CHAPTER TWO

John Winchester looked terrible. Healed scars across his cheek and forehead. Bags of exhaustion under his eyes. Underneath the sleeve of the denim jacket on the right side, Sam could see a brace wending its way down to support his wrist. As his eyes swept his father, he saw a band of metal coming from under John's left pants leg and going around his boot. Another brace.

"What the hell happened to you?" Sam gasped out.

"Car accident. It's what, January now?"

"Yeah, the 24th."

John nodded. "Happened in March. I was in a coma for a long time."

"Then you got better and decided to come for a visit?" Sam snorted, but he lowered the gun. "Somehow, I don't believe this is just a social call."

"What?" John spread his hands. "I need a reason to come see my boy?"

"When that boy is me? Yeah!" Sam shot back.

John sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Sammy..."

"You got fifteen seconds to tell me what the hell you're doing in my house or so help me, I will send your sorry ass back out on the street!"

"Sammy!"

"Ten seconds!"

"Dean's missing."

Sam was good. He was very good. He managed to resist the flicker toward the stairs his eyes wanted to do. He managed to keep his voice level. "Missing? What do you mean 'Dean's missing'?"

"Exactly what I said. Your brother is missing. No trace of him. At all. Not even a trail. I finally wised up and tracked the Impala, and found it here, registered in your name instead of your brother's. Now, that tells me you know something. You know something about what happened to Dean." John took a single step forward. "Please, Sammy...tell me where he is. Tell me what happened."

Sam was silent and stone-faced.

"Sammy – he's my son, just like you are. I love him. I need to know what happened."

"He's not your son anymore."

The five words were spoken in a cold, level tone. Sam's chin raised slightly, his nostrils flaring with emotion, but there was no other movement made.

John, however, blinked and actually double-took – something Sam had only seen a handful of times his entire life. "What?" he choked out. "Not my – what the hell are you talking about, Sammy?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but then there were running footsteps on the stairs and the distinct sound of small, bare feet slapping on hardwood floor. Sam barely had time to uncock the gun and jam it into his waistband before he was spinning – one eye on his father – and bending down, holding both arms out to catch the guided missile barreling into the room.

"Whoa, little man, shshshsh..." he soothed, standing and soothing a blond-haired child who was clinging to him with both arms and legs, shaking like he'd been out in the cold. "I've gotcha, you're safe...what're you doin' out of bed anyway, huh?"

John couldn't see the child's face, but the movements Sam was making and the tone of his voice left no doubt as to who this child was. "...You have a son?"

"Yeah, Dad," Sam said, his voice cold again. "I have a son. He's eight."

John's expression was equal parts incredulity and anger. "You managed to knock somebody up when you were eleven?"

"He's adopted," Sam rolled his eyes. "And he's loved." He jostled the boy. "Now tell me, buddy, why were you up?"

"Heard the door," a child's treble said, firm and low. "Was gettin' the salt and iron shells and the shotgun, since I know you only have your sidearms down here."

Sam couldn't help the chuckle and the shake of his head. "Well, there's no need."

"I know." The boy sighed. "Figured it out when I heard his voice." He finally turned in Sam's grasp to face John.

And John's knees literally buckled, sending him sinking right down to sit on Sam's coffee table. "...oh, my G-d..."

The boy smiled, but it didn't reach blazing jade eyes. "Wondered when you were goin' to show."

"...oh, my G-d," John repeated, gaping. "...Dean?"