A Brother's Sacrifice

by ayosb2000

Completely AU. John really did want Dean to have a home and for Sam to go to school. At Sonny's, Dean saw the possibility of another life, but chose family. Sam is chafing under his father's thumb. An exploration of what might have happened if Dean stood up to his father and decided that normal and hunting could co-exist. A large re-write of a previous story I wrote years ago.

16. August 2001

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A/N Thank you to everyone that has taken the time to read and review. I appreciate every one of them and love to chat with you in PM about the story. Thanks to the guests I can't speak to directly. Sorry for the wait in the latest update. Because life.

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Ever think about running away? - Sully, Just My Imagination.

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According to the Kübler-Ross model, there are five stages of grief that a person experiences in the wake of the loss of a loved one.

Originally written as part of a book by a Swiss psychiatrist called On Death and Dying, it was a study based on the author's work with terminally ill patients. An explanation of sorts of how the human mind reacts to traumatic and impending loss.

In reality, grief is grief, and loss is loss, and it doesn't actually take the literal death of a loved one for someone to experience the loss of them. Or to grieve the absence of a loved one in your day to day life, if they are no longer with you.

As far as the human mind is concerned, the loss is the same regardless, and so are the stages that someone who is grieving undergoes as they struggle to process the loss and find a way to move on.

For study purposes, the model expounded upon and enhanced the traits that the author experienced as she chronicled the mindsets and behaviors of both terminal patient, and the ones around them after the eventual demise, until five distinctive stages could be mapped out and clearly observed.

Denial – The first stage, where someone initially believes that a mistake has been made and an individual's belief that the diagnosis is somehow mistaken, resulting in them clinging to a false, preferable reality, or unrealistic expectations.

Anger– The second state, when the person grieving recognizes that denial cannot continue, they become frustrated and begin to lash out as well as desperately demanding answers for unanswerable questions. "Why me? It's not fair!" "How can this happen to me?" "Who is to blame?" "Why would this happen?".

Bargaining - The third stage involves the hope that the individual can avoid a cause of grief or seek a compromise that would exchange, or sacrifice a part of, a lifestyle in order to get back the one they are grieving. "I'd give anything to have him back." "If only he'd come back, I'd promise to be a better person!"

Depression– During the fourth stage, the individual finally despairs. In this stage, the individual may become silent, refuse social interaction and spend much of the time mournful and sullen.

Acceptance– In this last stage, individuals embrace the inevitable future, and begin to understand that the situation is entirely out of their hands. That life needs to go on.

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The five stages of grief are a journey of sorts. One that is necessary to deal with loss.

A long painful journey that the Winchester family was only just beginning.

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DENIAL

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After Mary died, Dean stopped talking.

It took John a little while to notice it, being as shocked and traumatized as he was himself at the time. Those first few days, it took everything he had in him just to keep from eating his own gun. Only the frantic need to protect and shelter his children saved him from following his beloved into the next world.

He had been fortunate at the time to have Mike and Kathy and, a bit later, another friend Julie helping him care for his boys in the aftermath of the fire. As much as things went south between him and his former business partner later on, the three of them had been a Godsend at the time, when John was still shell shocked and reeling.

Not just from the loss of his wife, but the absolutely inexplicable manner in which she had been taken from him.

First it had been the obligatory rounds of mourning.

Acquaintances and neighbors streaming endlessly in and out of the Gunther house for days, bearing an unfailing mixture of casseroles sprinkled with nosy questions. Hushed words of condolences and meaningless platitudes as they waxed poetic about a woman they had barely known.

John and Mary weren't necessarily antisocial, but they had limited their inner circle of friends to just the few that they were genuinely close to.

Seeing so many people express their sympathies, without actually having a single idea as to the real person they were talking about, made John's already hot blood boil over, and he often found himself rudely escaping a room before he shouted down his anger and frustration at these clueless wonders who, for some reason, thought that they were helping.

You wanna help me? He wanted to scream. Find the bastard that did this to my family.

The police weren't any better.

They tried, for a few days anyway, to unsuccessfully pin the whole disaster on him, for some reason. Maybe just because it would have made their job a lot easier if they didn't have to work so hard to find a real culprit. Instead of tracking down actual leads, they had felt the need to drag John and Mary's personal lives through the mud.

As if a temporary separation months earlier could have been the catalyst for John setting fire to his own son's bedroom.

Assholes.

Of course, what could they really have done? John himself had no explanation for what he saw. It was absurd and terrifying in equal measures. What could possibly have put Mary on the ceiling like that? Besides which, John couldn't shake the feeling that the fire had been attacking him.

It was insane.

For almost two weeks, the little family barely made it through the days. Dean had always been hovering nearby his father when John returned from his futile efforts to get a real investigation going. Clinging to John like a second skin.

So it wasn't as if he didn't know where his son was or what he was doing during that time. Or whether or not he was in any kind of danger.

With what was left of his attention usually demanded by a fussy Sammy crying buckets of pitiful tears over the absence of his mother, John's frazzled nerves hadn't really noticed that his firstborn was being unnaturally quiet.

After such a devastating loss and shock, it wasn't terribly surprising that a child wouldn't have much to say, and sadly John had been too distracted in his own thoughts to really worry about his son's silence.

Then John had gone to Missouri and learned the truth about what was out there in the darkness, and a whole new world was opened up before him. One that immediately sparked his need for revenge, and obsession over the protection of his kids. All he knew was that no one was going to be bothered to solve the mystery of Mary's death, unless it was John himself, and at that realization, it was clear to him that it didn't matter what he needed to do to accomplish it.

John became engulfed in a maelstrom of terror and panic. His blood running continuously cold from fear over the dangers and risks still posed all too uncomfortably close to his children. All he could think of at that time was how he was going to protect his boys from meeting the same fate as his wife.

It took him completely over.

The abject fright and unyielding determination swirling together like a vengeful toxin that remapped the very strands of his DNA. Already he was distancing himself from his former life in his search for answers. It would become a routine habit of his over the years as he edged ever slightly closer. John had no time or patience for those that attempted to interfere with his quest.

Missouri had led him to the first hunter he apprenticed under, explaining to him that everyone in The Life had their specialties. This generalized mantra wouldn't apply to John himself in the future, being one of the few truly seasoned hunters that became absolutely fluent in monster everything. But, at the time, he had needed to start somewhere.

After the falling out with Mike and Kathy, with John grabbing his children and walking away from Lawrence forever, he had made his way to the Roadhouse with his new guide, meeting Bill and Ellen Harvelle upon his arrival. Bill was an experienced hunter in his own right, more than willing to teach John. The Harvelles were kind and decent people, with a little girl of their own just a bit younger than Dean was, and it didn't take long for them to foster an attachment to the grieving little family.

John studied under Bill while Ellen minded the boys. Little Jo chased after Dean like an adoring fangirl, happy to have a potential playmate close in age, but Dean was oblivious. Single minded in his devotion to watching out for his baby brother. He stuck to Ellen like glue, always warily studying her interactions with Sammy with a mounting suspicion too extreme for a pre-schooler.

Less than a month after Mary's death, John made his first supernatural kill. A shapeshifter that had stupidly shown up at the Roadhouse, for some reason with designs on John himself. Something that would haunt his every move for months afterwards as he tried to make sense of his family's uncomfortable prominence in the seedy underbelly of the hidden world.

With his newfound knowledge, his Marine persona once again taking forefront, he dispatched it quickly and efficiently without even blinking, and thus began his journey on the road so far.

It wasn't until he heard the quiet Daddy? behind him, that he realized that his traumatized four year old had been watching.

It also was when he finally realized that he hadn't actually heard his son speak since the night of the fire.

Since Sammy's departure from Sioux Falls five days ago, Dean hasn't said a word to anyone.

Still fairly immobile, he spends all his time on the sofa in the living room, mindlessly staring out the window, as if, at any moment, he expects to see his floppy haired little brother come strolling down the street looking to reconcile with his family. Occasionally, John sees him check his pitifully silent phone, only to see a quick sharp flash of pain in his son's eyes when there are no calls or messages.

Just a few days out of the hospital, Dean can't really do for himself at the moment.

Something that John well knows irks his proud independent son.

But there's not much either of them can do to rectify that at this point. Because Dean's shoulder and arm are still trussed up for another couple of weeks, sending shooting pains down the same side of his body as his busted and cast leg.

The poor kid can't even really hobble around on a crutch yet.

Normally John would be itching to head back out on the hunt by this point. Already having spent five long weeks mired in Dean's accident and resulting medical needs, and feeling the ever present pressure of finishing his mission.

But not this time.

This time John is all too keenly aware that his boy needs him more than the world does, and John is going to be there for his kid every second of the day until his firstborn is back on his feet. He almost lost his son, and the fear that hasn't yet released its hold on John's throat keeps him more than willing to lay low with his boy as long as Dean wants him to.

Sometimes John gets the distinct troubling impression that his son is waiting for the other shoe to drop as far as his family is concerned. Having already been abandoned by his little brother, Dean seems quietly resigned for the moment when his father packs up and heads back out at well.

John would be less than honest if he didn't admit to himself that it causes him real heartache to see the almost surprised look on his oldest son's face every morning when he wakes up and sees that his father is still around.

Not that John doesn't deserve his son's lowered expectations.

God knows the kid has been let down by his old man on a hundred different occasions. Truthfully, John himself isn't so sure that he would be sticking around during Dean's convalescence if Sammy were still at home to care for his brother.

The father in him would like to think that he would have. That ingrained paternal instinct and concern would override his usual tunnel vision regarding his search for anything that would lead to the demise of the demon that ruined his family.

But, in all fairness, he's not entirely sure, regardless of his unconditional love for his boy. He's at least honest enough with himself to admit that.

Because he knows, even more disturbing to his psyche, that there is the very real question of whether or not his sons would even want him around while Dean recuperated. It's been a long time since either of his kids have needed their daddy around during illness and hurts. From very young ages, Sam and Dean have always had a definite partnership between them when it came to taking care of each other through sickness and injury.

An intimacy between brothers that precluded all others, including John. Maybe even especially John. Where they weren't afraid to express pain and fear and frustration that they would often try to hide from a well meaning but demanding father who expected them to man up when the chips were down and play through the pain.

With Sammy now gone, a reality that is so painful to think about that John chokes down a million agonizing screams a day, the care of his firstborn once more falls directly on John's shoulders

And that's okay.

Because Sammy chose to walk away from his family, and these days John's finding himself needing more and more to grip onto his eldest as tightly as he can so that Dean doesn't fall away from him too. John has already lost his wife, and now his baby boy, and if he loses Dean as well, then there's simply no reason to go on anymore.

So he dials down the whiskey and tequila and puts away any ideas of hunts or research that won't relate directly to Azazel. He makes sure that he is the first thing Dean sees in the morning and the last thing at night. Pushing down his own hurt at the unfailing surprise in Dean's green eyes when he makes contact. Never forcing his boy to speak if he's not ready to, but always hovering in the immediate area, just in case he finally is.

John loves his kids more than he can express, and sometimes he has the time or means to indulge them a little, but he's never been the type of father that coddles his sons.

He can't afford to and neither can they.

Ordinarily, he would be pushing his firstborn to snap out of his funk and get on with it, but this time he doesn't have the heart to issue that order. Dean and his little brother are two parts of the same whole. The perfectly engineered team that John himself was the architect. It's going to take Dean time to learn how to live without his brother, and John is going to give it to him.

At some point, in the not too distant future, John will push his son back out into the hunting world, knowing that Dean does better when he has a goal to focus on. But, right now, Dean's body needs to heal before his father can do anything about his son's heart and mind, so hunts can wait until his boy is physically ready to be on the road again.

John keeps Dean comfortable in the living room. The couch is large and plush, and with Dean's injuries he's going to be just as comfortable on it as he would anywhere else. Besides which, John is fairly sure that his son can't bear the idea of being stranded alone in his own bedroom upstairs. Far away from even the minute activity that the little house sees during the day.

After one attempt to relocate him there, Dean had become so panicked and resistant that John immediately dismissed any idea to try again. John knows his son better than anyone else, and his firstborn doesn't do well by himself. He never has.

So they make do.

Falling into a routine, by now John knows that when Dean pushes himself to swing both legs off the couch that he needs to use the restroom, and his father is never any further away from him than the kitchen table during the day or the stuffed chair next to the couch at night.

Any thoughts John had about finally getting to sleep in a bed after a month on a chair in the hospital go by the wayside. His basement bedroom is too far away for him to be from his boy right now. Although Dean isn't speaking, John has a pretty good idea of what would happen to his son, should Dean need his father in the night and not find him at his side.

Not for the first time they are both relieved that they renovated the first floor half bath a few months ago.

A few times a day it takes several minutes of careful maneuvering to get Dean into the half bath, but he manages himself once he's in there while John quietly waits outside for his son to do what he needs to do. Without fail, Dean will shuffle his way to the door, awkward and ashamed of relying on his father's help, no matter how much John reassures his boy that he's there for him always.

To Dean's dismay, once a day his father tells him it's time to shower, and John wonders if it's just because Dean doesn't want to be away from the window in the unlikely event that Sam is walking towards the house.

But Dean has always hated feeling unclean and his father knows it. John's firstborn being the king of hot water thieves after a hunt. While it would probably be tempting for his depressed and withdrawn son to stay curled up in his own dark thoughts and eschew bathing for a while, especially when it's a physically taxing prospect considering his injuries, John doesn't allow his boy to refuse.

Sometimes it pays to be a controlling bastard.

Dean is getting stronger every day, but the journey upstairs to the large bathroom is difficult for him, even with his father hefting most of his weight. If it were up to John, he would simply lift Dean up and carry him upstairs and down, instead of making the arduous trip side by side, but the emotional toll it would take on his kid's pride would be catastrophic, so they endure the harder process, step by agonizing step.

Once there, John helps his son undress down to his boxers before he carefully wraps the slowly mending collarbone, giving the unnecessary but habitual reminder to not move that shoulder. Then, after he thoroughly wraps the leg cast, he runs the water until it's the right temperature, lays clean boxers, towels and soaps close by and leaves his son perched on the edge of the bathtub before heading back downstairs for a few minutes until he hears the water shut off again.

So far Dean has managed the daily bathing ritual without further injury, although his father can see the tight lines of pain on his face when he is finished. If John didn't know how mentally beneficial his son finds a hot shower, he couldn't bear to endure causing his boy more discomfort in making him do it.

If there is another benefit to the daily shower, it's that the task physically exhausts Dean. To the point that once he is dressed in clean clothes and assisted back downstairs, where John has already made up the couch with fresh sheets and blankets in the interim, Dean almost immediately falls asleep for the rest of the afternoon.

At least, while he slumbers, John's firstborn is spared the emotional pain he endures during his waking hours.

Dean has always been extremely low maintenance, right from the very beginning as a small child. Never one to bother his father with any routine personal needs once he was old enough to feed and dress himself.

Nothing has changed now either, really, aside from the hygiene assistance, and it's not like it's Dean's fault that the only showers available are on different floors than he is.

He doesn't ask for, or want really, entertainment or interaction. While Dean is in no shape to cook for himself, he has always been a huge lover of food. Now he doesn't even summon the voice to ask for anything special. He eats what his father gives him, because he knows that John won't take no for an answer, but there is no appetite or interest anymore.

John refuses to leave his boy for a simple thing like a trip to the store, so he's been relying on Singer to pick up groceries and supplies for them. It's become a routine now. He knows his son well enough to know what the kid likes to eat, so he calls Bobby with a list in the morning and the salvage man comes over in the afternoon laden with shopping bags.

The two of them sit with Dean and talk between themselves, leaving clear openings for the younger man to join the conversation at some point when he's ready to speak again. But, so far, that hasn't happened.

They will keep trying until it does.

John cooks for all three of them every night for dinner, finding his culinary sea legs again after years of defaulting to take-out most of the time for his kids. Dean really needs all the good vitamins and nutrition he can get right now to assist with his recovery, and his father makes sure that what's on offer is a far cry from bacon double cheeseburgers.

It's not a hardship, really. John likes to cook for his kids when he gets the rare chance. Mary couldn't boil water, so early on John got used to making simple meals for his growing family when he could get away with it without hurting his wife's feelings. If it hadn't been for him, the Winchesters would have existed on nothing but frozen meals from Piggly Wiggly.

He's pretty sure that Dean doesn't remember his mother's aborted attempts to make meals since the kid often tells Sam about "Mom's" meatloaf.

The three of them now eat on trays in front of the television, watching a few hours of mindless nothing, while John monitors his son's intake and lack of complaints regarding the healthier fare. It's during this time that casual talk turns to matters regarding the youngest Winchester, and it's only then that John sees his firstborn show any real interest in what is going on around him.

John has been slowly dying a death by a thousand cuts after watching his baby walk away from him. Knowing that Sam was leaving with the impression that his own father wanted him gone from their lives. Sammy doesn't understand the agony that a parent goes through when they find themselves making hard choices that are ultimately in their child's best interests.

John genuinely hopes that, when Sam is a father, he's never put in a position where he has to be the one that rips his own heart out for the sake of his kid, but it usually comes with the job.

At least John was able to see the bus that his son eventually climbed aboard, peering from his hiding spot at the bus terminal like some crazed stalker. He had suspected that his little creature of habit Sammy would revert to prior behavior and strike out for one of the hunter cabins like he did in Flagstaff, and he wasn't disappointed.

Long before Sam's bus arrived in Des Moines, Bobby had already been in contact with another hunter in the community named Steve Wandell who maintained a full time residence just a couple of hours away from Des Moines, and also owned the cabin down the road from Bobby's bolthole there.

Wandell, who has a daughter of his own with college ambitions just a few years younger than Sammy, understood the situation and sympathized. Happy to do what he could to watch out for the kid and make sure he got to his destination safely. With the significant head start, he was waiting at the station in Des Moines when Sam's bus pulled in.

The plan had been to discretely watch Sam from a distance as he made his way to the cabin.

A task made completely unnecessary when Sammy decided to hitch his way there.

Because of that risky choice, Steve was able to pick Sam up and actually drive him to the cabin's doorstep, and John's temper still spikes when he thinks about how careless his child was. Wandell could have been anyone or any thing, instead of the hunter sent to keep an eye on him, and Sammy was Goddamn well taught better than that.

Helpless under the circumstances and mentally weary, John tries to chalk it up as a one time thing. A result of exhaustion and desperation on the part of his baby boy, but it doesn't make the worried father sleep any better at night as he stresses over his son's safety in the cold, cruel world.

Of course, he had been the one to toss his kid out into the street in the first place, so he wasn't exactly standing on any moral high ground anymore.

No one knew better than his father that Sammy was completely and utterly worn out after weeks of sitting near constantly by his brother's hospital bed. John fretted for the entirety of Dean's hospital stay that his little boy hadn't had a decent night's sleep since the accident. Had practically been starving himself to death during the long days and nights of his vigil.

What Sam had really needed that day when they finally got to bring Dean home was a good hot meal and serious rack time in his own clean bed.

Instead, what John's runaway emotions had given his baby was another winner-less, desperate fight, the whipping of his young life and a callous shove out the door.

There would never be forgiveness or absolution for that.

John knew it.

Dean knew it too, even if he wasn't saying it.

Of course, Dean wasn't saying anything at the moment, so maybe, when John's firstborn regained his speech, the first thing he would do is chew his old man out.

That would be okay.

John would take it.

He would.

Dean could yell to his heart's content about his father's role in the loss of their youngest, and John would let him vent his frustration as disrespectfully as Dean wanted to for once, because his son would be right.

John was the father in this equation, and it had been failure on his part that he hadn't been able to convince his little boy to stay home with his family where he belonged. That was all on John.

At least it helped, a very little, to know that Sam was okay for now.

Wandell was doing regular checks on him as surreptitiously as possible, but because they had already met face to face, he couldn't be obvious about his presence in the area. So Singer had recruited his old hunting partner to bunk down in Wandell's neighboring cabin and be friendly from a distance. They had to be very careful, because Sam was a Winchester and John fully expected his son to be aware of his surroundings, especially as he was now on his own.

Sam was smart enough and alert enough to detect the tiniest things out of the ordinary, and John could only hope that Wandell and Turner were as good as Bobby kept assuring him they were. John didn't want his already upset and stressed kid to run again, where maybe this time they couldn't follow. He'd never met Wandell, and had only worked with Turner once, a long time ago.

It was a lot of faith to put in near strangers.

While Sam had heard Rufus' name mentioned before over the years, he had no idea of what he looked or sounded like. With no other options available to him, John was counting on Rufus to keep his little boy safe for the time being.

Turner was a seasoned hunter, now in retirement. He not only had been Bobby's hunter partner for years, but also the one that had shown Singer the truth about the supernatural world. Right about the time he exorcised the demon he had been tracking out of Karen Singer, while Bobby stood shocked and bleeding in his own kitchen.

A falling out a few years ago had put Rufus on the road to retirement. John didn't know much about what happened in Omaha between Turner and Singer, but whatever it was had been the end of their days riding together. Bobby assured the desperate father that his personal conflict with Rufus didn't mean that John couldn't trust Turner to watch out for his boy.

Rufus had a soft spot for kids raised in the life.

With Turner as the most experienced of them all, John convinced himself that he had to trust Rufus' ability to keep Sam safe, and when he let himself think about the situation clearly, he was damn grateful to have men willing to help out when John was needed elsewhere.

John had never really been the kind of guy that made friends. Or kept them, once he had. Another personal failure that he couldn't dwell on at the moment.

The dryer buzzed and John put down his pen from where he was making journal notes at the kitchen table and got up to switch the laundry out. Maybe he was being a little more solicitous of their clean linen needs at the moment, but it helped to keep busy.

As usual, he started up a stream of nonsensical conversation as he worked, in an effort to get his son to engage him.

As usual, Dean ignored him in favor of the window.

Neither one of them seemed able to acknowledge that their separation from their youngest was permanent. John assured Dean and also himself several times a day that Sammy would get this little rebellion out of his system and come meekly back home any day now.

It wasn't the first time the kid ran away, after all.

When John had collected Sam from the cabin in Flagstaff, he knew right away that his little boy was bursting with relief over having his father and brother come to retrieve him. Sam was older now, so John wasn't about to go fetch him this time, but it didn't waver his belief that his youngest would come back before the month was out.

Hopefully even sooner.

This kind of decision couldn't be taken from Sam now that he was older and could live on his own if he chose. The kid had to want to come back if things were going to work out between them all. Like John had always told his boys when it came to the hunt.

Both feet in, or both feet out. Anything in the middle gets you dead.

He stands by that statement, regardless of how much it hurts at the moment to know that his son has abandoned the family mission.

Besides the approaching certainty that, sooner or later, John and Dean would have to head back out again.

Once Dean was healed up a little more, his father knew that the young man would be chomping at the bit to get back out on the road. John suspects that Sam never really had a firm handle on just how much Dean suppressed his own needs for the past year, or he wouldn't have been so cavalier about throwing his big brother's sacrifice back in his face like he had.

What John also suspected Sam didn't know about his brother, which really does surprise him since the boys are so close, is that Dean lives like he does on the road because he won't commit himself to a wife and family until their mission is finished. Not because it's the life he chooses forever.

It's not that Dean doesn't want a different life.

John knows his boy.

Knows that Dean is family first always, so it's not that hard to believe that he wants one of his own, and a stable home to go with it, and John wants that for his kid too.

There are more days than not that John feels a deep, pressing guilt that he's keeping his firstborn from finding domestic happiness, but he always manages to eventually convince himself that Dean is still a young man of twenty-two.

There is plenty of time for his eldest to sow his wild oats and then be able to settle down once the demon is gone and Mary is avenged. When Sam is safe and John can lay down his mantle and try to remember the man he used to be before all of this started.

Dean is going to make a hell of a father one day. Lord knows he already has years of experience filling in for John when he's been away from his kids. Some day, who knows. If he is very, very lucky, John might even be able to live long enough to get his revenge and still be around to play with his grandchildren.

It's a heady dream. One he doesn't allow himself to have very often.

But for now they have to keep on grinding until the job is done. John will make sure that Dean is healed up. Then they will pack up this house and head back out on the road. Get back in their cars and do what they do best.

Saving people. Hunting things. The family business.

And because John is a man who makes back up plans for his back up plans, he waits until Dean is once again asleep on the couch before he pulls out his phone and makes the call he's been putting off since the day Sam walked out.

Because he also knows that his youngest is just as stubborn as John is himself, and while he hopes for the best, he needs to prepare for the worst.

/

"No!"

Chest heaving, dripping in sweat in the oppressive humidity of the August night, Sam bolts up in the twin bed of the cabin.

There's nothing but darkness all around him, and it takes a minute for his eyes to adjust enough to see the shadowy outlines of the ragtag bits and pieces of furniture and a dull glow of the crescent moon streaming through the window of the main room.

His breaths are coming in shuddering gasps as his racing heart slowly starts to calm. Slipping the damp sheet away from the lower half of his body, he swings his legs off the bed and sits for a minute, his aching head held in between his hands, his elbows resting on his knees.

The temperature since his arrival in Des Moines is always too hot to really sleep well. Even wearing just his boxers to bed and covered in the thinnest of sheets, Sam roasts in his own juices as he tries to slumber. It doesn't help that he lurches awake every night without fail. Soaked in heavy streams of perspiration cascading down his flushed skin and pressing his curly hair flat to his scalp.

After almost two weeks, he has been hoping against hope that his chronic nightmare would have begun to taper off by now. But life is cruel sometimes, and apparently Sam is enough of a dick that a cosmic someone has decided that he should be subjected every night to seeing his dead father and brother in the dark recesses of what little rest he does manage to get.

As if it isn't bad enough already that every breath he takes without them around feels like razor blades slicing through his lungs. So agonizingly sharp that he can almost taste the blood welling up in his airway.

Rubbing away the vestiges of sleep and tears from his eyes, he stands up and stumbles his way down the two steps from the open bedroom into the main room and over to the tiny kitchen area. Turning on the cold water faucet and letting it run for a minute before splashing his face and scooping up a handful to drink down.

Keeping the water at a steady increasingly cold stream, he splashes more on his face and then through his sweaty hair until he begins to feel a little relief from the oppressive heat.

The cabin barely has any electricity, so there isn't even a fan, let alone an air conditioner to cool things down. After the thunderstorm that had passed through earlier, the mid summer humidity had kicked up a dozen notches, making the stretch of land along the river feel like a swamp.

It would have been cooler to sit outside for a while, but the frequent summer storms tend to bring out the mosquitoes in full force and Sam wasn't interested in being eaten to death tonight.

By now he's familiar enough with the cabin's floor plan that he doesn't need to bother lighting the one small desk lamp that the cabin has, or either of the two oil lamps. He simply takes another drink of water from the slightly rattling faucet and then flops down tiredly on the scratchy fibrous plaid of the old sofa.

The cabin wasn't much, like most of Uncle Bobby's emergency shelters, but it has been enough to keep him housed after that horrible night in Sioux Falls.

Since his arrival in Des Moines, after catching a lucky ride from the bus station to the cabin, he's allowed himself to really break down and cry exactly once, not including the involuntary tears that came from the nightmares. He wasn't going to count those.

He'd had one real genuine gut wrenching breakdown, with sobs so deep and so desperate that they practically shook his entire body apart with their intensity. Only by wrapping his long thin arms around himself and squeezing tight was he saved from breaking into a million pieces.

Of that much, he's sure.

He had been doing well up until that point. A little mopey and sad, yes, but managing. Sam's ever present righteous indignation serves him well most of the time as far as keeping him on track and focused. He wouldn't have even guessed that he would finally just lose it because of the bag of groceries he unpacked.

His late night arrival didn't allow for any detours at that hour. No chance to stop for the basics that he knew he would need. Bobby's places were expected to have emergency rations, but that was never a guarantee if the last occupant hadn't taken the time or hadn't had the means to replace what they used.

Although Sam had been starving for the first time in weeks before the confrontation with his father and subsequent hasty departure, his appetite was well and truly quashed afterwards. So when Sam arrived in Des Moines, all he wanted to do was curl up in a bed and shut the world out, and so that's what he did. But, the next morning, he had been ravenous once again, and had needed to hike back out to the main road and the stores along the way.

Sam has money on his bank card, thanks to Dean's birthday present and the weekly allowance that Sam usually hoarded. Enough to get him started in California until his financial aid check arrives.

Money enough to buy his bus ticket to Palo Alto, even though he had been secretly hoping that his brother would have insisted on driving to school with him.

The wishful dream that Dean, although disappointed and annoyed, would have eventually led the way in the Impala, while Sam followed his big brother's lead, like always, behind the wheel of his Camaro. Somehow finding a way between the two of them to pay for Cherry's upkeep so that Sam had ready transportation to reach his family during holidays.

In Sam's dream they would have done the road trip together. Maybe stopping along the way to have one last evening out until they met up for Sam's first long break from classes. Dean would help him move into his dorm, picking up the necessary items for the room that all students need, along with whatever else Sam's big brother decided that the youngest Winchester shouldn't have to live without like he usually did.

They would tour the campus, with Sam pointing out the impressive facilities while Dean made eyes at all the scantily clad co-eds. Slapping his little brother on the back and congratulating the kid on his multiple opportunities to get laid during his first semester.

Sam would roll his eyes and shake his head, but inside he would be smiling, knowing that Dean was teasing him as a way to lessen Sam's nervousness over his new residence.

After a couple of last days together, during which time Sam would be able to slowly get used to the idea of being left on his own, Dean would reassure them both that enough protections were put in place to keep Sam safe. He would make a few snarky and sarcastic jokes to mask his sadness at leaving his little brother where he couldn't keep an eye on him full time, but both of them knowing that each one of them was dying a little on the inside from the impending separation.

He'd probably shove a wad of cash in Sam's pocket and threaten bodily injury if little brother didn't check in by phone every day. Then he'd clear his throat awkwardly and pull Sam into a huge hug and tell him that it was all going to be okay.

And Sam would believe him, because he always believed what Dean said.

On a few truly daring occasions, Sam had even imagined that his father was there as well. Walking every inch of the campus and striking terror in the hearts of anyone he suspected could do his boy harm. Carving protection sigils on every surface of the dorm and not giving fuck all who complained about it.

Dad would hug him and finally tell Sam how proud he was of him. Holding him close like he did when Sam was a small boy, and whispering how much he wished that Mom was there with them to see how well Sam has done for himself. Telling his youngest son that it was okay to dream different dreams than the rest of the Winchester men.

Sam didn't let himself daydream about this one that much. The pain of knowing it would never come true simply too much to bear.

He had gone to the store the morning after his arrival and bought supplies for the first week of his stay. Using a little of the unexpected and non-budgeted windfall from his go-bag Easter eggs to pay, since he hadn't counted on needing to support himself for over a month before school started.

Growing up poor, even if it had gotten better over the years, he was used to making do with little. It only took a few minutes to unpack the small amount of staples good for a week. A loaf of bread. A cheap bag of apples. Generic cans of beans and tuna for protein. A single jar of peanut butter.

Generic boxes of mac & cheese he would prepare without the benefit of the milk or butter that might spoil in the suspicious looking ancient fridge. He didn't have the spare cash to waste on perishables dependent on the whim of prehistoric appliances.

Sam had taken one long look at the mac & cheese and just started bawling like a baby. Remembering all the ways Dean would invent to change it up so that a fussy little brother would willingly eat it day after day. The memories of how hard his big brother had always tried to make their lives better and bearable crashing down on him like waves against sharp rocks.

It was clear to him then that his abandonment of his injured brother would never be forgiven. Not by Dean, and certainly not by himself, and the knowledge of that finally shattered Sam's carefully crafted resolve. It had been almost an hour before the trembling and the tears tapered off, taking Sam's appetite right along with them.

Leaving him exhausted and mentally strung out. A boiling pot of acid in his belly that burned all the way up to his throat while his head pounded relentlessly. As limp as a wet dish rag, he spent the remainder of the day zoned out on the twin bed. Eyes itchy and burning from his tears and a knot of tension suffocating his chest.

Knowing that he is well and truly on his own, with no one to look after him, or even care that he was broken and hurting and God so lonely, he has had to become stronger now and talk himself into believing that he can do this. Having taken the stand that he was abandoning his family, he knew that it was time to man up and take care of himself.

No longer John's son, with a dad that was strict and gruff, but who had always been there for Sam when he really needed his father. Hugs and a gentle hand to ruffle his hair affectionately interspersed with the orders and never ending training and arguments that was the focus of Sam's resentment.

No longer Dean's little brother, with the surety that there would always be someone that would stand between Sam and the things in the world that wanted to hurt him. Doing so many kind things that Sam couldn't even bear to catalog them without feeling the prickling onset of an emotional breakdown.

He couldn't really think about Dean that much. Sam's inner strength had its limits of endurance, and the knowledge that his beloved brother now probably hated him was agonizing when he allowed himself to feel it.

Sam has been wanting to exert his independence a little more aggressively for a while now. A normal thing that happens as a kid grows up and begins to spread their wings. He had been raised in a tough life, with strict rules to obey and two overbearing guardians who thought nothing of flinging themselves into danger, even as they were relentlessly sheltering their youngest as much as they possibly could.

Sam may have been vehemently protected, but he was also taught extreme self reliance. His father never knowing if he wouldn't make it back home to his boys one day, and needing them to be able to stand on their own in case of disaster.

But just because Sam can take care of himself, it doesn't mean that he doesn't miss his family, and the security he always felt at having them around.

As he now spends the days all alone, the silence surrounding him is sharp and accusing from the moment he wakes up until the moment he tries to sleep. A heavy weight of loneliness pressing down on him every time he closes his eyes and sees his brother's grief stricken face and battered body. Logically, he knows that once he is in school, there will be new people to meet, and new friends to make, but for now, he feels incredibly isolated.

Before the big fight, Sam had just about convinced himself that he would be okay when he left for school, because there would be so many new things to explore that wouldn't leave any time for feeling homesick. A whole new world really, and he was flooded with excitement over the prospect of new discoveries that didn't involve hunting.

But he had never factored in a scenario where he would be cast out and alone for a month beforehand. With nothing more to do than think of everyone and everything he has left behind to craft this new magical life.

He checks his phone dozens of times a day as he goes about his new routine of activities. Realistically reminding himself over and over again that, no matter how much he hopes, there won't be any calls from his father or brother.

That there will never be any again.

Not one telling him that it's okay if he comes back home until school starts. Or just to come back home at all really.

Not even one demanding it.

That's the hardest thing to process. That his father, who exerts control in all things, is not calling with supreme authority to demand that his son return to the fold or, more surprisingly, that Dad hasn't roared up the small driveway to the cabin and bodily hauled his wayward son back to The Life.

Sam knows perfectly well that his family would have already found out exactly where he was. If they were interested in actually knowing, that is.

In the back of his mind, Sam had more than a little subconsciously expected that, once his father's anger had abated, there was no way that John freakin' Winchester was going to allow his kid to just walk away.

Thoroughly convinced that, any minute, the big black Sierra was going to come screeching to a halt outside and Dad was going to storm in, screaming louder than fuck, larger than life as usual, and simply ordering Sam to pack his things and get his punk ass back home where he belonged.

And there was more than a few minutes each day when Sam knew he would do exactly that if it meant that this ache in the pit of his stomach would ease. That there would be an end to inability to close his eyes without seeing the broken body of his devastated brother staring back accusingly at him for his duplicity and deception.

But Dad never comes.

And Dean never calls.

Sam has all the freedom he's ever wanted, here in this little ramshackle cabin. His first stop on his journey to get away from hunting and living his life. He's eighteen, an adult and now he makes his own rules.

No need to set the alarm on his phone to wake up at the ass crack of dawn anymore.

No curfew to obey, he can come and go as he pleases.

No off limits places to avoid, he can go where he wants.

No set time to hit the rack, he can stay up all night *see alarm clock.

No list of chores to do. No guns to clean. No lore to study. No hunt to research.

It's all coming up Sam right now, and he should have no reason to complain since he's finally getting what he wants. Right?

So Sam accepts that he will continue to be cast out for the time being, and will be forced to endure the nightly torments that breach his mind in the darkness of the rundown cabin where he's taking refuge.

It makes it easier, really, to get through the days if he is feeding on a steady diet of anger and resentment against his father's actions.

Without Dad kicking Sam out of the house, it might have been just a little bit harder for Sam to justify leaving his critically injured brother behind without a second glance. This way, he can absolve himself largely of the guilt that bears down on him by blaming their father for Sam not being around to return the care and attention to Dean that his big brother was always so quick to bestow on Sam.

Regardless of what Dean's needs were, Sam's various sicknesses and injuries over the years had always taken priority.

Sam also convinces himself that he can take comfort in the surety that, if Dean really needed him, or if Dad really wanted Sam to come back and help during Dean's convalescence, then they would have already reached out to him.

But they haven't.

So, since it's obvious that he's not needed, it's not actually Sam's fault that they aren't speaking, right?

So why does it still hurt so much?

Pain sharp enough to punish him with endless sleepless hours of dark thoughts.

In retrospect, he should have thought about taking his dream catcher from the trunk of the Impala, but like so many other things that had slipped his mind while making his exodus from his home and family, it fell by the wayside, and now he's feeling more of the recurring ramifications of his decision.

Every night, without fail, he wakes up sweaty and shaking. Unable to get back to sleep no matter how hard he tries. The lingering images of fire and blood and death echoing behind his eyelids.

He can see it in his face now whenever he forces himself to look in the mirror, which isn't often. Not particularly fond of the person he sees staring back at him these days.

The cold, heartless boy that left his brother behind just when Dean needed him most.

The cabin has minimal bathroom facilities, with a very basic toilet and pull chain shower that, for some unfortunate reason, disperses only cold water. It's been hot enough so that cold showers aren't necessarily a tragedy right now, but he never feels quite clean enough afterwards either.

There's a well that feeds the kitchen sink, as well as the bathroom, but why the bathroom didn't share the same hot water tank as the kitchen, Sam doesn't know. Sometimes he just chooses to take what Dean snarkily calls a "whore's bath" at the sink instead of subjecting himself to another ice bath. With the heat being what it is since his arrival, he needs to wash more than once a day anyway.

A small clean tributary river flows in front of the cabin that strangely enough is actually warmer than the cold water of the shower, so he often strips down take a swim or two every day to relieve the summer heat and remove some more of the accumulating sweat from his skin. Sometimes he even gives thought to bringing a bar of cheap soap in with him to help scrub off the dirt and stickiness.

When you grow up having to occasionally squat in an abandoned house during a hunt for lack of a motel or cash to pay for one, you learn to make do with what you had.

Sam tries not to think about the warm, clean comfortable home he chose to give up when he contemplates washing himself where he can feel fish swim by.

It's a small mercy that he's squatting here in the heart of the warm summer, because he couldn't imagine how much more horrible it would have been in the winter time. Although the cabin does have a central stone fireplace that serves as the primary heat source for both the sectioned off living areas, it wasn't serving much of a purpose right now, other than making him feel subconsciously warmer just by looking at it.

But in the dark of night, his body slick with perspiration and his night terrors swirling around fresh behind his eyes, there's nothing he can do to make himself feel clean or safe. So he sits in the darkness of the unfamiliar hovel and tries to forget about the ones he loves.

No Dean or Dad to make him spiced milk. To let Sam curl up with his head in his father's lap, with the comforting scents of smoke, peppermint and soap reassuring him that he was safe. The deep, warm timbre of Dad's soothing voice as he carded his fingers through Sam's messy bedhead, or Dean's soft humming lulling him back to sleep while they chased the fears away.

At eighteen, Sam accepts that the time for comfort and coddling is over, now that he has made a man's choice.

Always independent, he still occasionally needed the physical affection any child craves when afraid. As well as knowing that he had his father and brother to fall back on if life becomes too rough and too frightening. The loss of which is devastating him.

It wasn't so much not having them around right now. It's the idea that he will never have them watching out for him ever again. And when the thought of that gets to be too hard, he pushes it aside and allows himself to continue to believe that this is only a temporary arrangement. That, any moment, they will come for him.

Just like they always had in the past.

Perpetually tired from the lack of restful sleep, he's missing caffeine right about now. The cabin had actually come with a few staples after all upon further inspection. Some soup. Tins of potted meat. A box of saltine crackers. Half a honey bear. Sadly, a can of coffee wasn't one of them, and Sam hadn't wanted to spend what little extra money he had to buy one.

There was an almost empty box of black tea that he brewed once or twice, but it was bitter and not caffeinated enough to help with his headache. Because there are some things about a hunter's life that will always come second nature to him, Sam has a large bottle of aspirin among his things. He palms a pair of tablets a few times a day to chase off the migraines.

That's what he does now as he pushes himself off the sofa in the dim light of the main room. He dry swallows them, used to having to take meds on the run without always having the benefit of water to wash them down. He knows there will be no going back to sleep tonight and decides that maybe he needs to light one of the oil lamps after all.

It smokes and sputters for a minute before fully flaring to life, casting a pale glow over the main room. The cabin looks better now than it did when he arrived. With a lack of anything better to do, and unwilling to spend all his hours feeling sorry for himself, Sam has been steadily doing a deep clean of the place. Scrubbing and sorting and generally organizing as a way to earn his keep.

Bobby's cabins usually come with a small library of resources just in case. Although Sam's phone has service here, there is no internet, so a hunter would need to rely on getting their info the old fashioned way.

There is a library about five miles away. Sam has made the trek twice already, just to be able to scrounge their wifi. He uses the laptop that Dad gave him for his birthday a couple of months ago, chest pained with the guilt of having taken it with him.

Sam's anger and pride had him seriously consider leaving it behind in Sioux Falls for a brief moment before he left. He knows it was expensive. Knows how hard it would have been for Dad to swing the extra cash to buy it. Especially so close on the heels of their pricey vacation to DC, where Sam was allowed to basically have and do whatever he wanted. Assured that the funds to pay were available to them.

Dad had obviously purchased it for Sam to use on the job, with the olive branch of online college credits thrown in as a signing bonus for Sam's full time enlistment in the Winchester Army. Sam really had no business taking it with him under the circumstances, other than the fact that he loved it, and the money to buy another one to help with his school work wouldn't be there when he arrived in California.

Just another example of Sam's selfishness, he supposed. Although he knew, deep down, that his dad loved him enough that he really would want Sam to have it, regardless of the broken strings between them.

At the library, Sam catches up on his email. Messages from friends either at their new schools or excited about leaving for them. News from Stanford regarding finances and orientation events and such.

Another time of the day when he foolishly hopes that maybe there will be some communication from his father or brother. Not that he's really expecting anything. If Dad or Dean wanted to get in touch with him, they would obviously call. He's not even sure Dad knows what email is.

Sam only has a few more days of service on his pre-paid monthly service for his phone, and he would need to spend some of his cash to re-up for another thirty days. Even if his family didn't want to ever talk to him again, he couldn't even think of not maintaining the last avenue of contact with them.

Dean had always paid for Sam's phone service, but the young future student has already budgeted out the necessary funds from his financial aid check to cover the cost while he's at school.

Maybe, after enough time had passed, at least his big brother would want to talk to him again. Sam would pray every night until that happened.

Waiting for the sun to rise, Sam decides to pray again right now.

He goes to his knees in front of the scratchy couch and bends over clasped hands propped on the seat cushion. His eyes tightly shut as he pleads with a higher power for forgiveness for his selfishness and his cruel abandonment of his injured brother. He begs for mercy over his failings that have led to the estrangement with his family, and asks for divine intervention to persuade his father to change his mind and accept Sam's need for normalcy over the family mission.

Maybe if he does this enough, the ache relentlessly squeezing his heart will go away and he'll be allowed to sleep again. Maybe if he does this enough, he'll get to see his family again.

He prays for a long time.

When his knees begin to protest the hard wood floor underneath, he pulls himself up and swipes a hand across his eyes. He's not crying, he swears. Just allergies to all the river pollen kicking up from the humidity that is already rising in the early morning air. His stomach gives the slightest rumble of interest, and since he's already awake he figures he might as well eat.

Food doesn't really have much appeal to him right now which is good since he can't afford much. It's simply necessary fuel for his weary body. Without a lot of thought he slices up an apple and makes a peanut butter sandwich. Deciding that the tea might not be horrible if he puts in enough of the honey, he boils some water for that too.

The sun starts to rise as he waits for the water to bubble. There is a foggy haze hanging low over the river and he can hear the buzzing of insects heralding another humid day on the horizon. Involuntarily he swipes his hair off his forehead in anticipation of approaching heat.

Maybe his taste buds are getting used to the plainer fare, but the tea isn't half bad this morning, and Sam hopes that it gives him enough of a jolt that he doesn't feel like a zombie all day. Although he has neglected his PT regimen as a peevish revolt of his father's iron clad control, he has to admit that he feels more sluggish now that he doesn't exercise as much. He thinks that maybe he will start running again tomorrow if the weather isn't too disgustingly moist.

After he eats, he washes the one plate and one cup. The one butter knife and one spoon. Just one of everything. Just like him. Just one Winchester. All alone.

Before he gets bogged down in depression so early in the morning, he strides over to the bookcase and picks up one of the lore books, not paying any attention to the title or contents. Disinterested but needing distraction, he reads for a while, not actually retaining any of the information. There's no reason to even pretend anymore that this world holds any meaning for him, so he throws it aside in futile disgust.

In the end he knows it was that certainty that had forced Sam's hand enough where he walked away from his family. The knowledge that, no matter his good intentions, he couldn't make himself to want anything to do with the hunting world. In the past he had done what he had because his father ordered him to and because his brother expected him to.

Loyal, whether or not his dad and brother can see it, a part of Sam's personality has always been to want to do the right thing for his family. For a while he thought that hunting with them was the right thing, but after many sleepless nights, especially the ones at his comatose brother's bedside, he knew that the right thing was for him to get as far away from The Life as possible.

It was the right thing for him, and it was the right thing for them. Even if they didn't realize it yet.

Although, maybe Dad realized it already.

After all, his father had let him go easily enough. If you call whipping the daylights out of Sam easy. Still, Sam was pretty sure that his father's actions had been more a punishment for Sam's culpability in his brother's injuries and not necessarily because he was going away to school.

If Dad felt that Sam was a good hunter, one that would positively contribute to the family cause, he wouldn't have told Sam to get out, right? John Winchester was the kind of guy that would have gone behind his son's back and acted on Sam's behalf to refuse Stanford's offer before his son had any chance to find out or fix it.

Dad would have torpedoed Sam's shot with swift and lethal intent, and it would have been all over long before Sam could have had any hope to salvage it.

That's what Dad would have done if he really wanted his youngest boy to stay with them. He wouldn't have pushed Sam out the door without a second glance like he had. Literally dropping him off at the bus station like an unwanted stray puppy. No questions as to where Sam was going or how he was planning on taking care of himself. No concern as to whether or not Sam had money or shelter.

Fathers that loved their kids and wanted them around didn't act like that.

Of course, Sam had made a stand and declared himself an adult, so why should Dad have worried about him anymore? At his age, his father had been shipped off to the jungles of Vietnam. Fighting for his very life everyday. All Sam was doing was going off to an easy life on a posh college campus with a full ride in his pocket.

He didn't need his father's concern.

Didn't mean he wasn't gutted by not getting it.

Maybe Dad felt that he had taught Sam well enough on how to take care of himself. Counting on Sam learning his lessons over the years on how to survive and hustle money if he had to.

And why not?

Dean had been taking care of himself for a long time. Taking care of Sam too. Dad always made sure they had the basics of food, clothing and shelter, but it had been Dean that earned the money for the fun things. Besides insisting on contributing as much as possible to their daily upkeep.

Of course Dad wouldn't worry about Sam since Dean had been able to do it.

But then Dean was the golden boy. The perfect son.

Sam was the disappointment. The screw up.

Maybe Dad was worried about where Sam was living these days. Whether or not he was okay and if he had food and safety.

Maybe Dad had simply grown tired of his youngest son's long litany of complaints and dissatisfaction and had finally washed his hands of Sam.

Maybe Dad was even more disgusted with Sam's eagerness to abandon Dean than Sam was himself.

Maybe Dad was right.

/

Rufus Turner had thought he was done with this all. Years and years of dedication to the hunt, he took himself out of the game once The Life had taken his daughter from him.

That was finally a price too big to pay.

Born and raised in Memphis to musical parents, he grew up backstage of the clubs on Beale Street listening to his daddy play guitar while his mama sang. An only child, he enjoyed the rhythm and flow of the area, bursting on the cusp of a cultural revolution and the civil rights movement.

He had been given a wonderful childhood. His father was a talented musician. In demand with several bands all over town, he had his pick. Providing a better life for his little family that many could have hoped for during that age.

Memphis had always been a little more progressive than a lot of other southern cities when it came to the evolution of civil rights. With the landmark decision of Brown v Board of Education and the growing scores of African American owned businesses and political involvement, Rufus had been front and center for an entire movement in American history in his own home town.

His daddy made good money playing the blues. Enough that Rufus' mama could stay home with him comfortably, and the family lived in a small but respectable wooden two story home in a pleasant and fairly recently integrated residential neighborhood. Their next door neighbors were Judge and Mrs. Stern. An older Jewish couple in their late sixties who affectionately adopted the Turner family in the absence of their own children. Grown and moved away over the years.

Mama had the voice of the most beautiful songbird. Often Rufus would sit outside the door to the kitchen and listen to her sing lilting spiritual melodies as she went about her day. Sometimes Mama would be persuaded to join his daddy for one the gigs he took on special occasions. She preferred being home with her son, but she also missed performing.

Rufus loved hearing his parents make music together on stage.

Like all hunters, he came to The Life through loss. A wandering pack of vampires had been making their way through the clubs and bars of Memphis the summer that Rufus was eleven years old. Preying on the musicians and attendees alike without mercy. His parents being among the eventual victims.

Rufus was supposed to be at home asleep the night his mother and father were eaten. While he could sometimes persuade his parents to allow him to accompany them to their gigs, the recent rash of violent attacks in the area had them wary of taking their son with them on this particular occasion. Truthfully, they weren't thrilled of going themselves either, but Rufus' daddy had a contract to honor, and he was a man of his word. So, they went.

After an unproductive argument with them, Rufus was ordered to stay safely at home. Under the watch of Mrs. Stern, the sweet next door neighbor that had been babysitting him off and on since their move. Unfortunately, Mrs. Stern was getting older and her hearing wasn't what it once was, so it hadn't been too hard for the energetic young man to scale down the tree outside his window and sprint the lengthy distance to the club where his parents were appearing.

Beale Street was alive and hopping that night as usual. Clubs with their front doors wide open, letting music escape to the outside to beckon patrons in for a drink and a show. The air was electric, and Rufus could practically feel the sizzle on his skin as he weaved in and out of pedestrian traffic on his way. There was a heady scent of steaks and barbecue from the many food joints bursting with customers out for an evening of fun, and a cloud of cigarette smoke from people who still thought that smoking was healthy for them.

Having gone to this specific club with his parents in the past, he knew just where to hide in the shadows of the dim lighting inside so he could hear the melodic beauty of his mother's voice and watch the deep loving looks between his parents on the stage. The two of them becoming so much more than just his mama and daddy when they performed together.

Because he wasn't supposed to be there, he kept himself carefully cloaked in the darkness during their break, not daring to follow them outside to the back where the whole band shared a smoke before the next set.

It wasn't until he heard the screams that he realized that there was evil stalking them.

By the time he made his way to the back, it was already all over, and the last image he has of his parents were of their dead, anguished faces as pale, glossy eyed things drank from their necks. Too stunned to do or say anything, he stared, like a deer caught in the headlights, unable to really process what he was seeing. So horrified and quietly numb that his presence wasn't even noticed.

The next thing he knew, a young man in dark clothes and carrying what looked like a large knife was bounding into the back alley. Cutting and slashing his way through the necks of the cannibals feasting on Rufus' parents and their friends, the blood still ruby red warm and dripping from their mouths as the stranger almost effortlessly took their heads.

That was when Rufus finally threw up.

Because civilians are willing to believe just about any story they get told when they don't have another explanation for the end result of a supernatural attack, the entire city bought into the laughable idea that a rabid cougar had somehow meandered into the city and was randomly attacking the music scene. The whole murder spree was quietly covered over for the sake of tourism dollars and things soon went back to normal on Beale Street.

The knife wielding stranger that had eventually noticed Rufus cowering in the shadows introduced himself to the traumatized boy as Daniel Elkins. Unable to deny what Rufus had witnessed with his own young eyes, Daniel explained all about vampires and the supernatural world while he methodically disposed of the headless corpses. Eventually helped by a shell shocked Rufus too dazed to process his parents gruesome end at that moment.

Elkins showed him how to stage a scene. Arranging the murder victims to support the cougar story as he explained the necessity of providing even a flimsy alternative to the truth. Later, he gave the dazed boy a large measure of whiskey to numb him even further before quietly driving the traumatized child back home.

Parked on the side of the road in front of the formerly happy Turner home, they spent a few minutes of silence in the car, the young boy's building rage surging to overtake his devastation. In that moment Elkins saw the need for revenge and blood lust in Rufus' eyes and made the decision every hunter makes at some point. He gave the boy his phone number as well as an offer to train him when he was a little older if Rufus was interested, and then drove away into the night.

Rufus didn't have any other family members to turn to after his parents' deaths. Fortunately for him, Judge and Mrs. Stern were more than willing to have him come and live with them, and the retired justice had the legal pull to make it happen with minimal fuss. Their children already being grown and living far away, the Stern family nest was empty and, although they wished the circumstances were different, they were exceptionally happy to take Rufus in.

It had been hard to accept the loss of his beloved parents. Rufus had been especially close to both of them, what with being a little family of three for his entire life. He spent most of the first few months withdrawn in grief and contemplation over his simmering need for revenge.

Of course there hadn't been anyone to get revenge upon, what with Elkins beheading the beasts that had taken Rufus' parents from him. Elkins had also assured him that the entire nest would be cleaned out before Daniel left the Memphis area. The love Rufus had for his parents was a living, vital part of him and the memories of that night stayed with him every minute of every day.

The need for vengeance never left him either.

As the years went by, Rufus grew up into a strong and forbidding young man. Watching the brave men and women of Memphis fight for real change and a better life, he was inspired to make his own mark on the world. Although afraid of what a life with Elkins might entail, he knew he needed to be brave for his parents' sake.

He was there when Martin Luther King, Jr. made his I Have Been to the Mountaintop speech. Inspired by the man's grit and determination. He grieved along with the rest of the city when King was murdered in cold blood the very next day. It was then that Rufus knew that his fear couldn't stop him from making sure that no other innocent family suffered like his own had.

With that, he had made his decision to join Elkins once he was old enough to strike out on his own, and knew he would need physical and mental strength to do the job. In secret, he trained for hours, building his body and his mind.

His foster parents were kind and loving, but he never felt the ability to confide in them the actual story of his mother and father's true demise. They supported his physical and academic endeavors, not knowing that it was the precursor to his exit from their normal family life.

Raised a Southern Baptist during childhood, Rufus attended temple services out of respect for the Sterns. Eventually, he embraced the tenets of both faiths for a while before finally converting to Judaism. He was given a late Bar Mitzvah just in time to sit shiva for his foster father, when Judge Stern died unexpectedly of a heart attack just a couple of months after Rufus' sixteenth birthday.

After the death of his foster father, his foster mother became lost in her own grief, joining her husband in the hereafter just a little over a year later and, once again, Rufus mourned for the last person he considered a parent. On good terms but not especially close with his significantly older foster siblings, and almost a legal age of eighteen, Rufus called Daniel Elkins and officially joined The Life a few weeks later.

His first kill was a werewolf just a few months after joining Elkins in Colorado to start his training. He was young, stupid and scared shitless, practically tripping over his own feet chasing the damn thing, but when he shot his silver bullet through the heart, it struck straight and true. That night he and Daniel celebrated with a shot of Johnnie Walker Blue. A large step up from the regular jug whiskey that the two of them drank together in their off time.

It tasted like sweet victory to Rufus.

Like most hunters, Rufus learned to live for the hunt. He apprenticed with Daniel for a couple of years before moving on to others to learn their specialties. A young, energetic man, he lived fast and hard on the road. Leaving a trail of monster bodies and love struck and broken hearted women in his wake.

Daniel and the others had taught him the cold, honest rules of hunting, and over the years he made his own iron clad list that he lived by. Feeling that any sort of deviation from them would only lead to his body burning on a pyre before he was out of his twenties.

Rule #1: It is what it looks like.

Rufus believing in the simplest answer usually being the correct one. Never overthink a hunt. It wastes time.

Rule #2: Know them better than they know you.

Fairly self explanatory in a world where your prey knowing more about who you are than you know what it is being a sure fire way to get yourself killed.

Rule #3: It can be both.

Don't get caught up in just thinking it's one thing going bad. You might be looking for two monsters. It happens more than you think.

Rule #4: Never hit the same town twice.

For obvious reasons. Hunters tend to leave a mess behind, and the last thing you need is to be recognized as the guy that was seen chopping off heads.

Rule #5: It ain't dead until it's in five pieces.

Never do a half assed job when you're hunting. Make sure the damn thing's not coming back.

The rules were simple. Sensible. And anyone who did a job with Rufus was expected to abide by them, or don't bother climbing into his ride. He was planning on living a long life, thank you very much.

Eventually, after lonely years on the road, Rufus began a long term relationship with one woman that was off again more than it was on again over the course of two decades. During that time, she gave birth to his daughter and Rufus finally felt true love for another person for the first time since the death of his parents.

He knew from his interactions with other hunters that The Life was hard on a child, and while Rufus' girlfriend and daughter knew what he did when he wasn't with them, he didn't bring his work home with him either. He wanted his daughter knowledgeable and protected, but safe from the actual horrors he dealt with on a daily basis. His daughter was just as beautiful as his own mother had been, and the first time he heard his little girl sing, he cried. Swearing that his mother had been reborn in her granddaughter's voice.

Rufus spent as much time with her as he could, talking to her every day when he couldn't be there in person. It was inevitable that he missed some things during his daughter's childhood, but he tried to make them few and far between. He was fortunate that she had a mother to care for her that wasn't a part of The Life. Although he and his girlfriend had tempers as hot as their feelings for each other, they never let their personal squabbles get in the way of his relationship with his daughter.

He was a man blessed after so many years of pain and suffering.

It was just after his landmark thirtieth birthday when he encountered a salvage man by the name of Bobby Singer, and his life would change dramatically after that.

Rufus had been chasing a demon for several weeks. An even nastier sort than usual who got its kicks by possessing wives and murdering their spouses. Rufus followed the omens and its bloody trail to a pretty blue two story house that was the home of Robert and Karen Singer in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

He got there too late to save Karen.

Singer had stabbed his possessed wife multiple times, acting more out of instinct than self defense, and in him, Rufus saw another that was bound for The Life. He got the demon out of Karen's lifeless body and proceeded to teach Bobby about the things that go bump in the night.

Like his own introduction, Singer didn't come on board straightaway. He had needed time to absorb the rapid fire way his simple, unimportant life just went all to shit in the blink of an eye. Singer wandered for a while, getting his head on straight and picking things up as he went along. A while later, he returned to Sioux Falls, ready to plunge headfirst in the life of a hunter when he dialed Rufus' number.

Rufus and Bobby rode together for a long time after that. Having a partner on the road had opened Rufus' eyes to just how lonely he had become over the years, and it was nice to finally have someone that he could count on to have his back. They argued and bickered like an old married couple most of the time, but it was true friendship that ran deep.

Until it didn't.

It wasn't as if they didn't try to get another hunter to help out on that last case. They did try. Really. It was just dumb misfortune that no one was close enough or available enough to be the third set of eyes they had needed for this last hunt in Omaha.

Although Rufus didn't let his daughter hunt with him as she grew up, she knew the score. Singer had even met her on several occasions when Rufus would be close enough to her mother's house to spend time with his daughter. Where they met and what they did together depended on whether or not Rufus was embroiled in a cage match with her mother at the time.

Sometimes Bobby would be holed up in the kitchen with young Miss Turner while her parents went at it in another room, either fighting or fornicating. The two of them talked a lot and got pretty close after a while. A shared and long suffering camaraderie built up over years of entertaining each other during the latest make up or break up of her parents.

The hunt in Omaha was a bad one, but Rufus and Bobby could handle the dirty work. They just needed someone they could count on to be the lookout while they got the job done. In what would be one of the true grievous mistakes Bobby Singer made as a hunter, he had been desperate enough to ask Rufus' little girl to help out. By the time Rufus had found out, it was too late to stop her and get someone else, so he reluctantly allowed it.

A catastrophic mistake with rippling effects that destroyed everything in its wake. She didn't have the first hand knowledge to realize that she was in danger, and it was all over before her father got to her. Rufus walked away from The Life that day, and his partnership and friendship with Singer as well. It was years before he would agree to speak to his former partner again.

Strangely enough, that initial reconciliation had been over Sam Winchester that time as well. Singer knew that Rufus had a soft spot for hunter's kids, and when the young boy went missing for two weeks, Rufus had been willing to come out of retirement just long enough to watch the salvage yard for any signs of the boy while Bobby chased soft leads through the southwest.

Now Rufus once again found himself looking out for little Sammy and wondering just how in the hell he had agreed to this.

John Winchester had a reputation in the hunting world. That wasn't necessarily always a compliment either. The man had skill that couldn't be denied. For a civilian that came late to The Life, he had certainly made up for lost time. Other hunters knew him to be a good man, if you didn't cross him. If you did cross him, better get the hell out of the way if you knew what was good for you.

Only a few hunters had the slightest idea that John had kids when the boys were really little, and God himself couldn't help you if you even entertained the notion of looking at them funny. John wasn't known for his sense of humor where his boys' safety was concerned.

In general, he kept them far away from the usual hunter hot spots. Lord knows that Ellen Harvelle hadn't set eyes on them since they were knee high to grasshoppers. She certainly made sure that everyone knew exactly how upset she was over that. Having grown attached to them when John had them at the Roadhouse for little Sammy's very first Christmas. Rufus himself had found his ears bleeding from the ranting she did over how much mothering they were sorely in need of.

Kids had no business being in The Life as far as Rufus was concerned.

So when Singer called, needing a friendly unfamiliar face to keep an eye on Sam Winchester who had made a break from his family in favor of a fancy college education, Rufus couldn't say with any kind of honesty that he blamed the kid.

In fact, he was rooting for the boy.

Run, little Sammy. Run.

Rufus would have wanted his little girl to have done just the same. She was headed for Juilliard right before the job in Omaha.

It hadn't taken much to once again coax Rufus away from his little house in Canaan, Vermont where he had been hiding from the world for the past decade. Just the briefest of explanations that the boy of one of their own was leaving The Life for greener pastures and needed a little bit of babysitting for a few weeks.

That's how Rufus found himself bunking down in the one room cabin on a mosquito infested riverbank in Iowa, dead in the heat of August. Unlike Bobby, Wandell maintained his place, so Rufus was pretty sure that he was having a better time of it than the Winchester kid was.

He watched the boy from a distance during the day. It was obvious that Sam knew he was being watched, and Rufus had to chuckle to himself that Singer wasn't wrong when he said the kid was good. Too bad that the boy had no stones for hunting. Both Bobby and John thought the kid was a natural, and after two weeks of monitoring him, Rufus was inclined to agree.

He gave consideration to actually introducing himself to the boy to give them both some company. Not as himself, mind you, because Rufus was pretty sure that his name had spilled off Singer's drunk tongue a time or twenty, and maybe not in the sweetest of ways. But the risk of Sam figuring out that he was talking to a hunter was too great. If the kid was as smart as everyone claimed he was, chances were he'd make Rufus in a heartbeat.

So he settled for the occasional wave as the boy headed down to the water's edge. Although he was pretty sure that the boy was giving him a knowing smirk whenever their eyes met. Message received, Rufus thought to himself, and they kept the charade up day after day.

It was only for a couple more weeks, and then Rufus could go back home, maybe feeling a little better about himself if the kid got to his school safe and sound.

A task his own daughter had never been able to accomplish.

/

Caleb finally comes to visit Dean and John during the last week of August. Just days before Dean is scheduled to get his leg cast off and hopefully starts to work on getting his neglected muscles back in shape.

He's twenty flavors of apologetic as he comes bursting into the little house. Deep in a hunt in the Florida Keys for weeks before he heard about Dean's accident. Caleb had called John as soon as he got the news and the two of them had agreed that Dean wasn't necessarily in the right mind for company for a while.

But now John needs a couple of hours away from the house, and Singer's been called in on a job with Martin Kreaser. Still immobile, Dean can't be left alone just yet, and his father has no intention of doing so, regardless of the errand he needs to run. Fortunately, Caleb was more than happy to see his surrogate little brother, especially under the circumstances.

Dean barely gives Caleb a passing glance when he arrives. Immediately turning his stare back out the living room window where John is almost positive his firstborn has worn a hole through the glass just by the force of his laser focus alone. Caleb knows what's been going on and goes with the flow. If he's wounded that Dean refuses to even say hello to him, he hides it well.

It's all too clear that Dean knows something's up. Although John hasn't said a word to indicate that he would be leaving the house for the first time since bringing his son home from the hospital, Dean is as tense as a bow string. Involuntarily flinching every time his father walks within five feet of the front door.

Caleb easily carries on a one way conversation, comfortably parked in John's usual chair right next to the couch. He tells a steady stream of dirty jokes that need no response as he flips through the channels on the television. Dean acknowledges nothing, his body growing more taut as the minutes pass.

All too soon, John knows he can't put off the inevitable anymore. As he approaches the couch and sits down on the coffee table next to his son, Dean's eyes close in resignation and his father doesn't miss the tightly clenched fingers practically ripping holes in the couch fabric as Dean prepares himself for another abandonment.

"Dean," John starts gently, "I'm going out for an hour to pick up some groceries. I'll be back soon, son. I promise."

Dean doesn't open his eyes or acknowledge his father's words. His only response being a firmer clenching of his jaw so hard that John's teeth ache in sympathy.

"Bobby's out of town, kiddo," he tries again. "We need some stuff, so I have to go this time. Caleb's going to stay with you."

John can't sit there a moment longer and watch the desperate thrumming of his son's body. Sooner or later both he and Dean will need to leave this house and move on, and the longer John waits, the harder it's going to be on his firstborn. It's time to rip the damn bandage off.

He reaches over and runs his hand affectionately over Dean's uncharacteristically longer hair, giving a passing thought to how long it's been since his son let his short spikes grow out. John makes a mental note to take Dean to a barber right after the cast comes off.

The sooner Dean feels like his old handsome cocky self, the better.

As John stands, Dean's hand shoots out, almost as if he's going to grasp his father around the wrist, but it's quickly retracted and tucked firmly against Dean's chest as his forehead puckers in pain. John almost decides right there and then to cancel the meeting he needs to get to, and that he's already late for, but he needs to hold firm.

For Dean's sake and for Sam's.

He grips his son's shoulder, willing some of his own strength and love into his touch.

"I'll be back soon, son."

Somehow he manages to force himself out the door and down the driveway, but when he foolishly looks back at the house, he sees Dean's face staring forlornly out the window.

Somehow, the face he sees is an exact replica of the one of his four year old son, the first time John left on a hunting trip.

Somehow, it's harder for John to leave this time than it was then.

/

They're waiting for John at the diner. Already seated and spread out around a round table towards the back. Robert Campbell, with his tall imposing form, is easy to spot from a distance.

John wasn't expecting quite so many of them, and he feels a small sense of unease over the growing number of people now privy to his son's future whereabouts and safety. He has to keep reminding himself that he has come to trust Robert over the past few months, and John is rarely wrong about who he chooses to let into his inner circle.

Especially where his sons are concerned.

Robert stands to greet him with a hand extended in welcome, and John shakes it with genuine respect, if not quite warmth. He doesn't think the two of them will ever feel like family exactly, but John does recognize the need to have the head of the Campbell clan on his side in his efforts to protect his youngest.

The Campbells take family loyalty very seriously.

At the table are four other people. A boy and a girl that look to be around Sammy's age. The boy is blond and quiet with a slight resemblance to Mary in facial features and a cautious observation in his eyes that John recognizes in his own firstborn son. The girl is his direct opposite. Dark curly hair and a large mischievous grin, like she knows a secret about you, but isn't telling anytime soon.

Next to the girl is a strange looking dude with a mullet, wearing a sleeveless shirt that shows off his pathetic attempt at biceps. John almost feels sorry for him. His boys had more muscle tone before puberty. He grunts a greeting at John and returns his attention to a laptop that looks like he made it out of dumpster waste.

The last occupant of the table is a deal breaker as far as John is concerned. It's the pompous little asshole that was working the gate the first time John drove to the Campbell family compound, and there is no way that John wants that obnoxious little shit anywhere near his kid.

Robert senses the impending outburst and lays a cautionary hand on John's arm, wisely removing it just as quickly when he sees the poisonous look on John's face from the presumption.

"Christian is very good at his job, John," Robert says quietly and calmly. "And he will do as he is told," he states a little more firmly in the young man's direction.

Under his uncle's withering glare, the smug smile falls from Christian's face and he squirms uncomfortably for a brief second before clearing his throat.

"I'm happy to help my cousin in any way possible, sir," he says, looking John straight in the eye. "Campbells stick together."

John feels the urge to point out that Sam is a Winchester, but he restrains himself. He may not like it, but these people are Mary's family and Sam has a right to benefit from their extensive network of manpower and resources.

Especially since his little boy will most certainly refuse to ever see him again after what has gone on between them. John will swallow a little pride if it means keeping his kid safe.

At the end of the day, he appreciates that they have all traveled the long distance from the family compound in Michigan to meet with him, and he tells them so. With Dean as he is, there was no way that John could make the trip himself, and time is growing short. Sam's school will begin in a couple of weeks, and these plans have to be finalized before he arrives on campus.

They all order coffee, except for mullet man. He shamelessly orders what John suspects to be half the menu. By the lack of reaction on the part of the others, this doesn't seem to be an isolated incident. The situation growing only more bizarre when the guy's face falls in disappointment when he's informed that they don't serve beer before noon. John likes his beer too, but he has his limits.

Getting back to the work at hand, John's surprised at how much they have managed to accomplish in the couple of weeks since he first called Robert to explain the situation, and he's even more surprised to find out that they have the eighties haired stoner to thank for that.

Apparently there's not much that can't be wrangled when you have a computer genius working on your side, and John wonders if Sammy is already well on his way to being as handy with his laptop as this kid Ash is. A flash of pride comes across him as he thinks about his scary smart boy, followed quickly by the ache of missing him so much.

Even more surprising is the fact that Ash comes to the party via Ellen Harvelle. While John and Ellen aren't exactly on close speaking terms anymore, he knows that their distance is on him. Ellen has more than once over the years expressed her forgiveness for his part in Bill's death, and it's only John's guilt that has prevented him from seeing her and her daughter more often.

Robert and Ellen are also in communication, and she has volunteered Ash's services without asking specific details. Ellen's never been one to put her nose in another's business unless she's invited. All Robert told her is that he needed technical help for one of the Winchester boys and that was good enough for her.

Ellen has always been good people, and as much as John dislikes being in anyone's debt, he makes a mental note to call her later and express his appreciation. Not always being the bastard that most of the hunting community thinks he is.

Ash has managed to not only get an acceptance at Stanford for Mark, the quiet blond kid, but also a housing assignment just a few doors down from Sammy's room. He blithely informs John that even a fancy school like Stanford has last minute drop outs and cancellations, and he acts like it was nothing at all to hack into their computer system and shoot Mark's fake persona to the top of the waiting list.

Mark is going to handle surveillance of the dorm where John's son will soon call home, and possibly some of Sam's classes once he picks them. Robert is obviously very proud of Mark's intelligence and talents and he boasts to John that the young man is every bit as brilliant as the youngest Winchester. He will fit in at the school without issue as far as academics is concerned.

Ash has arranged a job in the Green Library for Gwen, the little curly haired brunette. It's a part time job as an assistant at the information desk, and Gwen, being born into The Life, knows her way around the libraries and research dance floors like a pro. With Sammy practically living in libraries most of his life, Robert expects him to spend a lot of time there. Gwen will keep an eye on things while he is.

Finally, Christian will be working for Stanford's campus security and run daily sweeps for anything supernatural. This job was a little more tricky to obtain, and Ash is unwilling to divulge exactly how he made it happen. Only that he did. Stanford is a city unto itself and employs a vast number of people, and John is assured that none of the additions that Ash has made to the campus will send up any kind of red flare.

John leaves the meeting still nervous, but feeling slightly better regarding his son's safety. Of course he has every intention on swinging by the campus as often as he can to check on his boy, but he won't always be close enough to watch for everything. At least this way, Sam is protected when his father can't be around.

It's not what John wanted, but for now it will have to do.

He gets back to the house ten minutes earlier than he promised Dean he would, carrying two large greasy bags of take out food from the diner. Inside are all of his firstborn's favorites. His father's poor attempt to make up for the stress he knows he has caused his son with his absence today.

At some point soon, John will tell Dean all about the meeting he just had but, for now, he suspects that any attempt to persuade Dean that Sammy will be safe in California will just come across as another failure on John's part for not being able to keep Sam home where he belongs.

And John simply doesn't have the strength to face his oldest son's recriminating face right now.

Instead he strides back into the house, already knowing that Dean has watched his arrival with undisguised surprise in his green eyes, and John tamps back the guilt he feels once again from his boy's trained lack of faith in his father's devotion to him.

He spreads out the bacon cheeseburgers, chili cheese fries, onion rings and three kinds of pie on the table in front of the couch. Taking a seat next to his significantly less tense son, he presses his shoulder against Dean's in a comforting gesture and happily notes the increase in appetite as Dean digs into the food.

For a few minutes, with Sam on the way to being safe, and Dean on the way to being mended, he doesn't feel like a complete failure as a dad.

/

Twice now, Sam has packed up his things and headed for the bus station. Intent on swallowing his pride and going back home where he belongs.

Twice now, Sam has gone halfway the distance before he changes his mind. Tucking his tail in and running back to the cabin like the coward he is.

He tells himself that his father and brother are long gone from Sioux Falls by now. Back out on the road and happy. Once again a perfect copacetic partnership of two like minded individuals with no whiny little brother to deal with.

He tells himself that he has no way of tracking them down, even if he would be allowed back into the fold after what he has done. That neither Dad nor Dean would be inclined to answer a phone call from a selfish pain in the ass that has done nothing but hurt them.

He tells himself that, while Bobby may have allowed Sam to seek shelter in his cabin this month, the salvage man probably has no warm feelings towards an ungrateful child that abandons his family when they are at their lowest. Sam could go to Sioux Falls, but he would be sleeping on the streets there, and no closer to finding his father and brother when Bobby refuses to help him.

The second time he finds himself walking back to the cabin, he finally accepts that this really is it. It's the point of no return between him and his family.

He waves to the slightly weird but friendly enough man that lives nearby, wondering if it was just his hopeful imagination these past weeks that made him think that his father had arranged for Sam to be watched over. When really it was probably just another lost soul living in a cabin by the river the whole time.

Sam doesn't know what's worse anymore.

Knowing that betraying and abandoning Dean was quite possibly the cruelest thing he could ever have done to his brother, or the guilt in knowing that, although he would have changed the circumstances of his departure for school, Sam wouldn't have chosen his destination any differently.

Sitting on the riverbank, Sam accepts that the next bus he will be on will be heading for California and nowhere else, and he wonders what kind of person that makes him.

/

Dean's casts are off and he's able to get around now, in a slow but steadily getting stronger manner. No longer requiring his father's help to bathe or dress. He's even taken back over some of the cooking duties, and John feels a small pang of loss over being not being needed by his child once again.

He's still not talking, but he is starting to at least step away from the damn window now for a couple of hours a day and will even occasionally go out and walk down to the end of the block and back. John is going to take it as a good first step and wonders if it's time to start hinting that they should be getting ready to head back out on the road.

The decision is made for him at the tail end of August when the landlady stops by to talk to them. She's confused by a check she received the other day in the mail from Dean. Rent for the next three months for the house, although she was sure that John told her that they weren't planning on staying past September. She's not upset, she assures them. The Winchesters have been model tenants and she wasn't looking forward to seeing them go, but she was confused nonetheless.

John is stunned into silence and he turns to his firstborn, not missing the fact that Dean is standing straight and tall for the first time since before his accident. He gives his son a questioning stare and is rewarded with a voice that, although raspy from lack of use, is strong and steady.

He's missed his son's voice.

"I'm keeping the house, Dad," Dean states with an air of finality. "I'm ready hit the road again. More than ready. But my brother is going to come back someday. And when he does, he needs a home to come back to."

For the first time, John knows that there is no changing Dean's mind. What's more, he realizes that he agrees with his son.

/