Thanks to Mish for the beta, thanks to Sushi for the commenting, it was helpful and encouraging. Here's the thing. I have two more chapters, and I could easily write more, and I have an epilogue. Leave me a review if you want to see the rest, or I'm just ending it here (Mish? Sushi? I'll email you guys the rest if I finish it, but I don't see the point in wasting anyone else's time. Oh, and everyone thank Mattie for pestering me to write, or I wouldn't.)

Chapter Eight:

Dean woke up alone in the room for the first time. Strangely, no panic gripped him, but adrenaline coursed through his body all the same. Carefully using his hands, agony lanced up his arms, but all the same he removed the medical equipment from his body, careful to leave the tape to keep his wounds closed. Unsure if he was going to be able to do it, he slipped slowly off the edge of the bed. Two days ago John had finally convinced Sammy to go home, and get some real sleep.

But his father was there, not in the room, but in the hospital, judging by the clock. Dean was relieved to finally be able to see clearly, albeit through a pinkish haze. His limbs were obeying him so much better, too. Moving shakily towards the machines he carefully turned them off. He was always managing to get the hell out of these places; they usually had to leave in a hurry.

Seeing John asleep in the waiting room, Dean carefully slipped to the elevator, grateful for the sweatpants Pete had lent him, because he was able to shift the hospital gown to look more like a shirt that way, tucking it in while still having enough room to let it hang and look like a shirt that was only slightly too large. And kind of ugly, but it would work. Stealing into the elevator when no one was looking, he gratefully collapsed against the bar used as a handrail. Feeling his legs tremble, and the muscles in his hands start to seize, he was afraid he wasn't going to make it. But all he had to do was get to the car. That was all that mattered. He wanted out. When the elevator stopped, Dean could feel when it reached the ground, pressure racing up his calves and into his thighs. He groaned, before almost falling. Fairly sure he might have started bleeding again, he managed to get himself out of the building and spit blood into the bushes. Looking around for any orderlies or anyone who might recognize him or try to detain him, he spotted the Impala.

Almost falling, he slammed against the door, glad it held him up. Hand searching for the handle, he found it instantly, wrenching the door open with all his strength. It opened about halfway, which was enough for a fourteen year old boy to get through easily, and he slipped into the back seat, pulling the door closed behind him. Tugging the duffels and blankets around himself, he slipped in the gap between front and back seat, hoping to remain hidden. Knowing that they were leaving, he had to say goodbye to Lily and Pete first. He didn't want them to be added to a long list of people he never saw again. Before he knew it, he was completely passed out in the back, sleeping peacefully without the aid of morphine for the first time since he'd been kidnapped.

John sighed, glancing at the door to his son's hospital room. Unwilling to go in again, just to see Dean passed out on drugs, bruised and battered, he left. Going out to the car it took everything in him not to run. Sliding into the driver's seat, he pressed his forehead against the wheel, wishing that Mary was still there to guide him. To protect the boys. John knew if he'd never started hunting, then Dean wouldn't be in that kind of shape. In fact he'd probably be enjoying school, maybe starting to date a little, have some good friends…be playing baseball. He was a natural athlete. But no. Life just wasn't like that. Maybe if Dean just didn't look so much like her, maybe then things would be easier. But he didn't know.

When he reached the motel he stopped again, trying to process what was going on. He had to get Dean out of the hospital. Jim and Bobby were still around, renting motel rooms in the closest place to the hospital. John hated himself because they visited his boy more often than he did. But he just couldn't stomach it. Sometimes when he remembered pulling his son up off the floor he'd start to gag, and would end up losing his last meal. But he was alright and Dean wasn't. There were so many things wrong with the world, and he had failed to prepare his children for it. John had always thought teaching them to deal with the monsters that hid in the darkness would be enough. But yet an ex-marine had gotten ahold of his boy and almost killed him. Raising his boys as soldiers hadn't been enough, he hadn't prepared them for all the enemies. Not the right ones, not the ones that walked in the sun, not the ones that hid behind a mask and were unrecognizable to the untrained eye. But how did you teach your children to look between the good and evil and see the difference, instead it was better to just teach them to hate, to be suspicious, and to be ready to destroy anyone before anyone could destroy them.

But what kind of men would that result in? What kind of monsters would he create, in teaching his boys to see evil all around them? What kind of parent could do that to their children? But how was he supposed to prepare them, save them from ever experiencing torture like that ever again. Sam had been hurt, too, tormented by his brother's absence, and the fear. All the same he'd have to train them harder, make sure that even if he couldn't prepare them for everything directly, they would still be able to survive. Even against a deranged marine. But wasn't he just another deranged marine? Hell bent on vengeance, unable to see anything else.

No.

He saw his boys. He cared about his boys. He'd die for them, and let the vendetta end. Only because in his heart of hearts he knew that his sons would continue on, and they would hold the demon to vengeance, and they would make sure that it never hurt another family ever again. So that no one else had to suffer, no one else had to learn how to deal with someone missing all the time, a chunk of their heart gone. And Sam…he had to train them so that Sam wouldn't…damn that demon. So that no other family ever had to lose a mother and a son. Wasn't the threat of death enough? Everyone was always just inches away from death, car accident, food poisoning, old age…so many ways. Wasn't that enough? Without some damned demon determined to take your family and completely destroy it.

God he needed his son to heal. Needed to see that Dean was okay, that he could recover, so that they could salvage what was left of their family. God knew John couldn't raise Sam on his own, and he'd admit that Dean had all but raised the boy, but not out loud. He would never admit that he'd managed to fail both his sons like that, forcing Dean to become a father to Sam, when what Sam really needed was a big brother and his father, not in one person, the relationship should be different. Different people. Dean didn't need the burden of being both a hero and a villain in his brother's eyes. Not in the extremes the dual relationship was causing. God how did he save his sons from himself? Maybe they'd turn out alright anyway, so far they were going fairly well.

Dean crawled out of the Impala hoping to get inside the apartment before the hospital realized he was missing and called his father. Or Bobby and Pastor Jim. Stairs. Stairs be damned, he figured, reaching them. His hands ached. Flexing his fingers was a painful exercise that made his eyes water. Hell so did walking, reminding him of every razor slash, every time the screwdriver was driven into his skin, the sound of the electric drill, the raking agony of a saw against his sore and burned flesh. The smell of his skin when it was burned by the boiling water, the smell of human excrement, and the absolute shame at his inability to save himself. The blood, that copper tang against the dull musk of the basement. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he fought them back, hand over his mouth to hold the sobs in as the tears spilled over his cheeks, and his body shook. Sometimes he felt like the sobs were going to shake him apart, he was so weak. Didn't need to be crying. In a matter of seconds he was calm again, and took a breath. Stairs. He could do that. Had to say goodbye. Then he'd go up to the apartment, and they could leave. His dad could be happy, and things could be okay again.

He didn't want to leave.

What choice did he have? What choice did he ever have?

It was always what his father wanted, what was 'best' for the family, like it was really a family anymore. Not the way John ran it, no. It was some sort of elite military training camp. Wondering how he could hate and love his father the way he did, he took his first step up the stairs. Weak muscles burned with exhaustion and disuse. He was trembling by the third step up. He felt like he'd just ran a marathon, or been lifting weights for half a day straight. Another step. That was all he had to do, take them one at a time.

His hands ached when he rested one on the railing, and he figured it was sympathy pains in his left, the agony in his right lancing up into his shoulder, and his fingers spasmed. Another step. Halfway up the first flight. Another to go. Then he could say goodbye, and then he could rest. Then things would be okay again. They had to be. Things always got better after they left. A new identity, a new start. No one would know he'd been too weak, no one would know he'd ever needed surgery. No one had to know he hated his classes, hated his life. Resented his father, resented his brother, sometimes, too, and hated himself all the more for it. For being weak. For still feeling. For opening up to people, when he knew he shouldn't. It never ended well, it was never worth it, because he never got to say goodbye. And he got to hate himself for breaking the trust of yet another person, of hurting yet another person. Failing to do what he was supposed to, what any friend would do. Never finding a payphone to call from, just disappearing into the night like a shadow. But it was just what he did. It was just how things worked.

God he hated this. Hated everything. Hated hunting, hated leaving, hated school, hated living in shitty apartments, crappy motels, hated rats, god how he hated rats.

His lungs heaved and burned with his efforts, and his breath rasped against his throat, and the rawness of it was starting to bring him to his knees. Then he realized he'd made the first landing. One more to say goodbye, and then one more to go home. It was like a board game, get this card go on so many spaces…he could do this. No railing to hold onto. Well fine then, he'd make it anyway. It wasn't like he had a choice, at this point. He never did, did he? Another step. Was school still going on? He didn't know what time it was, and if he'd checked he had no concept of it passing. Voices on the stairwell. Pete's…and Lily's. No breath to call out, or he would have. Sped them up to him, so that he could rest that much sooner. But he didn't have the air left in his lungs. Sliding down against the wall, he figured maybe they would find him.

All he'd have to do was sit and wait.

"D'you think he's okay?" Lily asked quietly, she felt like she hadn't spoken above a whisper since Dean went missing.

"Dunno, we could go back to the hospital later, maybe," Pete offered. "Even if he's not, probably helps that someone's there with him."

"Isn't his dad…"

"Yeah, his dad does so much. He's never in there, and you can tell Sam's pissed at him."

When they reached the landing Dean saw that Sam was asleep on Pete's back, and his brother's school bag in Lily's arms. He struggled to pull himself up before they noticed him being weak on the floor. He couldn't do it.

"Oh god," Lily whispered, dropping Sam's bag in shock before rushing over to his side to help him up onto his feet. As gently and slowly as she could. "Dean, you, you idiot!" but her voice didn't get any louder. "What the hell were you thinking? I could just slap you!" she hissed. He grinned weakly at her, and she hugged him as tightly as she dared. Sam pushed himself up on Pete's back as he woke up, and then slipped out of the older boy's arm, pushing himself between Lily and Dean to latch onto his brother, knocking him back against the wall. Dean groaned a little, seeing spots splatter across his vision, Sam quickly let go, eyes rounding in concern.

"Dean, I'm sorry!" he cried out, tears forming. Dean forced every aching muscle to kneel in front of his brother.

"It's okay, I'm okay Sam. We're leaving today, okay? Go tell Dad…if he's here. Please," Dean added, before Sam nodded, not even grabbing his backpack before racing up the stairs.

Dean met Pete's eyes, and a silent understanding passed between them. There wasn't much needed here, and he nodded once, smiling. Dean bit into his lip, for once, glad of the pain keeping him from begging them to hide him, he didn't want to leave them. He hadn't been there long enough.

Then he looked at Lily. "This isn't how it ends," she told him with a weak smile.

"But it's how it has to."

"Looks like you paid attention in English once or twice," she nodded, biting her lower lip to hide the trembling.

"Don't forget me, okay?" he asked.

"So long as you don't forget us."

"Never could, even if I wanted to. Not saying I don't, either," he teased, leaning against the wall, grateful for its cool solidity.

Two sets of feet pounded down the stairs, one light one heavy. "Dean?"

"Yeah Dad. Ready to go, just, Sam's gonna need his bag," he nodded a little as Lily and Pete faded down the hallway. If they weren't there, they wouldn't be lying when they said they didn't know what happened.

"Hospital called just as Sam was coming in. Jim and Bobby'll know soon, and they'll be coming here."

"Thought we were going to Bobby's after this?"

"Looks like not this time, I've got your stuff, otherwise we would have been down here sooner. D'you think you can walk?" John asked, brown eyes traveling over his son's bedraggled and weakened appearance. When the young man nodded, John rolled his eyes, and lifted Dean into his arms.

"I can walk!" he protested, sounding like the sulky teenager he had been not so long ago.

"And I can carry you a lot faster, and we'll be out of here that much faster. So shut up," John said a little more coldly than he intended. But it was easier to submit with no other alternative than to simply let one's father carry them. Dean stayed quiet, one hand working itself into the flannel over-shirt John was wearing. By the time they reached the Impala Dean was asleep, so exhausted it would take him over a day to wake. John settled him into the front seat, figuring it would be easier to keep an eye on him.

"Sammy get me a blanket, please," he asked his youngest, as he started loading their things into the trunk as quickly as he could. Sam hauled a blanket out of one bag, passing it to his father before stuffing his backpack into the back seat. It would keep him occupied on the long drive, while their father found somewhere else for them to be. Someone else for them to be. He watched his father toss a blanket over his brother, Dean's head being shifted to rest on John's leg while they drove. It was a familiar pose Sam remembered from when he and Dean were split up for being too annoying, only usually Sam found himself in the front seat, Dean in the back leaning against the door and window.