A/N: Hello. Thanks to everyone who's reading. THis story is already complete and should post fairly quickly, but I'd really love to hear from you. This is the shortest chapter of the story, so I might get another one up late tonight if I'm feeling inspired.

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He stumbled through the motel door, hand absently rubbing the back of his neck as he squinted at the change in light. The sun was making its way up outside, but the interior was still dark, heavy floral drapes pulled closed. Those drapes were ugly as sin, but they did do a good job of getting rid of mornings you just weren't ready to face. Dean and Sam must being taking advantage of tapestry delayed dawn for a few extra hours of snooze. John dropped his keys on the formica table by the equally hideous print couch before fishing in the his jean's pocket for the remnants of a cell phone. He sighed when it came out in two halves; that slam into the wall was harder than he thought. Or at least harder than he would have wished for. Wishes or not, spirits had a knack for introducing Winchesters to walls. The exhausted hunter was glad this ghost was done, a pile of salty cinder.

John sank into the sofa, wearily pulling off stained boots. The worn cushions curled around his thighs, anchoring him to the fabric. It wasn't worth the short walk to his room to get what would be all too little sleep. Sam would no doubt be up soon and as soon as he was awake the non-stop chatter festival would be off and running for the day. Tired as he was, that thought still brought a smile. Dean looked more like Mary, had more of her expressions and mannerisms, but it was his youngest who had inherited her ability to simply talk so long that John surrendered before the onslaught. He'd lost count of the number of things he'd agreed to for his wife without even knowing the topic early in their relationship. It was a power Mary knew she possessed and she had used it to her advantage repeatedly. Maybe he could catch a few minutes shuteye before Sam's version of the never ending conversation started.

Sharp pounding on the door ruined that idea. This had better be good. He picked up his gun form the end table, carefully concealing it the waistband of the jeans before opening the door. He kept a hand lightly resting on the grip.

"There you are. 'Bout time, too. We've gotta talk, John, right now." A haggard looking Pastor Jim pushed past the senior Winchester, seating himself in a dilapidated chair and impatiently gesturing for John to do the same.

There were very few people that would survive shoving past John and inviting themselves in, but Jim Murphy was one of them.

"What's wrong?" The growl was a little harsher than John intended.

Jim really didn't want to be the one having this conversation with John, especially without a telephone line and a half dozen states between them. He edged his chair a foot further back, took a deep breath. No time like the present. "You haven't looked in on the boys yet, I take it."

John automatically stood, starting for the short hallway to the bedroom Sam and Dean shared, only hesitating when the pastor once again gestured to the opposite chair.

"They aren't there, John. I'm sorry."

'They aren't there' would probably have made him angry, but that softly added 'I'm sorry' made his breath hitch in his throat. He knew that voice from his friend, the compassionate whisper undertone that ministers so carefully cultivated for distraught families.

"Where. are. my. sons?!" The demand behind that query would have frightened the devil himself.

Pastor Jim was convinced he could see the bigger man shake. The whole tale of the school involving the police, the trip to the clinic, Sam telling the doctor there that a stranger had kicked him, and the call to CPS came out in rush, Jim cautiously watching his friend's eyes as fury built there.

"CPS has my boys stuck in a foster home?"

"Not exactly." Jim dreaded finishing his tale. "That was the plan, but..." He swallowed and then tried again. "I was supposed to call Karen Winter, the social worker, as soon as I got here this morning, which was about six. When I talked to her, she gave me the number for Mr. Weaver, the foster parent that took them last night. Unfortunately, I couldn't get an answer there, so I drove over to his home. There's no one there. The house is abandoned and I don't think anyone's lived there in months. I've already checked back in with CPS; they don't have an alternative address. The police are checking around, but for now, nobody has any idea where the boys are."

It would have been easier if he'd something, anything to suggest he wasn't contemplating where to start a murder spree to make the history books. Instead John was completely silent, grimly unloading rock salt from the sawed off shotgun he collected from behind the door and replacing it with iron rounds, tucking a hunting knife into the top of hastily relaced boots. There was no sign of the earlier fatigue, or even the flash of fear that had crossed his face when he first learned they were gone. No, this face could have been carved from granite.

"John, come on now, think a minute. Let's go to the police station and see what we can find out about this Derrick Weaver. Ms. Winter is supposed to be there already, and frankly the police station is where CPS is going to expect a responsible parent with missing children to be. Shooting somebody isn't going to help a thing." He started for the door, unsure how far he could push the boundaries of friendship and not end up with a broken nose. "You coming?"

"Responsible!? My boys should be safe in their beds, and I'm irresponsible? Half an hour. They get half an hour." John shouldered the shotgun and picked up an extra clip for the .45. "After that, I'm getting my sons back."