Happy Thanksgiving y'all!

***000***

John sat at the kitchen table, five empty cans from his case of eighteen Stroh's scattered across its surface. He was tired, exhausted was more like it, yet the thought of going to bed, lying down and turning out the light made his chest squeeze and his breath too hard to catch.

What a fucking week it had been. Christ, was life always going to be this hard? This difficult? Would this gut-wrenching despair and guilt ever go away? Or at least ease? Would he ever catch a break? Okay, yes, he had two wonderful, smart, healthy sons but boy…..the life he gave them….was forced to…..there was no other way, made a man drink. One son destined to destroy the world, the other destined to destroy his brother in order to save it. What the fuck had he ever done to deserve this? What had his boys done?

And oh, what a pair. Sammy, obstinate, stubborn, argumentative….cared little about a lot, cared a lot about little…..generous heart, his Sammy….giving, compassionate, sharing, caring…..unless you threatened the one thing Sammy loved most in his world. And no, it wasn't his father. Nope. Oh hell no. It was Dean. His big brother. Endanger Dean and you put your life at risk.

Dean….loyal to a fault. Dedicated, devoted, consistent, dependable. Took his duties and job and instructions to heart. Give that kid an order and woe to whoever stood in his way of seeing it completed. Ever since their mother had died and John had told Dean to look out for Sammy, Dean had put that first and foremost in his life. Somewhat of a violent streak though, enjoyed the hunt and a kill a bit to much...sometimes.

John popped the tab on his 6th beer. He had places to go, things to kill, items to find, people to talk to, lore to learn, friends to make, people to piss off…..and what was he doing? Sitting in some shitty motel room, drinking beer, afraid to go to sleep in case when he woke up, only one son still breathed. Dean. Dean hadn't been able to make his eyes focus and no matter how many times he'd insisted he was fine, John simply didn't believe it. Sure, kids puked for all kinds of reasons, but not Dean. And now John couldn't bring himself to leave the boys alone or with a maid as a sitter. Bobby and Jim were too far away…and Lord though he'd tried, Dean hadn't been able to keep his discomfort to himself riding in the car.

So wah-lah, here he sat, cursing himself a fool for endangering Dean in the first place, praying to a Lord he didn't always believe in his boy would be ok. That it was only a mild concussion and not a skull fracture or cranial hematoma or a brain hemorrhage…

"Dad." Sam's voice was clear and strong. Kid should be in bed and asleep but nope, he was wide awake and alert. "Can you drive? Dean needs a doctor."

John swallowed, the awful taste in his mouth was not from too much shitty beer. No, it was the taste of sorrow, of regret, of remorse. Sam planted his feet and fisted his hands at his sides, prepared to do verbal battle to get his way and get his brother the help Sam was convinced he needed. If John wouldn't come around, Sam would just call 911.

"Get dressed." John ordered his youngest, geared for a battle but Sam was staring at him slack-jawed. "You're too old to go to the hospital in your pajamas."

That's right, Sammy, my boy. There are indeed times when my sons come first.

***000***

"Dad?"

"What Sam?" John belatedly realized that was like the 6th or 7th time Sam had called him. He looked up from the book on the table in front of him and with a stiff degree of shock, realized dawn had appeared at some time or another.

"Is Dean on his way back?"

"No." John returned his attention to the book then frowned. "Why aren't you dressed for school?"

Sam hesitated. "I don't feel good."

John's frowned deepened. Neither of his sons ever complained. This was odd. Sam was what, now? 12? 13? Must be…at least…..Dean was legally driving…

"Take some pepto." John waved his hand in the direction of the mini-fridge. "Some aspirin. Adult." he paused. Was Sam at an age to be taking adult medication? Then again, had John ever bothered with age-appropriate meds?

"My stomach doesn't hurt." Sam patiently explained. "I'm hot but I can't stop shivering."

"Head hurt?" John had already read another paragraph.

"Throat does." Sam said. "Can I stay home from school today?"

John bit his lip, exasperated and annoyed with the interruption, but dammit, there stood his kid, still wearing matching pajamas…at what age did kids stop wearing pajamas?...looking all pale and sweaty and flushed and…..ill.

"Want some oatmeal?" John offered lamely. "Maybe some juice?"

"No juice, sir." Sam replied. "Oatmeal sounds good."

Think John, think. You know this. Sammy loves oatmeal…with….with…..

"With warm milk and cinnamon sugar?" John offered, closing the book and pushing it aside. Was that Sam's favorite? Or Dean's? Or his own? Wait, Dean didn't like oatmeal. Did he? John was rewarded with a weak grin and damn, that made him feel good. He patted himself on the back for getting something right this dismal day.

Sam nodded, then hesitated, afraid to push his luck.

"What?" John asked, already on his feet and moving to turn on the electric hot plate.

"Maybe some…..hot chocolate?" Sam ventured shyly.

John checked the fridge. "I think there's enough milk for both." he reached for a pan. "Go on back to bed, I'll bring it back when it's ready."

Sam nodded. "Thanks Dad."

Thank God for instant food, John thought; instant oatmeal, instant hot chocolate, instant coffee, just add water macaroni and cheese. He was no cook, and yeah, he fed his kids cereal for many meals and just about everything else came instant and frozen, but he'd be damned if he ever gave them anything other than whole milk. No powered milk in his house. Not ever.

While the hot plate was heating and waiting for it to turn orange, John got the yellow pages out of the drawer and looked up the number for the middle-school Sam was attending. He made the call while searching for the cinnamon-sugar bottle.

"Yes, is the office? Okay, good. I'm calling to report Sam Winchester won't be in school today."

"Thank you for calling Dean." was the response he received from a cheery secretary. "Hope it's not the flu. It is going around, and Sam didn't feel good yesterday."

"This is his father." John ground out.

"Oh." there was silence on the other end. "I see…..um, well, okay then, yes." she cleared her throat. "We look forward to seeing Sam back in school soon."

John hung up with a muttered curse and added milk to a pan that he then set on the hot plate. The milk didn't take long to heat and John poured it to a mug with Swiss Miss mix, added some marshmallows and made the best damn bowl of instant oatmeal a dad could make.

Sam sat cross-legged in bed to eat and despite not feeling or looking good, ate it all. John held the blankets up after clearing the dishes away and Sam slid his legs under them and laid down, letting John tuck him in.

"Are you going out?" Sam asked.

It was on the tip of John's tongue to say yes, to remind Sam John had appointments with other hunters in the area but the kid looked so damn pitiful John found his head moving side-to-side.

"I've got a lot of reading to do." John said. "You get some sleep and if you don't feel better when you wake up, I'll call that health center and see if appointments are needed."

"Okay."

***000***

Why did they always end up staying put in rainy or cold or snow covered towns during winter? Why not Florida or Texas, Sam griped as he let himself into the rented-by-week apartment, thoughts on avoiding his dad and heading straight for a hot shower. He slung his bag off his shoulder and let it hit the floor in a wet thump by the door. He went into the kitchen and set the bag of take-out for 2 on the table. Dean was probably asleep and their dad was probably passed out but even if John were awake, Sam didn't intend on seeing him comforted with a hot meal of chicken noodle soup, biscuits and gravy and chicken pot pie. Sam would eat whatever Dean didn't opt for.

Wet, cold and eager for a hot shower, Sam headed for the room he shared with Dean to divest himself of his soaked clothes. He didn't hesitate to turn a light on, a mere bright light would not wake Dean from slumber. In the process of toe-ing off his shoes, he paused as he stared at two empty beds. He swiveled, eyes darting to the corner where Dean's green duffle bag full of weapons should be…..and then he was charging out of the room, head of wet hair slinging water everywhere.

"Where is he?" Sam threw the door to his father's bedroom open, letting it bounce off the wall. Who cared if the door knob punched a hole in the wall?

John was awake, sitting at the small table that served as a desk, reading a huge, ancient book and jotting notes on a paper pad. He neither jumped nor looked up when his youngest hothead barged in.

"You're late." John replied.

"Yeah? You gonna do something about it?" Sam sneered. "Where is he?"

"On a hunt."

"Wow Dad, you suck."

It wasn't the words that gave John pause, it was the sneer in the tone.

"Come again?" John looked up, putting the pen down and sitting back in the chair.

"He was bruised and bloody and barely able to bend over and you sent him on a hunt?" Sam had well worked himself into quite the rage. "He was in no condition to go anywhere! Jesus Christ Dad! What the hell's the matter with you?"

"Got a promising lead on the yellow-eyed demon…."

"I don't give a shit about your vendetta or your revenge!" Sam yelled…..bellowed. "How could you?" and why the hell had Dean agreed to go? But Sam wasn't going to even address that….not even mentally. Nope. This was all John's fault. "Why the hell didn't you go?"

"Dean's an adult Sam, he's 18…" John began reasonably, but Sam was having not it. Oh, no. Not at all.

"I don't care! He was pissing blood and you sent him on a hunt? For what? A lead that's going to go nowhere?" Sam fisted his hands but kept them at his sides. "Either drive me to go get him or I'll jack a car!"

"You'll do no such thing."

"Who has his back? Huh? We don't know what he found on that hunt! We haven't heard from him! It's not a ghost or goblin he can fight with salt and iron! And what about Mother Nature, Dad? She's pissed off. You know the weather forecast. What if this storm comes? He shouldn't be out of bed, let alone outside in this fucking weather?!What if he's caught in it? Tornado warnings? With someone I don't know at his back? You might not care about him or what happens to him but no one, NO ONE will ever be able to say that about me! I care…..and I want him back. I want him here, safe and sound, with me."

"He's with Jack, Sam, he'll be fine."

"He wasn't even fine when he left here!" Sam yelled. "And I don't know JACK!"

"That's enough!" John finally yelled back, getting to his feet. He'd had quite enough of this temper tantrum. "I am not driving three hours in this weather. Dean is fine. Now let it go!"

"No." Sam stared his father down. "I don't know what game you're playing or what you're trying to prove or find out by sending Dean on a hunt with a guy neither of us know, but I'm not going to just sit here while you risk his life."

Oh, how well John knew Sam's 'us', didn't include him. "I know Jack, Sam." he spoke evenly, anger flaring in his eyes, oh, he did not like being questioned. Especially when there were no answers he could ever give Sam. How did you tell your son you were preparing his brother for the day that could come where Dean would have to kill him? John wanted to argue and continue this fight, but Sam was right, though John would never admit it. "I know Jack and I trust him. That should be good enough for you."

"It's not. It's not enough. Your trust in someone I don't know will never be enough when it's Dean life you put at risk." Sam was still yelling. "Dean is reckless, you know that. He won't stop because the weather is bad if people are in danger." Sam paced around the table, John stood his ground, but he felt like he was being stalked.

But Sam was done yelling, done with his father. He cleared the counter of his gun and knife and wallet. He shoved everything he'd gathered into his wet bag by the door and grabbed an apple. He wanted a hot shower, warm clothes, comfort of home and that meal sitting right there on the table, but what he wanted more than anything else, was Dean back. His brother came first. Always had, always would.

"What are you doing?" John asked warily, too emotionally spent to continue raging at Sam.

"I'm going to Tulsa. By car, bus or thumb…..I'm going."

"Gimme ten." John sighed in defeat.

***000***

John paced, shotgun in one hand, bottle of holy water, canister of salt, and iron wrench all fighting for balance in his other, silver knife between his teeth. He used his nose to push aside the curtain and peer out into the darkness. Of course, he could see nothing. Power was out. Phone lines were down. All over town.

They were lucky no trees were in the vicinity of the motel. They were lucky the motel still had a roof. They were lucky they were safe and sound and warm and dry and supplied with blankets and food. There were lucky John's talent as a mechanic was able to keep the cranky generator out back supplying electric to one outlet in the kitchenette. And there, their luck ran out: they were missing Dean.

Sam had been out looking. John had been out. Both had returned to the motel with no information – no Dean. Both had gone out again. This storm was unlike any John had ever seen. Dean had called from the garage to say he was swinging by the chicken joint for dinner and would soon be home. Then the storm had hit. That had been three hours ago. No Dean.

John felt sick, swallowed bile. Fear, anger and grief warred for dominance. If that little punk had found some bimbo…but, what if he'd been jumped? What could have gotten him? A tree? A car? Where was he? What if he was in a ditch? Buried in mud? What if he were hurt, broken, kidnapped, dead?

How would he tell Sam? Bobby? How would he live with himself? What would he do?

The door knob rattled.

Sam leapt for the door, calling Dean's name. John pushed him back. He looked out the window again but still couldn't see a damn thing.

Knocknocknocknocknock.

The hell? What the hell was that? Panic flared, threatened to choke him…..not now, not tonight. His eldest kid was not home….on a night like no other….if someone or something chose now to come after John Winchester…they'd be met with fury never seen or experienced before on this good earth…..he was a parent with a kid gone missing, a parent with a nearly hysterical kid quivering in the corner trying to be brave, a parent whose only reason to keep living in this fucked up world – and few knew how fucked up it really was – was two kids, that if he died, would be raised by that asshole Bobby Singer….

Knocknocknocknocknock.

He checked the window…..sills were salted.

Knocknocknocknock

Someone was knocking on the door! John set the bottle and canister and wrench on a table, slowly slid the chain off the lock and swung the door open. Before he would raise the shotgun – and he was damn quick about it too – Dean collapsed in his arms.

"DEAN!"

That came from Sam.

John let the rain hit him in the face as he dropped the shotgun and took Dean in both arms as they both went to the floor. A wet, fully clothed and loaded Dean was no light weight. He turned his head and spit the knife out, talking softly to his seemingly unconscious burden.

He didn't care it was raining with sleet or hail or ice or freezing rain or whatever. He didn't care how cold it was. He didn't care the wind whipped and howled. He didn't care leaves and twigs and various bits of trash swirled in his face. He didn't care the door banged his hip from the wind. He didn't care how wet he was getting.

Dean was here. And alive. He could be held and hugged and his heart could be felt beating. That's what John cared about. That was all that mattered.

But not to Sam. No, not Sam. Never to Sam. Sam would never sit by and do nothing while his brother was cold, wet...possibly injured.

Sam was a whirl of towels and blankets and before John knew it, he and Dean were in the room, and the door was closed. Dean was sitting up on his own, a towel over his head, letting Sam get him out of his wet coat, then his boots, then his shirt and wrapped in a blanket.

John had no idea how Sam worked so efficiently. He shot glares of gloom and death at John as he tended Dean, briskly toweling his hair with the towel with he spoke words that only Dean understood. Sam barked orders, issued commands and was heating water while debating bath versus shower. He handed both Dean and John mugs of hot coffee. And all the while John sat and stared at nothing. Wanted to reach out and touch Dean's cheek and feel for a pulse. But he didn't. He was afraid he'd pull back a stump. Sam was that pissed.

He got to his feet and went to get more coffee. He desperately wanted to add booze to it but Sam would have a fit and John was in no mood for a lecture, so he just sat at the table and sipped it hot and black.

He could help. He should help. But Sam didn't want his help.

"Get us hot water." Sam ordered.

With no electric, how did Sam expect John to produce a working hot water tank? Whatever had happened, Sam clearly blamed him. Well fine, he had a lot of faults, but dammit, even in a storm like this, he had always provided his boys with adequate shelter.

"There won't be a next time I say the weather is bad and you should go pick him up and give him a ride home from wherever." Sam's voice was filled with venom. John had never heard that tone from his youngest before and it made the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up before sending shivers down his back. Sam was growing up and John didn't think he liked it. "I'll just take the car and go get him myself."

John fucked it, pulled a flask from a pocket of some shirt or another and added it to his coffee. He never got to taste it, the mug was slapped from his hand and smashed to the floor.

"You're going to help me get him into a hot bath then bed before you drink yourself stupid."

John stared at the mess on the floor, pushed back from the table and rose to his feet. Sam planted his feet and met his dad with attitude. At 14, he was no physical match of his father but damn, he stood his ground and prepared to fight for his brother.

John shook his wet hair out of his eyes and laid a hand on Sam's shoulder, squeezing it gently. John was wet and cold but Dean's comfort and well-being came first.

"Gimme thirty." John said quietly. He'd heat water on the stove, it was natural gas, but it would take a while. Maybe the generator was powerful enough to power the hot water tank.

***000***

"I don't care what every other kid is doing Dean! I said NO!" why oh why, did his fear always come out as rage and anger? "You're my kid…..not anyone else's."

"It's a camping trip! How many times have we been camping? Was never an issue before!"

"Our camping trips are not for fun and leisure Dean."

John turned his back on Dean, gripping the dresser with both hands until his knuckles turned white. Indecision, guilt and remorse waged for dominance in his gut. Dean rarely asked for anything, never argued, never defied him. It was a stupid camping trip, chaperoned by the gym teacher and some coach or another from school. A hike up a mountainside to see some sulfur mine or some dumb thing. John wasn't entirely sure. He'd made up his mind Dean wasn't going and that was all there was to it.

But Dean had stood his ground and John didn't know what to make of that. There was no danger. No harm. No reason other than John's own fear that flared up every time one of his sons wanted to spend time away from him. Now, when John left his boys, well that was a completely different story. No, he didn't know why and he didn't ever intend to find out what or why that was.

If Dean were away from him, on a hike, in the woods, he wouldn't be able to protect his eldest against…well, weather, poison ivy, a fall, wild animals, lack of bacon….but then, he'd trained the kid since he was six years old to survive…..what would the counselor say if Dean happened to whip out his .35? Good God…..the police would be at their door…..Dean was 17, little to worry about there, but Sam was only 13….the last thing John needed was social services showing up at his door.

He cursed, striking the top of the dresser with a fist, causing the contents on top to rattle and jump. Dean hadn't had much of a childhood, nothing had even remotely resembled normal…..he never asked for anything….he was growing up, would soon be a man….John wasn't angry, he was scared….

"You'll be back Thursday?" he managed to rasp. "Won't do anything stupid?"

"You need to sign this."

John snatched the permission slip from Dean's hand and scrawled his name across it then threw it back at him. Dean wisely said nothing, took the paper and left the room. John headed for the kitchen, coming to an abrupt stop when he saw Sam, damn hair hanging in his eyes, casually lounging in the doorway from the hall that led to the bedrooms. His arms were crossed over his chest and he simply stared his father down.

"I like to camp." Sam said finally. He'd heard the entire argument, had first cheered on his brother, then his father. Took one side, then the other. He'd wanted Dean to go, then he didn't. Then he hadn't known what to think. "We should go. You and me." he added before his Dad could argue that, no, Sam did not like to camp. "I mean, do you have anything better to do then follow, I mean, hike up the mountain to see the famed mine sulfur pit? I don't."

John couldn't help it. He laughed, pulling Sam in for a hug.

***000***

"Another." John waved at the empty shot glass in front of him.

Ellen shook her head and set a glass of water on the bar.

"Hit me." John growled.

"No." she replied, setting a bowl of pretzels and another of peanuts next to the glass of water. "Not in my bar."

John spat a curse at her, stood up on the rungs on his stool and leaned across the bar for the bottle of Jack. Ellen snapped his hand with her towel and grabbed the bottle just below his hand. A struggle ensued, but Ellen was confident John would be neither aggressive nor violent towards a woman and he proved her right.

"Ain't driving." John sulked, sitting back down on his stool less the bottle. "I'm taking you up of an offer of a bed in the back, you don't mind."

"What ails you?" she asked, pouring a splash of Jack into his shot glass and adding a bit of water. If John weren't driving, he could drink himself stupid for all she cared.

"Puberty."

"Dean?" she responded, stopping to think. She'd never met John's sons. Few hunters had and fewer in their community knew of their existence, and what she knew, she kept to herself. No, Dean was close to Joanna Beth's age…..a year or so older, if her math and memory served her correct.

"Sam." John said morosely. "He shudda been a girl."

Ellen poured him another shot. "How so?"

"He ain't nothing like Dean." John complained. "All feelings and emotions. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?"

Ellen wiped the clean bar with a smirk. Only John Winchester would drink himself beyond a stupor because he had a compassionate, kind kid.

***000***

"Hey John, Travis here."

"Travis, what's up?" he juggled the phone onto his shoulder, continuing to clean his shot gun with both hands. "Been a bit, thought you were down South, doin' voodoo."

"Came up to Nebraska with Martin, called up Bobby, thinkin' he'd be able to give us a hand but he's busy with something else."

"He is, huh?" John squirted oil, using a rag to control its dripping. "Keeps himself busy."

"Said he got something more important on his plate, wouldn't say what though." Travis continued. "He said maybe you'd be free for a run."

"Sure, what you got?" John felt a brief rush of warmth. He had few friends he trusted, fewer yet he trusted with his boys – two in fact. Maybe three. And Bobby Singer was one such guy and damn, it felt good to know Bobby had turned down a hunter's request for help because he was babysitting Sam and Dean. Though if Dean heard, at age 12, he was being babysat, he would sulk and pout for a month and never agree to go to Bobby's again.

Sure, he and Bobby had argued, nearly come to blows, but in the end, John had caved to Bobby's request – order – to leave the boys with him while John went off to chase whatever demonic lead he had. Bobby didn't interfere much when it came to John hunting with the boys. John had told him as much as the truth as he'd ever told anyone and Bobby understood the danger the boys faced. What he didn't understand or agree with, was John taking them with him when he was off chasing a lead on the yellow-eyed son-of-a-bitch who had destroyed their lives.

This time, John had agreed to Bobby's badgering because Sammy had the measles or chicken pox or some itchy childhood ailment and the boy was miserable. What had hurt was, Sam hadn't wanted him, his dad. No, Sammy had wanted Dean and Dean had been with Bobby learning to make silver ammunition. And Bobby had made sense. His house was a stable, if cluttered and dusty, environment where Sam would have all the comforts of home.

John had had to argue and rant and rave, to save face and bury his hurt somehow, so yeah, he'd made a scene and made Sam cry and Dean mad, but the boys were where John wanted them and they'd never know that, so all was good. Travis and Martin didn't even know about the boys' existence, and they were decent, good men and hunters. Just went to show how little John trusted his fellow hunter. Maybe when the boys were older.

John hung up from his conversation with Travis and began to pack up in preparation for immediate departure. The phone rang again, and John picked it up, expecting Travis.

"Hey Travis, what's up? I'm ready to head…."

"Hi Dad."

"Sam? It's late." John said stupidly. "Why aren't you in bed? Why are you up?" no, how are you feeling, nope, straight to accusations. Way to go John, dad of the year, you're not.

And Sam's tone matched his when he said. "It's 7 o'clock Dad."

John grabbed the phone and stretched the cord over to the window, where he parted the curtain. Hell, it was dark outside, that meant, kids could go to bed. What was an appropriate bedtime for an 8 year old anyway?

"What do you want Sam?"

"Will you bring me home a milkshake?"

"Will I do what?"

"Vanilla malt."

"Sam."

"Dad…..I itch." Sam whined. "All over. And Dean won't let me scratch." he sniffled. "He duct-taped oven mitts on my hands." he complained. "I can't get them off. Not even with my teeth. And he painted me in pink lotion. It's in my hair."

John couldn't help it. He chuckled, and then coughed to cover his humor at the misery of his youngest. "Sam…." and just how had Sam managed to the dial a rotary phone with oven mitts taped onto his hands?

"And I'm hot." Sam was saying. "Uncle Bobby doesn't even have the heat on, but I feel so hot."

"Sam, I'm…at work. I won't be able to come get you for a couple of days."

"I don't need you to come get me." Sam said. "I need you to bring me a milkshake when you come home."

Say what? John scratched the stubble on his jaw. What the hell kind of logic was that? Kid must be feverish. "Is Dean there?"

"Oh." Sam's voice was suddenly small, an instant clue something was off. "Uh, yeah. He….he's…..he's in um, bed."

Now John knew something was up. Dean in bed at 7 o'clock while Sam was awake?

"Where's Bobby?"

Silence.

"Sam, where are your brother and Bobby?"

"I'm not supposed to say anything." Sam said finally. "I don't want them mad at me."

But you'll risk my anger, John thought impatiently. Always on Dean's side, always protecting big brother, always.

"No one will be mad at you." John said with a calm he didn't feel. He was going to hang Bobby Singer by the neck. But not until death. Oh, no. He'd keep a chair just under the balls of Singer's feet, let him dangle…choke, turn red then blue….see if he went purple. "Tell me Sam, where's Dean?"

Lulled by the calm, coaxing tone of his father's voice, Sam replied in earnest. "He's in bed Dad." now he was eager to please his dad. "Uncle Bobby said he had to stay in bed when they got back from the hospital."

John seethed. Dean had been hurt bad enough to require a hospital and Bobby hadn't called? He need a beer.

"Did you go with them?" John asked, glancing at his watch. He needed to be leaving soon in order to meet up with Travis. "They didn't leave you home alone, did they?"

"No. Sally Sue stayed with me. She was really nice, baked me cookies and played checkers with me while we waited for them to get back. I wanted to go, but Uncle Bobby said the hospital aint't no place for a sick kid."

John blinked, and that made sense…..to whom? He needed a bottle of whiskey.

"Sam, what happened?"

"It's my fault, Uncle Bobby told me to stay out of the basement, to stay upstairs but I wanted some juice, I get thirsty a lot, and I couldn't open the cupboard to get a cup or the fridge to get the juice or open the bottle so I went downstairs…I made Dean jump, didn't mean to, it wasn't on purpose Dad, honest…..but the silver was liquid I guess or hot or something and it spilled…."

Jesus Fucking Christ. His son had suffered burns from melted silver and no one had bothered to call and tell him? Where? How bad? The fuck! Son-of-a-bitch! God dammit! Bloody hell! Whore's tits!

"Sam, where is Bobby?" he finally managed to say, his mental explosion finally exhausted.

"With Dean….I dunno why…..funny though, cause now Dean's hands are bandaged too."

No, not funny. Not funny at all.

"They're letting me watch whatever I want on TV." now Sam sounded sad. He was feeling let out and ignored and boy, John easily understood that. "Long as I'm quiet. Maybe you can bring Dean a milkshake too when you come home."

Aaah, John thought, the lightbulb going off. Dean was the one who favored milkshakes…not Sam. Sam would think of Dean first, then himself. Bobby had apparently banned him from seeing Dean and Sam didn't want to cause a scene and upset Dean who was hurt and in pain. No, Sam wasn't asking for John to come home because he wanted his dad, he was asking for John to bring home one of Dean's favorite treats when he did bother to show up because he thought it would make Dean feel better.

"Sam…." John tried but Sam sighed and hiccupped.

"No Dad, it's okay." Sam said quietly. "You go hunting. Sally Sue said she'd bring over milkshakes. She said she could make them at her house. Has malt and vanilla right in her cupboard. Says she has awesome straws. Oh, and vanilla bean ice cream."

John blinked in disbelief. The nerve! His son was okay with some bimbo known only to Bobby Singer who baked cookies bringing him and his brother milkshake? Oh, hell no! Over his dead body! Sam didn't usually take to or warm up to strangers...and this Sally Sue was a stranger. Or, she'd better be! Damn that Bobby Singer!

"Okay, I'll let you go Dad. Bye."

He slammed the receiver into the cradle then dialed Travis as fast the rotary dial rotated.

"Travis, I have to bail, catch you next time." he barked as soon as the other end was picked up. Then he hung up. He was completely packed and ready to go in seconds. He had a night of driving ahead of him and time to remember where the hell he could get milkshakes in the middle of the night in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

***000***

Sam woke up so stiff and sore and cramped, he couldn't move. No, literally, his back had locked-up. Again. Oh, this was not good. Yeah, he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. He sure as hell wasn't driving either. Oh, and yeah, his head still hurt. Well, it was a headache…..but still. Great, just great.

Guess he'd be going to see Maggie's doctor after all.

Eh, wasn't so bad here. Maggie was no chef, but she put food on the table. He'd just have to do something about his sleeping arrangements. He and this daybed were not going to get on well. Perhaps he should attempt seeking shelter with Mad Myrtle. Queen bed. She cooked. How bad could it be?

***END***