Author's Notes: My deepest gratitude to all of you who've made it this far. I appreciate your time and comments.

SEPTEMBER

Sam stepped out of the shower, one hand rubbing the bleached-white towel over his too-long hair. He paused, stepping into his boxers. Then he moved to the sink, his feet slapping over the cold and unforgiving tile, hair and debris sticking to the soles of his feet. They hadn't left the hotel room yesterday and housekeeping had been more than happy to give them privacy. Again.

He threw the towel on the floor where it landed on a pile of dirty clothes. He grabbed his toothbrush and started brushing, his eyes falling on the tattered picture of their happy, complete family. John carried it everywhere now, protecting it with a fierceness that had faded from every other part of him. As Sam brushed his teeth, he stared at the photo in the bottom corner of the mirror. Wishing. Wanting.

When his mouth was full of foam he spit it in the sink and reached for the hand towel. Something clattered into the sink, skittering right into the mound of minty slime, and Sam stared at it.

A gun.

"What the hell," Sam growled, snatching the gun. He turned and grabbed the doorknob, yanking it towards him.

"Dean," he yelled, marching into the room. "Dean!"

"What?" Dean whined from the bed.

Sam stomped to the mound of blankets and dropped the gun on the pillow next to Dean's head. "Explain this."

Dean's fingers curled over the edge of the bedspread before peeling it down. He blinked groggily. "Sam? I'm sleeping here- what the hell's wrong with you?"

"I found that in the bathroom," Sam said, pacing the length of Dean's bed. "I thought you were watching him last night!"

Dean was awake now, sitting up with the gun in his lap. "Chill out. They make him feel better, you know that. I thought that's why we agreed to hide the ammo."

"So you gave him a gun? Dean, what-"

Dean sighed, setting the gun on the nightstand. "I didn't give him a gun. He found it in your stuff and I let him have it. It's not like he can hurt himself cleaning an unloaded gun. You gotta throw him a bone once in a while, Sam."

Sam stared at his brother. "I throw him bones. I throw him all kinds of bones. But allowing Dad to obsessively disassemble and reassemble weapons is crazy! They're not pacifiers, Dean. Just because it makes him feel better, it doesn't mean he should have it."

"Thank you, Dr. Phil," Dean mumbled, getting to his feet and brushing past Sam. "I'm getting a shower."

Sam shook his head in anger, resentment. Then he noticed: something was missing. "Wait," he said, turning around. "Where's dad?"

"Breakfast," Dean said over his shoulder. Then he shut the bathroom door behind him.

"Wait- what?" Sam's heart leapt into his throat. He threw open the bathroom door just as Dean pulled his t-shirt off over his head.

"Dude- privacy?" Dean snapped, turning on the shower.

Sam didn't budge. "Dean, where's Dad?"

"I just told you, he went to get breakfast. Leave."

Sam ran a hand through his hair, his fingers catching in the wet tangles. "You let him leave? Dean- he doesn't even know what state he's in. Did you even make sure he was dressed?"

Dean straightened as steam began to billow out from behind the curtain. "No. I let him go to McDonalds buck-naked. Jesus, Sam."

Sam balled his hands into fists and turned for the door. "I'm going to go find him."

"No, wait." Dean grabbed his elbow. "Let him go. He's having a good day. Let him do this one thing, on his own, by himself, without you hovering right behind him."

Sam whirled. "He can barely take a piss by himself anymore- what makes you think he can find his way to McDonalds?"

"It's right next door!" Dean exclaimed, tossing his hand in exasperation. "Give him a chance! Let him have some dignity for Christ's sake."

Sam's lungs were suddenly empty and he drew in a deep breath of wet, hot air. "Dignity? Well excuse me for wanting to see my father alive and safe instead of dead and 'dignified'."

Dean's eyes narrowed and Sam shut his mouth. He was dancing on the proverbial line here, playing with fire. He held his ground as Dean stalked across the small room, stopping inches from Sam's chin.

"I seriously hope you're not implying that I don't care about my father," Dean growled. "Because I'm not the one who abandoned him for some crazy pipe dream when he needed us most."

The blow hit him in the gut. "Pipe dream?" Sam echoed. "Gee, Dean, thanks for caring so much about my future. And here I thought you were proud of me for having the balls to live my own life."

"You live your own life all right. You live in your own little world, like you've got blinders on so you can't really see what's happening. This is our dad we're talking about here, Sam. Stop treating him like he's just some stray animal you found."

"You're one to talk, aren't you? Why don't you take your own 'blinders' off and realize that Dad is sick? He needs our help. He needs us to pick out his clothes and order his food and tell him when to go to bed-" Sam stopped, his breath catching as a realization blindsided him. "I don't treat him like Dad because he doesn't act like our dad," he whispered, absently staring at a tiny spider creeping along the baseboard.

They looked at each other, thin wisps of steam curling through the air around them, heavy and choking. Sam felt off balance, naked. Everything he thought he knew now had a new meaning. Dean was right- he hadn't been treating Dad like Dad.

Suddenly Dean looked away, resting his hand on the doorknob behind Sam. "Get out. I'm trying to get a shower here."

Sam looked up at the unexpected response. He stepped backwards, still trying to decide what he wanted to say when Dean met his gaze.

"Look, if he's not back by the time I'm done, I'll help you look for him, okay? Just give him a chance, Sammy. Please."

Taken aback by the sudden change in disposition, Sam could only nod. "Yeah, sure. Okay."

The door shut in his face and Sam shivered from the sudden drop in temperature. There had been pain in Dean's eyes that, for once, had nothing to do with physical hurt. Sam stood there, staring through the bathroom door, trying to figure out what just happened. What it all meant.

Fifteen minutes later, he still was.

Dean glanced at him as he moved to the bed and grabbed his jeans. "You better not have eaten my McGriddle."

"He's not back," Sam replied, well aware that he was stating the obvious.

Dean pulled on a t-shirt and grabbed a gun. "Well let's go. I'm hungry."

"Dean… what you said earlier- I…"

"Forget it. Let's just go get Dad, okay? He probably just forgot what he was going to order."

Sam nodded weakly. "Yeah. You're probably right." His gut twisted sharply.

Dean shut the door behind them, grinning his most cocky grin. "I'm always right. That's why I'm the older brother."

They were standing in front of the closed elevator doors when Dean's cell phone rang. He pulled it out and frowned at the caller ID before answering. "Hello?"

Sam shifted his weight as the elevator ascended the floors, rising in response to the illuminated 'down' arrow.

"Yeah- that's my Dad. What-"

Sam tensed, searching Dean's face.

"Where? How long?"

The elevator doors opened and Dean surged forward, snagging Sam's sleeve.

"Okay. I'll be right there."

"Who was that?" Sam demanded as the doors slid shut.

"Security guard at the bus station four blocks away," Dean replied, turning haunted eyes on Sam. "They caught Dad trying to use a fake ID to buy a one-way ticket to Lawrence."

o0O0o

"Dad?"

Sam followed Dean as they circled John, coming to a stop in front of the slumped man. He looked up at them, tears thick and shiny in his eyes. "Who are you?"

The words hurt worse than any blade or bullet ever had. Sam blinked, glancing at the concerned security guard standing next to them.

"We're your sons," Dean replied, his voice barely more than a whisper.

John straightened a little, the lines on his forehead fading. "Good. I thought I was all alone and nobody cared about me." He reached out, grabbing Dean's elbow and pulling him closer. "So what's your name?"

Dean looked at Sam, his eyes bright with raw emotion. Then he turned back to John, squeezing his hand once. "I'm Dean. This is Sammy. You were going to get us breakfast, remember?"

"Where's my wife? Where's Mary?"

"She's, uh…" Dean floundered, then Sam stepped forward.

"She's back at the hotel, waiting. We're going to take you back there, okay?" The words were bitter and it felt wrong using his father's memories against him. But they were in over their heads now. They had suddenly veered off the edge of the map, and Sam found himself in unfamiliar and dangerous territory. They needed help.

John eyed them warily, as a starving dog eyes a well-meaning stranger. "I just want to go home. I want to see my wife and boys."

Sam held out his hand. It was pale, his fingers cold. "We can take you there. You just have to trust us."

What an oxymoron.

Dean's eyes were burning twin holes in the back of his head, but it didn't matter. John reached out, his thin, trembling fingers wrapping around Sam's own. Empty eyes locked onto Sam, staring straight into his soul. "Let's go," John said, rising to his feet.

"Thanks for calling us," Sam said to the heavy-set security guard. Dean helped John navigate to the door and Sam held out his hand.

"Just keep a closer eye on him next time," the black man said, shaking Sam's hand. "We thought he was a drunk at first. Luckily he had a cell phone. If you hadn't been right around the corner, he would have wound up in the holding tank at the nearest police station."

An image of his father, alone and confused and sitting in a dark jail cell flashed through his mind. "I appreciate you not doing that," Sam said. "He's harmless. It's the Alzheimer's…"

The black man's eyes softened. "No need to go any further. My granddaddy died of Alzheimer's when I was little. I know how hard it can be."

Sam watched Dean help John through the door, out into the hall. "Yeah," he murmured.

"You take good care of him, understand? Don't let me catch him wandering this bus station again."

The words were firm but caring and Sam nodded. "I don't plan on it." He started to leave when the guard's voice stopped him.

"Hey- one more thing," he said gruffly.

Sam turned tentatively. "Yes?"

The black man tossed a small card to Sam. He caught it- one of John's many fake IDs.

Shit.

"I've taken better fake IDs from a thirteen year old," he said with a smile. "Tell the old guy it was a nice try, though."

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks."

"Get out of here, kid. Go take care of your Daddy."

o0O0o

"Good job. Now let's go to bed, okay?"

John set his toothbrush on the sink next to the two others and turned towards Sam. "And tomorrow I'll get to see Mary?"

"Yeah, sure," Sam lied, the words sitting heavily in his gut. "Come on."

He steered John towards the bed furthest from the door and pulled back the covers. "Lie down."

John, dressed in the white t-shirt and boxers Sam had picked out, sat on the bed. He reached out and picked up the wrinkled, yellowed photograph of their family. "I love her," he said softly, his thumb softly brushing over Mary's face. "She's perfect. My boys are perfect. I really got lucky with her, you know? I got more than I deserve."

Sam's throat threatened to close up and he coughed softly, turning away. "She's beautiful." He wished he could say more.

John returned the picture to the nightstand slowly, his hand trembling as he propped it up against the lamp. Sam held up the covers as he lay down, and then adjusted them so they lay neatly over his father's prone, too-thin form. When John was comfortable, Sam turned off the light.

"Goodnight." The word sounded pathetic and insufficient in the dark, so Sam lingered, unsure.

John grunted in response and the room fell silent. With nothing else to do, Sam headed outside, locking the door behind him.

Once outside, the cool night air rasped around him, chilling him to the bone. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and made his way along the parking lot, down to where the Impala sat with its back wheels kissing the low concrete barricade. Sam stepped onto the smooth asphalt and walked the length of the car, stopping next to the front wheel. Dean sat with his legs outstretched on the hood, leaning back against the windshield, six-pack and a half at his side. He stared out over the parking lot, watching the blur of headlights on the highway.

"Am I interrupting?" Sam asked quietly, knowing damn well that he was.

Dean remained still. "You get him to bed?"

"Yeah."

Dean took a swallow from the beer can and waited a few more moments before, "Something you want to say?"

Now that he had permission, Sam crossed in front of the Impala's nose and gently- so as not to scratch the paint- took a seat on the hood just like Dean. He eyed the beer but didn't reach for it until Dean used his knee to nudge the cans. Sam pulled a can from the plastic binding and held it in his hands, fingers slowly drawing through the cold condensation.

"Dean…"

"I won't let it happen again, okay? I'll put him on a fucking leash and walk him everywhere, just like you want. Problem solved."

"No, it's not okay. The problem isn't solved." Sam traced the rim of the can with his finger, watching the wet tin shine under the streetlamp above them. "We need help."

"We'll go back to Dr. Stevens tomorrow," Dean replied, then took another long drink from his own beer.

The pit in his stomach grew and Sam spun the can between his thighs. "That's not what I mean."

A semi truck rumbled by and Dean drained his beer. He grabbed another without looking at Sam and popped it open, immediately sipping the foam. He rested the can on one knee and belched, his shoulders relaxing a little. "No? Then what do you mean, Sam?"

The words were a dare- a dangerous one at that. But there was no turning back now. Sam studied Dean's profile as he said, "I think we should put Dad in a nursing home."

The shadows of Dean's face seemed to darken. "No."

"This is more than we can handle, Dean! What if he wanders off again? What if he hurts himself- or someone else- with the weapons? What if he gets sick? Are we just supposed to put our lives on hold until…" He shut his mouth, turning his attention back to the can.

"Until what?" Dean growled, staring at Sam. "Say it."

Sam stared straight ahead, watching the headlights. "You do know he's going to die, right?" he spoke gently, to no avail.

"Everyone dies, Sam. I learned that pretty early on."

Sam longed for the warmth and haze from the beer but doubted his stomach would tolerate it now. "You know what I mean. This- the Alzheimer's- it will kill him. It already is." He swallowed. "We're losing him, Dean."

"Shut up," Dean growled, pushing himself off the car. "Just shut the hell up, Sam. I know what's happening- I'm not blind. But you're not going to put him in a home. He's not a dog. You can't get rid of him just because you don't want to take care of him anymore."

Sam abandoned his unopened beer, sliding off the car as well. "So are you volunteering to help me take care of him then? Because I really could use the help, man."

"I am helping!" Dean shot back. "I help. I do stuff. I fold the laundry and go get food…"

"I need more than that. He needs help with everything: showering, shaving, brushing his teeth… everything, Dean. And it's not just that. He can't sleep through the night, he's getting delusional, then there's the whole thing with the compulsive gun cleaning-"

Dean stalked towards him, all hard angles and shadows in the night. "So we'll deal with it," he growled.

"I've been doing research," Sam said, holding his ground. "It's going to get worse. A lot worse. His brain is literally deteriorating. He's going to lose control of all major-"

Sam found himself slammed back against the Impala, his spine cracking painfully against the roof of the car. He bit back a yelp, instead focusing on the anger and denial in Dean's eyes as he leaned in close.

"Shut up," he warned, both fists wrapped tightly in Sam's jacket. The smell of beer carried on his breath. "We're not sending him away. He's still our father, damnit. He still runs this family. He needs us, Sam- not some underpaid, inexperienced part-time nurse who doesn't give a crap. I won't put him there."

Sam let himself be pressed harder against the car. He knew the truth and offered it softly. "Maybe you're the one who needs him."

Dean looked like he'd been smacked. His grip eased slightly. "Don't. This isn't about me."

Sam took back the space between them. "It's about all of us, Dean. But we have to think about what's best for Dad. We won't be able to take care of him when he gets sick. He'll need a full time nurse, meds, the works. We'll find him a good place. We'll take a tour and ask questions-"

"And how are you going to pay for it? Do you know how much money places like that cost? More than we could ever make as Ghostbusters."

"We don't get paid for 'busting ghosts'."

"My point exactly."

Sam stepped away from the car and grabbed his beer, finally cracking it open. "I don't know how we'll pay for it. Like everything else, I suppose. Or I could get a job."

Dean snorted and grabbed another beer for himself.

"The fact remains," Sam started, waiting till Dean was mid-swallow, "Dad will need more care than we know how to give. There's no way around it. We're gonna have to find him a place, for his own sake. He deserves it."

Dean kept drinking, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed gulp after gulp. When he was done, the crushed the can in his fist and threw it into the bushes. He sighed, turning away from Sam. "Yeah, I know."

Sam took a drink, watching Dean fidget. "We can talk to Dr. Stevens about it when we see him tomorrow. I'm sure he'll know of some good places."

Dean remained still, his back to Sam and his head down, unmoving.

"Dean?"

Finally, Dean raised his hands and scrubbed at his eyes. "I just hate this, you know?" he mumbled. "I feel like we're letting him down."

"He doesn't even know who we are anymore."

The words were meant to help but once spoken, sounded cruel. Sam winced.

Dean turned, looking Sam straight in the eyes. Sam could see the tears he was struggling to hold back and it made his heart twist.

"But he's still in there. I see him once in a while, in his eyes, in the way he talks. He's fighting this thing."

Sam's gaze turned inwards as he remembered how lucid John had been at lunch. He had smiled at the waitress, paid the bill, even ordered for himself and cut up his own food. He had been almost… normal.

But episodes of clarity were getting shorter and further apart. He was fighting a losing battle. It wouldn't be long before John was in a permanent state of confusion and disorientation and physical sickness. They couldn't continue to care for him out of cheap motels. It wouldn't be fair. To any of them.

Sam traced his fingers over the cool, slick chrome on the Impala. "It's time," he said softly, almost hoping Dean wouldn't hear. "We need to let him go."

Dean shifted his weight, rolling his shoulders so the collar of his leather jacket covered his neck. "We'll ask the doctor, okay? That's all I'm promising."

It was a start. Sam shivered and looked at Dean. "Come on, let's go in. It's getting cold out here."

Dean glanced up at the hotel and nodded once. "Yeah, all right. We gotta be up early tomorrow anyway if we want to make it on time for our appointment."

"Thanks for the beer," Sam said as he followed Dean towards the sidewalk.

Dean snorted. "Don't think that was free. I expect payment in full by morning, understand?"

Sam rolled his eyes.