already packing the Impala. Whatever brief period of peace the younger man had found at the salvage yard was clearly over. Singer could only imagine that a night crawled into the bottom of a bottle of Hunter's Helper had helped John dull the pain of missing his wife on their baby's birthday, but in the light of day it was clearly time to move on.
Bobby watched the little family pull away from his home that day, not knowing how long it would be until he saw them again, and not realizing just how much he was going to miss them all.
For a man who had spent years living on his own, and being okay with that, the house suddenly seemed cold and empty without the constant buzz of little boys running around. The absence of John's companionship hit him harder that Bobby would have guessed. The two men had much in common and there had been many nights of quiet conversation you could only share with someone who had walked in your own shoes.
Rufus served as a hunting and drinking partner for a long time before this, but even his friendship didn't replace the hole in Singer's heart that the Winchesters now occupied.
They kept in contact. John called occasionally for help with various hunts and Bobby was glad to hear that Dean did go to school in the fall. He even managed to convince John to bring the boys up for Thanksgiving, which turned out to be easier than expected since the young father was already pulling Dean out of the school he had been attending to go hunt a banshee in Nevada.
Bobby had wanted to say something about moving the kids around so much but he held his tongue. It wasn't his place to give anyone advice on child rearing. When the little family did arrive in Sioux Falls the boys looked happy and healthy and that was what was important.
It was John that worried him.
In just the few months they had been gone the younger man had grown a little harder, his eyes a little colder, as the hunting life claimed him. He still doted on his kids but his demeanor towards Bobby was less companionable, more professional. There were fewer relaxed conversations that didn't directly relate to hunting and a return of the whiskey soaked evening on Thanksgiving night after the boys were sleeping.
A few days later John took Dean out to the back lot to shoot targets for the first time. Bobby had worried about putting a gun in the little boy's hands but the young father was dead set on it and there wasn't any changing his mind. When Dean bullseyed every single target his dad's eyes shone with pride, but the salvage man's were full of sadness.
And so the visits came and went over the years.
As hard as Winchester tried, the hunting life spilled over in his family's life on more than one occasion. Dean had been old enough to remember the night his mother died so there had never been any chance of protecting his innocence, but John did try desperately to shield Sammy for as long as he could.
During their visits Singer watched the boys grow strong and confident. Closer to each other than conjoined twins, they would chase each other around the house and the salvage yard while their father studied and pressed Bobby for new leads and information on demon sightings.
Sammy followed after his big brother everywhere, hanging on Dean's every word like it was gospel, in the same manner that Dean shadowed their father. In return Dean cared for his little brother like a mother hen, his attention only increasing as they grew and beginning to include their father as well as John became more focused on his mission.
Sammy was just about to start school when Jim Murphy had called Bobby to tell him that a Shtriga that John had been hunting had found it's way to the motel room where the boys were holed up. Almost claiming the youngest Winchester's life before his father followed the trail back to his children and chased it off.
The distraught father had driven like a man possessed to get his kids safely to Blue Earth, out of harm's way, and was unfortunately too late to finish the kill when he returned to the motel, missing the end of the feeding cycle.
After John returned to collect the boys from Jim's place he brought them to the salvage yard for what Bobby hoped was a break to collect themselves after the near disaster that had almost claimed Sammy, but he was wrong. There was an indescribable tension between John and Dean when they arrived. Something more than just the receding adrenaline rush of a hunt gone bad and the debilitating panic of almost losing their youngest.
John was dark and stormy, his eyes narrowing in anger one minute and guilt laden the next. Dean, who had never hesitated to cuddle up to his father for story or a lesson on car repair, was suddenly withdrawn and distant. Avoiding his dad like the plague unless he was directly addressed and watching Sammy's every movement like the little boy was made of glass.
A few days into their stay John caught a case in Oklahoma and, for the first time, he consented to leave the boys in Bobby's care. A strict command to Dean to spend time working on his skills with the double barrel shotgun left the boy crushed for some unknown reason because the kid loved to shoot. Bobby didn't fail to notice that Dean couldn't even look his dad in the eye when John walked out the door.
That was the first time that Singer balked at John's parenting. Instead of having Dean shoot one day he took the kid to the park to toss a ball around. He knew there would be hell to pay, but he would be the one to pay it, not the boy. Sure enough, when John checked in by phone, he was furious, but when he returned he spent time with Dean shooting and playing a few games of catch, and while their relationship warmed back up the unease still lingered for a while.
After that Bobby saw them occasionally for a day or two between hunts. It was getting harder to hide the hunting world from Sammy as he got older, especially in Bobby's house where every surface was covered with the world of the strange. The kid wasn't dumb, after all, and Singer wasn't surprised to find out that the cat was out of the bag just before Dean had his thirteenth birthday.
That new development brought even more unfortunate changes to the family dynamic.
Sammy, who had always been verbal and opinionated, started to become downright belligerent around his father. John's ever increasing passion for the hunt came at the expense of his formerly gentle manner and now there was an ever present underlining tension between himself and his youngest son. Whereas Dean obeyed blindly and never asked questions, all Sammy did was buck his father's orders, no matter how innocuous they were.
Bobby hadn't failed to notice that the amulet he had given Sam to gift to John was worn proudly around Dean's neck instead, and he chose to make no mention of that little tidbit of information. Devoted to them both, Dean bent over backwards to play peacemaker, but he was still just a kid too and not always perfect no matter how hard he tried.
They came to Sioux Falls at the beginning of the summer after Sammy turned nine and from the moment they walked into the house a fight was brewing between the boys. Nothing out of the ordinary for normal brothers, but decisively out of character for the Winchesters. For three days the boys bickered and tussled and pushed each other's buttons. John scolded, sent them out for runs to work off energy, confined them to separate rooms and downright ordered them to behave or else.
They would stop for a while, cowed and subdued, only to kick up another fuss a few minutes later.
Eventually everything came to a head one sunny afternoon, and the next thing John and Bobby knew the boys were brawling and throwing punches, banging around the living room like little bulls in a china shop. Culminating in a tumbling ball of skinny arms and legs crashing into an end table and sending a lamp shattering against the faded wallpaper walls.
John had had enough by that point, lunging after his kids sprawled on the floor still going at it as he grabbed at flailing limbs, hauling the troublemakers up in two clean jerks of the backs of their shirts. Deadly silent he marched them upstairs to the room they shared, and even from a distance Bobby could hear the unmistakable sounds of a belt smacking skin and teary apologies of contrite boys.
Something snapped inside of him. The echos of his own miserable childhood roaring back at lightening speed. A fury built inside of him, ringing in his ears and clouding his vision. The whole event couldn't have lasted more than five minutes, but to the salvage man time had suddenly stood still as he drowned in memories of the past.
When John lumbered back down, apologies on his lips, Bobby let him have both barrels of his pent up and repressed emotions. During this tirade consisting of accusations of bastard fathers and beaten children, Winchester grew scarily quiet, an eerie darkness in his eyes, letting the older man speak his piece. Without a word of retort he calmly cleaned up the mangled lamp before heading back upstairs. His anger spent, Bobby stood motionless in his empty living room for the few minutes that it took John to collect his kids.
He watched the boys as they trudged down the stairs, red faced and sniffling, but perfectly fine otherwise. There were no bruises, black eyes or broken bones that had been the hallmark of discipline in the Singer household. John was stone cold sober, unlike Bobby's old man most days, and the Winchester boys hadn't been cruelly beaten under the stench of cheap bourbon and stale sweat.
Sam, clingy since infancy when he was upset, was holding tightly to John's hand and unabashedly rubbing his tear tracked and snotty face into his father's sleeve as they walked. Clearly not petrified of his father the way Bobby had been of his own. Dean behind them, guilt radiating off of him in waves as he surreptitiously stole glances towards the table where the lamp had once resided. He uncharacteristically glared at Bobby, having obviously overheard some of the salvage man's rant against his dad, and the boy's undisguised ire was like a punch to the gut.
Belatedly Bobby realized that they were all carrying their duffels, fully packed and ready to go. John pressed the boys for an apology in Bobby's direction before politely thanking him for his hospitality and leaving a fifty on the table where the lamp had been. Without another word he led the boys out to the car and drove off, the Impala's wide tires kicking up gravel as they sped down the driveway.
Bobby didn't see them again for almost three years.
Realizing too late that he had allowed his own unresolved issues over his father's abuse spill over into his relationship with John and the boys, he had reached out to Winchester on several occasions. Firstly under the pretense of sending him hunts and lore books for a while before working up the courage to ask them back for a visit. John never took him up on the visits but he didn't stop the boys from talking to Bobby on the phone either.
Jim Murphy saw them occasionally and he was kind enough to keep Bobby updated. The Winchesters had stayed with him in Blue Earth for a while after John took a beating on a hunt and needed some down time. They boys were fine, Jim assured him. Making friends and happy, but Bobby still missed seeing them and his heart ached from the painful memory of their parting.
With contact limited he was jerked awake by the late night arrival of the Impala's distinctive engine roaring up his driveway. He was waiting at the door, fear piercing his heart over the unexpected visit. In the darkness of the yard John hefted his youngest, wrapped up in a blanket, out of the back seat and towards the house. An icy panic washed over Bobby for a split second before he realized that the boy was just deeply asleep and not injured.
Still small for almost twelve, Sammy was no trouble for his dad to carry up to their old room and settle onto the bed without waking him. Bobby stood in the threshold, biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood as his mind raced with worry over Dean's whereabouts. He waited patiently, not wanting to spook John into taking off again, until the two men were back down in the living room.
Over a large tumbler of whiskey John told him about Dean getting caught shoplifting after gambling their food money away. Dean had been taken to a boy's home, CPS circling like sharks after the scent of blood. To protect the son John still had in his possession he had been forced to leave Dean at the home until he was sure that Sam would be somewhere safe but he desperately needed to get back to New York.
Still wracked with guilt over their last encounter, Bobby had sworn to care for and protect Sammy until John could reunite his little family. Winchester had already proven that he could and would keep his children away from Singer or anyone else if his parenting was questioned. He was a far different man now than the one Bobby had met years earlier. Sharper, colder and even ruthless to various degrees, but still frantic to protect his boys.
Bobby was at the kitchen table drinking his fourth cup of coffee by the time Sam had ambled down the stairs the next morning. The house was overpowered by the smell of eggs and bacon, so heavy that the yard dogs were whining hopefully on the porch for the treat they knew would be forthcoming. Sam's face was scrunched up in a still drowsy wakefulness as he padded across the living room in his pajamas and bare feet. He gave Bobby a shy hug and then slumped down in the chair next to him.
"Hi, Uncle Bobby."
"Hey Sam," Bobby answered, his voice breaking a little as emotion flooded his throat. He was just so goddamn glad to see the kid again. "You want some breakfast, boy?"
Sam shook his messy head and leaned over sleepily to rest his forehead in the crook of his arm.
"Dad's been making me eat, like, a million times a day, since he got back."
Bobby's face puckered into a frown hearing that. When John had explained what happened with Dean he wondered what kind of straits the boys had been left in.
"Maybe he was worried you hadn't been eating enough when he was away," Bobby said gently. "Had Dean been making sure you boys were eating okay?"
Sam picked his head up and stared at Bobby as if the man had suddenly grown ten heads.
"Of course he did. He made us mac and cheese with hot dogs just before he left that night."
The young boy seemed affronted at any insinuation that his big brother hadn't been taking care of him. Sam looked healthy and well fed enough at any rate and Bobby decided not to press the issue as to whether or not that meal had consisted of the last of whatever food the boys had in their room.
"Your daddy left a few hours ago," he replied instead, changing the subject.
Sam stretched and yawned, idly scratching the tangled rat's nest of his bedhead.
"I know. He woke me up to say goodbye."
Curious as always, Sam's eyes wandered around the room, scanning the piles of books scattered on the desks and shelves. He got up from the table abruptly and wandered over to a stack perched precariously on the old desk in the corner.
"Can I look at these?"
Bobby glanced at the collection quickly and deemed the volumes harmless enough considering what John probably already had the boy reading. He nodded his consent and watched as Sam grabbed one and curled up on the couch.
The lack of conversation wasn't like Sam. He talked damn near constantly ever since the first day his daddy had carried him into the house. Singer watched him cautiously out of the corner of one eye, the silence thick and heavy between them. He finished his fifth cup and had poured his sixth, grabbing a few strips of bacon out of the warm pan and opened the door just wide enough to toss them to the mutts before being startled by Sam's voice behind him.
"He wasn't supposed to be hunting," Sam stated with shaky words. "He was mad at Dad."
The boy's face was grief stricken, his lower lip beginning to tremble as he sat hunched up on the sofa looking small and vulnerable. Bobby had sighed deep because John had warned him that Sammy had been told that Dean was missing from a hunt. Why that story and not the truth, he hadn't asked, not really wanting the answer.
"Dean?"
Sam nodded and reached up to brush away a stray tear.
"A couple of weeks ago, Dad took us to New York City on a werewolf hunt. He even brought us sightseeing afterwards."
Sammy was smiling at the memory even though his shoulders were trembing and Bobby smiled too at the idea of the little family doing the tourist bit.
"But then Dean snuck out to go to some club and Dad had to go find him," Sam continued. "They had a big fight and Dean got really mad at Dad and yelled at him. Dean never yells at Dad."
Sam's eyes were wide in disbelief, as if he was still processing the idea that Dean would ever be that disrespectful to John. Frankly, Bobby's eyes probably looked the same.
"Dean wasn't supposed to leave our room when we moved to Hurleyville. Dad said he was grounded. So he shouldn't have been hunting in the first place."
Bobby had had no answer to that simple statement of fact. It was clearer now why Dean had chosen to gamble the food money, possibly as a fit of rebellion and not necessarily need. The cocky sixteen year old probably hadn't imagined a scenario where he would lose the cash and then need to steal to feed his brother and himself, let alone get caught doing it.
Bobby wanted to comfort Sam but he wasn't going to risk the tenuous truce that he had going with John by revealing the whole story. Instead he took a seat next to Sam on the couch and pulled the boy into a hug.
"He didn't even say goodbye to me," Sam whimpered as the tears fell freely.
Over the next few weeks Bobby had tried to keep Sam's mind occupied so that he wasn't in a state of constant worry for his brother. John called to check in every few days to let Singer know what was really going on and to comfort his youngest with reassurances of his brother's eventual safe return.
Somehow the charges were dropped and John felt comfortable claiming his boy without fear. He showed up without notice and grabbed Sam one night soon after. The boy bounded out to the Impala without hardly a backwards glance in Bobby's direction, excited to be seeing his brother, and none of them ever spoke of it again.
The next time Bobby had seen the Winchesters it had been Sam who was the wayward son, and Bobby the one wallowing in guilt as it had been partially his fault.
About a year after the CBGB/boys home incident Dean had called Bobby breathless and panicked because Sam had gone missing from their current residence outside of El Paso. The boys had been fighting and Dean left Sam home alone to brood while he looked for some action at a pool hall near the motel. By the time Dean got back Sam was gone. Duffel missing and no note explaining why.
Dean had already been tearing up the area searching for three days before he had been able to get a message to John who was hunting out in the desert with no cell signal. Desperate, he had finally called Bobby in the hopes that Sam had made his way up to Sioux Falls and the salvage man had to break the kid's heart by admitting that the younger brother wasn't with him.
While the Winchesters were looking under every stone in a four state radius, Bobby remembered showing Sam the list of safe houses marked for hunter emergencies. At the time it had been meant to put the boy's mind at ease in case he or his brother had ever found themselves "lost" on another hunt. A place where they could go safely until help could arrive.
Swearing a blue streak he knew right away that Sam would be in one of them because the boy had shown too much of an interest in the specifics of the locations. Bobby had just assumed it was Sam's natural curiosity, but given the kid's bullheadedness he should have known better.
He split the list for the ones near El Paso, taking one half while John and Dean took the other. Leaving Rufus behind at the salvage yard in case the boy did in fact show up there, Bobby hopped a plane and headed south. It had just been dumb luck that he was the one to find Sam at the cabin in Flagstaff.
When Singer had burst through the front door, Sammy was sitting calmly on the bed amid a chaotic mess of empty pizza boxes and Funyun bags, reading with a book in one hand and a Mr. Pibb in the other while a goddamn golden retriever sat guard at his feet. The boy had looked up and smiled at him as innocent as a little cherub.
"Oh. Hi, Uncle Bobby."
As if the little shit didn't have a care in the world. As if Bobby hadn't jumped the first flight out and then hauled ass through six other cabins before hitting this one. As if the boy's brother and daddy weren't ripping their hair out trying to find him, worried out of their minds that one of their usual playmates had been responsible for the kid pulling a Lindbergh baby.
Bobby cursed himself for giving John such a ration of shit about belting the boys years ago since he was itching to put Sam over his own knee at that particular moment.
It took almost three hours for the other Winchesters to reach the cabin once Bobby had called them. John plowed through the door looking like he had aged ten years overnight as he scooped his missing child up into his arms. Dean had looked like shit, and there wasn't a nicer way to describe him. His eyes were ringed black with sleep deprivation, his face whiter than ash and his cheeks hollow. Whatever the kid had put himself through in the last two weeks had quite plainly been hell on earth.
Thankfully after that the visits with the little family had been relatively drama free until Bobby found himself calling John about demon signs in Minneapolis.
/
As soon as Dean and the Impala were safely down the driveway and roaring towards town, Sam pulled open his duffel bag and rifled through the contents until he could grab the stack of papers he had been printing off for the past few weeks.
As he flipped through the pages he knew that his grades as they stood would gain him entrance to most state schools, and that was a good thing because it would probably be all he could afford with student loans. It was the fierce competition for scholarships that had him most concerned.
The better scholarships had more criteria requirements than good grades. Lots of students had the grades so it was the extracurricular activities that really made the applicants stand out. Sam had played a little soccer once upon a time. He had been a Mathlete briefly and always took AP classes when he had a chance. None of that would go a long way towards looking impressive on an application.
Sure, he had unique skills and abilities that would certainly set him apart from the rest of the scholarships seekers. Although he had a sinking feeling that good marksmanship, lethal martial arts skills and a knowledge of how to kill things that go bump in the night were not going to convince anyone that he was worthy of funding without giving some corporate paper pusher nightmares.
He could just imagine how that interview would go.
"Mr. Winchester. Please tell us about your skills and hobbies."
"Well, I can name all of the Zodiac Killer's victims in chronological order and I can make homemade flame throwers."
Yeah. That would go over well.
He let the papers drop next to him on the couch as he rubbed his eyes and sighed in frustration. What he really needed was a chance to put down some roots long enough to join a few clubs and teams. Make enough of an impression on few teachers who would have no reservations about writing letters of recommendation.
But that wasn't likely to happen. Not with the way the Winchesters lived and moved around. A family of homeless drifters that wandered in and out of towns, keeping their heads down and working hard to make sure they weren't noticed. It was difficult to get teachers to single out excellence in a student that had been groomed since childhood to blend into the background.
Outside Cohen and Perry were barking at something in the distance. Sam's eyes flew open, reflexes already moving his body into a defensive position without even thinking about it. He sprang cat-like into a crouch as he scanned the salvage yard through the dirty window for danger, only relaxing when he realized that the yard dogs were straining at their leashes to snarl at a feral cat crawling on top of one of the old wrecks near the open bay.
Shit like that is why no decent school will ever look at Sam Winchester right now. A couple of dogs can't even bark at a cat without Sam acting like Bobby's place was under attack.
He huffed and flopped back down on the couch, distractedly sorting the pages until his fingers landed on the paperclipped bundle labeled Emancipation of a Minor Child.
It's a legal Hail Mary. Dean had been right when he stated plain that Dad would never leave Sam somewhere without another Winchester for as long as an entire school year. Over the years there had been more than one whispered conversation between John and one of the other family friends about that issue exactly. Some hunters they knew like Bobby and Pastor Jim had permanent homes that they were only too happy to open to the boys.
John had rebuffed every single offer and Sam knew that the real reason for the refusal was his father's unwavering stance against any other hunter having that much contact with his kids. No matter how good the intentions, he didn't trust anyone that completely. His dad would rather have the boys alone in a motel room somewhere for weeks on end than let them live in someone else's house.
No reason to suspect that he would change his mind about that this late in the game.
Feeling a little sick to his stomach with a vague acknowledgment that it might be guilt churning up the nausea, he flipped through the pages as he again scanned the legal definitions and circumstances that would allow a minor such as himself to apply for emancipation from his father's custody. Just about every situation could be applied to his family if you squinted a little and Sam was pretty sure that with his fancy vocabulary he could make a successful argument for it.
It could get tricky.
The emancipation laws varied from state to state and since the Winchesters had no stable address Sam figured he might actually apply in Kansas since that is where he at least had a birth certificate on file. He would need to show that he could provide for himself, which he wasn't worried about. He was willing to find a crap job that would pay him enough to make a little money legally. There were state and federal funds he could apply for as an emancipated minor to cover the rest of his monthly expenses.
He could already prove that he knew how to live on his own. Dad and Dean had left him alone in various motels on several occasions over the years and he had been just fine. Able to feed himself from the stash of canned goods that got left for him. Get himself to school every day where he made good grades without parental influence. He kept his nose clean and had no juvenile record to speak against his character.
It wouldn't be hard to pitch John Winchester as an unfit parent either.
Dad was a barely functional alcoholic most of the time when he wasn't hunting. Not that Sam didn't grudgingly acknowledge that the man had good reason, but it still pissed him off that his father chose to subject himself repeatedly to those reasons. Even worse, he subjected his kids to those reasons as well, and Dean was already headed in the same direction even though Sam's big brother was only twenty-one with a whole life ahead of him.
His father could be a real mean drunk too. A little too much tequila and John would tear up a motel room faster than the boys could blink over small insignificant things. Since they were little Dean would shove Sam into the bathroom, out of harm's way, while he soothed their father and calmed him down.
Sam had been scared of his father's drunken rages when he was small, hiding in the bathtub with his knees pressed up against his chin and his hands clamped over his ears. Over time though he came to realize that John would never lash out at his kids. With that understanding Sam eventually grew bold enough that his fear turned to annoyance and disgust instead.
The holidays were the worst on Dad, ramping up his already rumbling undercurrent of anger, and they usually ended with broken furniture, cold congealing take out food and Dean settling their father on the couch in a booze induced stupor. Dean would try to act like nothing was wrong once Dad was passed out. He would smile and tease Sam as he ate cold food and put some stupid holiday movie on the crap TVs that came with the rooms.
Pretending that the mess wouldn't force them to leave the next day for the next shit room in the next shit town.
Unpleasant memories swirled around in his head as Sam leaned back into the couch, shutting his eyes tight and trying mightily to swallow back the bile cresting in his throat. It was the solution to his problem. No court in the country would deny him the right to be legally separated from his family with all of the bullshit in their lives that he had been forced to grow up with.
As he sat in the quiet stillness of Bobby's tumble down house, he already knew he would never be able to go through with it. Even if his father and brother managed to keep out of jail for the mile long list of crimes that would come to light once Sam had a court digging into his family life, they would hate him forever.
Sam wouldn't just be burning a bridge with his family by doing this. He would also be napalming the villages on each side of the bridge and then nuking the whole area from orbit just to be sure.
He decided that if he was really going to try to study law, he needed to start by being fair about his upbringing. As Aristotle once said "The law is reason free from passion…Man, when perfected, is the best of animals, but when separated from law and justice, he is the worst of all."
For years Sam had resented and judged his father and brother for their dismissal of normalcy and acting lawlessly without regard for the damage they left in their wake. He wanted to do better than that, and see the world in black and white without graying the lines. However, without bringing his own prejudices and personal desires into the equation, he was forced to admit that his childhood wasn't abusive in the strictest sense of the word.
They may not have had a regular home but Dad had never let them be homeless. Sam had always had some kind of roof over his head and a warm bed to sleep in at night. Maybe the motels weren't great, with funky smells, stained carpets and rusting pipes, but they didn't live on the streets. The hot water might have been inadequate occasionally but they did always had enough running water to practice proper hygiene.
The boys never went hungry. Sometimes dinner came out of a can or a cereal box but there had been food on the table. Dean always tried hard to mix things up so their bland fare was a little more palatable than it might have been when money got tight.
His big brother also hoarded a little cash here and there to buy treats and toys when Sam would have a bad day at a new school and feel a little down. Their clothes were basic, and came from Goodwill and Army Surplus, but they were clean and respectable enough, if slightly faded.
Dad might have dragged them from school to school but they were well educated. Maybe Sam didn't get to join clubs and sports teams because the brothers were kept under lock down at the motels, but they were safe from strangers, both human and monster.
Their father gave them orders and sharply barked stinging critiques when they didn't work hard enough or got lazy with weapons or their studies. He gave them hugs too and taught them everything they knew from how to tie their shoelaces to how to handle themselves in a fight.
He was tough on them and demanding and they grew up saying 'Yes, Sir' and 'No, Sir', but if having good manners and respect for their elders was abuse, the southern half of the country was in deep shit.
Dad expected good behavior and obedience and sometimes Sam's smart mouth and stubbornness pushed his father far enough to give him a whipping that bruised his pride as much as his ass. Although John was more likely to make him run extra miles, or do double crunches, or copy endless passages out of archaic lore books to keep his youngest in line.
"Yes, Your Honor. My dad punishes me with physical fitness and education."
Tragic, Sam. Seriously, tragic.
Besides all of that there was Dean to consider.
Sam's big brother has taken care of him his entire life. He was a jerk most of the time. An obnoxious idiot with a big mouth that screwed around, made trouble and teased Sam mercilessly. He had terrible taste in music, a casual disregard for women and an unhealthily large porn collection. He made a mess of their toothpaste tubes and left dirty socks in the sink and pizza crusts under the beds that attracted bugs.
He also made sure that Sam had some nice things, new things. Even when Dean had to make do with secondhand or none at all for himself. He always had Sam's school records in good order for every move, fighting for his little brother to have the extra classes he wanted, and ignored his own studies to do Sam's share of whatever chores Dad left for them so Sam could read books for pleasure.
Dean gave Sam advice on girls, protection from schoolyard bullies and an example of how to act cool under pressure. A soothing washcloth on his forehead when he was sick, feverish and crying for his mom. A hug when he had nightmares and wanted his father's arms to make him feel safe again. He even taught Sam how ride to the bike he once used to take Sam to the ER after he broke his arm, and doled out an occasional smack on the back of the head to remind his brother to not be such a little asshole.
He stole Christmas gifts when Dad was MIA so Sam had something to open under a makeshift tree and took him to a field on July 4th to set off a case of fireworks that burned the field down.
Even if Sam could drum up enough resentment to drag his father through the mud, he could never do it to Dean. It was going to be bad enough when he left for college as it was.
Dean had been distracted lately. Ever since they were in Blue Earth at Pastor Jim's a few weeks ago. Sam couldn't quite put his finger on what, but he knew his brother was deep in contemplation over something.
Maybe he had been hurt by Sam's request to be left behind. It hadn't been his intention to hurt his brother. That's the very last thing Sam would want to do. Dean had always given so much of himself, sacrificed so much of his own personal needs to give Sam whatever he could.
Honestly, Sam dreamed of talking his brother into settling down with him and living a normal life. He knew that it was too late for their father. The hunting life had taken over John Winchester long ago and it wasn't ever letting him out without bloodshed and death. Dad had promised them for years that once Mom was avenged it would be over, but Sam had stopped believing in that the minute their father allowed Dean to drop out of school to hunt.
Maybe Sam's departure would be enough to jolt his brother into the realization that it didn't have to be this way. Dean didn't have to give everything he had to a life that might get him dead before age thirty. The Winchesters weren't the only hunters, and why was everything their problem? Why did they have to sacrifice everything for other people? Why was it on them to save other families from danger?
John and Dean were Sam's family, and he loved them. They might not always think so, but he did. So why weren't they important enough to be spared? To be saved from harm? Hadn't they done enough? Hadn't their family already lost enough?
Sam certainly thought so.
Dad and Bobby arrived back at the salvage yard just a few minutes after Dean did himself. He hadn't even made it into the house before the Sierra was rumbling up the driveway and certainly hadn't been prepared for the complete train wreck of his father's face as he practically tumbled out of the driver's seat.
It didn't take a genius to see that the hunt had gone badly in some form or another.
Bobby nodded a greeting at him but said nothing as he lumbered inside. Dad's hair was wild and his dark eyes were troubled as he threw an arm around Dean's shoulders and pulled him in close. Dean could feel his father's face pressed into the side of his head, inhaling the comforting scent of his child. Something Dad hadn't done since Dean was a small boy. As if he needed the physical contact to assure himself that his son was okay.
"Dad?"
John didn't answer his son's panicked voice. He just pulled Dean tighter into his shoulder and heaved heavy breaths over the top of the boy's head, relieved to be assured of one son's safety before hurriedly dragging Dean towards the house.
Dean's heart picked up a few beats in fear but he kept his mouth shut as his father led him inside. Sam was curled up on the couch like a cat, intently reading a book, but when he saw the manner of their arrival he jumped up to his feet. Dad grabbed Sam with his other arm and for a moment crushed the brothers to his chest in a tremulous embrace.
It wasn't unusual to see his father messed up six ways from Sunday after a bad hunt but this kind of behavior was new and scary. Sam shot his brother a what the fuck look, but all Dean could do was shrug, wide eyed and confused, as their father gripped them so tight that airflow was about to be compromised.
Collectively freaking out, they stood quietly for a moment and let their dad's trembling arms steady around them before Dean tried again.
"Dad? What's going on?"
They felt their father inhale a deep breath that he shakily released after holding it a moment. Then he was gently pushing them back, reaching up to palm both of them on the side of their faces as his eyes skipped back and forth between them like a slightly psychotic tennis match.
"S'ok, boys," he replied, trying for reassurance, and failing. "Everything is fine."
Dean frowned, lips pursed in an agitated scowl, caught between an overpowering need to understand what was so colossally fucked up that it had John Winchester scared, and the ingrained auto response of unquestioning obedience to his father's commands.
Sam was just as rattled, and not nearly so obedient.
"Dad, what happened? Are you hurt?"
John affectionately pushed his younger son's hair away from the boy's face and shushed him, wanting to soothe away the fear that his turbulent arrival had put in Sam's hazel eyes.
"I'm okay, Sammy. Nothing to worry about kiddo."
Sam wanted to push. Would have pushed under normal circumstances, but even the usually obstinate son was silenced by their father acting so rattled so he kept his mouth shut. He threw another worried glance over to Dean but his brother was studying John's face intently, knowing that their father was keeping something big from them.
Dad let go of them abruptly and shucked his jacket off, throwing it over the back of the couch where Sam had been reading before heading towards the kitchen.
"You boys look hungry. I'm gonna make you some dinner."
The brothers shared an incredulous look, because their father rarely cooked for them anymore. Not since Dean had fully taken over the job when the three of them were together, and Dad never cooked for them at Bobby's house anymore. Uneasily they followed John into the kitchen and watched in silence as he pulled pots onto the stove and rummaged around the cabinets. Bobby joined them after a few minutes and Dean shot him a questioning glare but the salvage man just slowly shook his head, refusing to provide information if they weren't getting it from their daddy.
John barely spoke through the meal he had painstakingly made for his children. The spaghetti he served was the favorite of both of the boys and normally they would have pounced on the bowl of pasta like it had been days since their last meal, but neither of them could drum up an appetite in the wake of their father's frightening behavior. There was a lot of pushing food around plates and wary, stolen looks under their father's watchful gaze.
Dad's few words were to fuss over them, encouraging them to eat what he dished onto their plates. He made them the buttery garlic toast that they usually fought over like a pack of wolves and poured them glasses of soda like they were still small. Dean struggled to remember the last time his father had insisted on him drinking just soda at dinner and the realization of that was another punch in the gut. Any other time they would have soaked up this kind of rapt attention after John's return from a long hunt, but tonight they were just scared.
Usually their father would read during the evening, deeply engrossed in whatever lore book he happened to be obsessing over at the time, but tonight he herded the boys into the living room and popped an old John Wayne movie into Bobby's ancient VCR. He dropped down near them into the faded corner chair and divided the next few hours between giving the movie an occasional glance and warily studying his sons as they perched uneasily on the sofa.
During the course of that movie, and the one that followed, both of the boys tried several attempts to get John to talk but they were quickly and firmly shut down by a hard stare from their father before it would disappear and his face softened again. The tension in the air crackled like electricity all night until finally John told them both to go to bed. Normally, at least Sam would balk at his father's order, but even he was eager to obey and escape the pressure cooker atmosphere of Bobby's living room.
"Dude, what the fuck?"
Sam shut the bedroom door and hissed at Dean who was getting undressed. His big brother sat heavily on his twin bed and was yanking off his boots looking shaken.
"I dunno. Something sure as hell happened on that hunt. I've haven't seen Dad that freaked in years."
Sam dropped down his his bed and folded his coltish legs up underneath him as he started to chew his pinkie nail.
"Think we could get Uncle Bobby to tell us?"
Dean shook his head as he stood back up, reflexively pulling Sam's hand away from his mouth as he walked over to the dresser to grab his sleep shirt and sweats.
"He's not saying shit. Which means it's seriously bad. Bobby only circles the wagons when Dad really puts his foot down about telling us stuff."
Sam's anxiety was building and his usual coping mechanism of anger was beginning to kick in. He sat on the bed and stewed for a few more minutes while his brother was in the bathroom washing up before coming back in and slipping under the blankets.
"He could just tell us what's going on," Sam spat, testily. "He doesn't have to be so goddamn secretive all the time."
On the other side of the room Dean let out a long suffering huff. He just didn't have the energy to worry about his father's uncharacteristic behavior and deal with his brother's pissy attitude at the same time.
"Dad's not talking, Sam. And getting upset about it isn't going to make him. Just back off until he cools down. I'll talk to him tomorrow."
Sam didn't say anything further but he wasn't letting go of it either. He grabbed his own pajamas and stomped into the bathroom to change and brush his teeth. Dean already had the light off when he re-entered their room, clearly discouraging any more attempts at conversation. He grudgingly climbed into his own bed and spent the next few hours tossing and turning. Sleep staying maddeningly far out of his reach.
/
John sat in the darkness of Singer's living room, a tumbler of whiskey dangling precariously from his long unsteady fingers. A million nightmare scenarios had infiltrated his mind over the past few hours, like a lifetime of horror movies playing on repeat in every crevice of his brain.
He knew that he had scared the shit out of his kids. His boys were used to their horrifically damaged father on a regular day but he worked hard to not let them see him quite this rattled. They needed him strong, to make them feel safe, and he didn't always succeed but he tried. God, he tried.
All the booze in the world was not going to take away the abject fear of the demon's words. No amount of whiskey could dampen the blood chilling questions of why Hell was so interested in his little boy, or why they were so determined to have him for their own.
The unholy creature had been so glib, so sure, that Sammy was destined to be Hell's chosen one. Their very own Anti-Christ Superstar, so to speak. John had always known that Mary's death was at the hands of unspeakable evil, but to think that his baby son had some connection to that?
Ridiculous.
John's youngest was a petulant, trying, smart mouthed little pain in the ass, but he was a good boy. A kind boy. The sort of kid that refused to kill spiders in their motel rooms because it was cruel, and did yard chores for the disabled widow that had lived next door to them in Tulsa last year. He would rant and seethe at his father one minute and then cuddle up to John the next. Resting his head on Dad's lap, insecure and contrite, seeking love and forgiveness.
Sammy had his father's hot temper. That was all.
John couldn't reconcile the idea that his sweet, incredibly smart boy had some lurking darkness inside of him. Something evil and unclean, biding its time until he would ultimately morph into a creature designed to lead Hell's army.
Not John's child.
Not his Sammy.
Not while John had a say.
He'd march into Hell itself and kill all of those black eyed bastards with his bare hands before they even looked at his boy the wrong way.
John's head was throbbing and every breath he took in smelled of blood and sulfur and smoke. The melting cubes of ice he had tossed into his whiskey clinked as he raised the glass to his forehead and pressed the coldness against the pulsating heat in his temple.
The booze had already dimmed his senses in his attempt to quell the surging tide of panic in his chest. He knew better than to allow his awareness of his surroundings be compromised, but when he heard a noise in the hallway it startled him enough to drop the glass and have it go bouncing across the worn carpet.
"Dad?"
In the shadow of the threshold between the living room and the stairway John made out the gangling form of his youngest child. Sam's shoulders were hunched as he regarded his father warily. A habit he had been developing as he gained height. His son's hair was askew, jutting wildly in every direction, and his young face was scared and unsure in the pale reflected glow of the salvage yard's perimeter lights.
John brushed a hand down his face, subconsciously wanting to wipe away any trace of worry, fear or tears that might be lingering. He raised the hand and wordlessly beckoned his son over to him, pushing aside the pang of hurt he felt from the boy's momentary reluctance.
It was his own fault. Sammy knew he was drinking and John wasn't always good to be around when he was deep in the bottle. Saddened by that thought, he watched his youngest cautiously amble over, nimbly avoiding the discarded glass and the ice now melting into the puddle of spilled whiskey.
Not brave enough to speak, Sam stood nervously a few inches from John's side and the weary father reached out to gently tug his son down to sit on the ottoman in front of his chair. They sat in silence for a few seconds, John's vision blurry and strained as his boy fidgeted, uncomfortable with his father's quiet scrutiny in the darkness of the room. Usually when Dad was drinking he was only quiet after he passed out.
"You need a haircut."
Sam's eyes widened from the warm rumble of his father's way out into left field statement, and he almost recoiled when John reached out to tuck a curl behind Sam's left ear. Somehow he managed to not shift away but he couldn't keep the confusion off of his face, or the automatic petulance out of his response as his dad smiled kindly at him.
"I like it longer."
John chuckled and palmed Sam's face for a second, rubbing a thumb across his left cheek affectionately. He nodded indulgently before dropping his hand back to the arm of his chair, aware of the searching concern in his boy's hazel eyes.
"Dad, are you okay?"
John leaned forward and clasped his hands together, resting his elbows on his knees as he nodded.
"I'm okay, kiddo."
Disbelief was written all over his child's face but John couldn't give Sam any more reassurances. It was taking all he had in him to stay sane right now, to not run around screaming in hysterical madness, and he didn't have the mental reserves to strengthen the mask he normally wore to protect his boys. Moving slowly, he reached out and took Sam's forearms in his hands and steeled his face, physically willing his son to believe his words.
"Sammy, you know I will always protect you boys, right? I will always do whatever I have to to keep you safe. Your brother, too. We won't let anything happen to you."
Sam subconsciously pulled back a little but was met with resistance, his father's grip keeping him close. John's words were meant to be comforting but they sent a chill up the boy's spine irregardless.
"Yes, sir. I know," he responded fidgeting, feeling a little like a trapped animal in John's grasp.
Dad seemed to finally sense his discomfort and he loosened his hold on his son's arms, allowing the boy the freedom to pull away, but Sam didn't want to completely break contact with his father so he stilled his movements and let John rest his hands on Sam's for a minute.
"It's late, Son. You need to get to bed."
Sam frowned, reluctant to leave his father in this condition, but John nodded tiredly at him and he eventually forced himself up to his feet. On impulse he leaned over and hugged his dad, trying to pretend that he couldn't feel a shaky desperation in his usually rough and tough father's arms.
The sensation did nothing to calm his fears for his father's mental state.
/
By the time Sam got up the next morning, Dean and Dad were already gone. Bobby was working in the kitchen with no idea as to their whereabouts but he did tell Sam that they had promised to be back by lunchtime.
Distracted, Sam spent the morning trying unsuccessfully to read Slaughterhouse-Five. For some reason Dean had been very insistent that it be the next book on Sam's summer reading list. He couldn't concentrate on the words because he kept checking the driveway for his brother's car to arrive. Dean had promised to talk to Dad today, and after Sam's strange encounter with their father the previous evening he was on pins and needles to see if his brother could pry out of their father exactly what had the man so spooked since his return.
The morning passed excruciatingly slowly, and it was already after one by the time he finally heard the telltale growling of the Impala's engine. Throwing the book aside he loped out to the porch to greet them, only to see his father approaching the house alone. Dad looked a little less stressed than he had the previous day but his eyes were still tight, his face pinched. He forced a smile for Sam and affectionately ruffled his hair as he met him in the doorway.
"Your brother is waiting for you in the car kiddo. He wants to take you for a ride."
Sam started to protest but his father shook his head, jerking his chin in the direction of the driveway. He gently turned Sam towards the Impala and gave him a playful smack on the butt, making it clear it wasn't a suggestion. Pursing his lips in annoyance, Sam obeyed and headed out to the car, the strains of Back in Black pounding out of the Impala's open windows as his brother sang along. He threw Dean a questioning glance as he slid in the passenger seat and pulled the door shut only to have his brother turn the volume up higher as he put the car in gear and roared back down the drive.
"Where are we going?" Sam yelled over the music as they cruised towards town.
Dean seemed to be in high spirits, arm limp and hand loose as he steered, bouncing a little in his seat to the beat of AC/DC.
"Wanna show you something."
Sam rolled his eyes because, seriously? It would really be nice to have at least one member of his family answer a straight fucking question. Still, his brother was clearly too happy at the moment and considering how tense last night had been Sam wasn't going to press too hard and rock the boat. He decided to just lean back and let Dean do as he pleased for the moment, enjoying the warm sunshine of a beautiful South Dakota summer day.
They drove for another fifteen or so minutes as Dean made his way towards an unfamiliar residential area. The houses in the neighborhood were small but they were well maintained for the most part. People were outside, mowing their lawns and watering flowers. Kids were riding their bikes and playing games in the street in the low traffic area. It made for a pleasant suburban picture and Sam wondered exactly what they were doing here.
Eventually Dean pulled the car up into the roughly paved driveway of a small two story house. Sam frowned in confusion as his brother got out of the car and jerked his head in the direction of the house, clearly wanting Sam to join him. He got out of the car warily, instinctively looking around to see if anyone was noticing their presence.
"Dean, what are we doing here?"
His brother smiled widely and his green eyes were sparkling with mischief as Sam walked up to join him in the yard.
"C'mon, Sammy. Let's see what's inside."
Sam jerked back in horror, suddenly not wanting anything to do with whatever his brother had in mind. Were they really going to break into a house in broad daylight?
"It's a little early in the day for a B&E charge, don't you think?" he hissed at Dean's retreating back.
Dean laughed and waited for Sam on the porch. When Sam refused to join him Dean pulled a set of keys from his front pocket and dangled them, grinning madly.
"Welcome home, kiddo."