Dean headed out the next day.

He avoided places where he knew hunters found solace. His dad had a big mouth, and if he was angry, it would only get bigger. Dean could fight any mother fucker out there who wanted a piece of him, but drawing attention to himself would only make it worse.

He started buying his own liquor and just drinking alone in his room after a hunt. Sometimes, well, most times if he was honest, he would go and find a little company to spend the night with.

But Dean was only half right.

John was telling any hunter who would listen to his drunk ramblings about his faggot son who was sick and wrong. He would tell them how worthless that made Dean. He would tell them how thankful he was that Sam at least wasn't infected.

Most of the hunters he told listened patiently and drank their drinks. Because everyone knew. Everyone knew Dean was the best hunter there was. If you needed a job done, you found Dean. Many of them heard stories about him. They heard about jobs that had sounded impossible, but he managed to pull it off. They'd heard about families who should have died, but who had been saved. They heard, and they felt nothing but pride. Secretly most hunters wanted to buy Dean a beer, but he never came to the Roadhouse, and he always worked alone.

John hated that.

Dean was gone for three weeks before he returned to Bobby's. True to his word, he'd called Bobby every day to update him on where he was and what he'd been doing.

Dean sat down in the living room with a glass of scotch. Bobby joined him. The older man cleared his throat. "Sam called me today."

Dean nodded, ice cubes in his glass clicking.

"He wants to come live here."

Dean choked. "No!"

"Come on, son. He misses you."

"He needs to go to college!"

"I don't see why he can't."

"But – he –"

"You miss him too."

"Yeah, but –"

"I told him he could."

Sam walked into the room. "Hey, Dean."

Dean was up in an instant, pulling Sam into his arms.

Sam pushed away and smiled widely. "I got accepted to Stanford."

Bobby stepped forward. "He's going off to school in the fall. I thought he could crash here for a few months till then."

"What's dad going to say?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Like he'd care. He's never home anyway. Besides." He smiled at Bobby. "Bobby's teaching me how to fix up old cars."

Dean nodded. "I could give you a few pointers too."

"Tomorrow?"

Dean and Bobby laughed. "Yeah, okay."

In the morning Sam wandered around the rusted husks of cars, and eventually picked a black Cheverly Silverado. They wheeled the truck into the garage, and got started. Dean taught him how to rebuild a transmission, and Bobby taught him how to change a tire.

As the afternoon wore on, the truck started to look less like a pile of junk, and more like something drivable.

Sam wiped sweat from his brow. "Let's take a break."

Bobby walked out to the fridge and when he came back he passed out the beers.

Bobby's phone rang. He looked at the screen and with a sigh he walked back out into the sun.

Sam looked at Dean. "So what car did you pick?"

Dean grinned. "A '67 Chevy Impala."

"No way!"

"She's a beauty. Come on."

They walked out across the yard. Back a little way they came across the black car. She shined in the light.

Sam shook his head. "Man, Dean. You really fixed her up well." He leaned in the front window and pulled his head out frowning at Dean. "A cassette player? Really? Why not put an iPod jack in there, or at least a CD player. I mean, come on. It's the twenty-first century."

Dean stared at Sam as though he'd grown a second head, then immediately put himself between his brother and the car. "Don't come any closer, Sam." He turned back to the car, running his hands over her black finish. "Shh, shh baby. He didn't mean it. It's okay, I won't let him brutalize you with his deranged musical ideas."

"Jesus, Dean. Did you fall on your head as a child?"

"Shut up, bitch!" Dean picked a rag covered in polish and threw it at Sam's face. Sam caught it deftly and began chasing Dean around the cars. Dean hid behind an old Ford and waited for Sam to run past. He leapt out surprising Sam and knocking him to the ground; he began tickling his brother mercilessly. Sam fought back, and they ended up rolling around in the dirt together, getting covered in dust and oil. They finally collapsed in a breathless heap, gasping for air.

Gradually Dean stood up. He offered Sam a hand and together they made their way back to the garage.

Dean picked up a tool as Sam popped the hood, and they got back to work.

The sun was beginning to set as Bobby walked into the garage. He looked nervous. "Okay boys, it's time to go."

Dean looked at Sam, and then back. "Go?"

"Yeah, John stopped by the house and found out Sam is gone, and now he's coming here. You need to go, Dean."

Sam's eyes widened. "I'm so sorry, guys."

Dean placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, Sam. He would have found us eventually anyway."

Bobby nodded. "You're always welcome here, both of you, but John's drunk, and I don't want you to get hurt, Dean."

Dean shook his head. "I'm not leaving."

"Boy, you're not hearing me, you need to go now. Come back in a few hours. I'll try to make sure Sam stays, but he can't find you here."

"Bobby, I appreciate your concern, but I'm not running from him."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Fine, don't run. Go lock yourself in the panic room downstairs."

"No. It's time for me to face him."

They stood in silence. In the distance they heard a truck growl, and the crunch of gravel in the driveway.

"Oh, fuck it ya damned idjit. You want to stay? Fine. But if you die, you better not haunt my old ass." Muttering curses and oaths in various languages, Bobby turned and headed for the house. Sam and Dean followed closely behind him.

They situated themselves in the living room where they could watch the front door. A minute later someone banged on it forcefully. "Damn it, Bobby. I know you're in there! Open the door!"

Bobby sighed. His eyes quickly traced the room for any weapons he may have forgotten to hide, and then he turned back to Dean, the door shaking on its hinges beneath John's fist. "You can still leave, son. We can distract him."

"No, Bobby. I need to do this."

Bobby took his time walking to the door. He placed a hand on the door knob and felt the vibrations shaking through it. He clicked back the locks and opened the door a crack. "Hey, John."

John's eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled faintly of alcohol, but when he locked eyes with Bobby, he looked nothing but focused. "Why'd you take my boy, Bobby?"

"I've known your kids since they were born, John. They will always have a place here."

"Sam belongs with me, Singer!"

Bobby's eyes narrowed. "You don't want to fight this with me, Winchester."

"You get out of my way or I'll make you."

He stepped close and stared Bobby down. Bobby drew back slightly. He glanced over his shoulder; Dean casually leaned against a desk, and Sam stood tensed beside him. They nodded.

Bobby stepped back, and let John enter.

John did not rush in like he'd been expecting. He entered slowly, cautiously, taking in his surroundings. He quickly zeroed in on Sam and Dean.

He stopped in the middle of the room, his eyes focused on his younger son. "It's time to go, Sam."

Sam's eyes flickered to Dean. "No. I want to stay here."

John strode forward and grabbed his arm tightly; Sam winced. "I don't care what you want."

Dean grabbed John's wrist, breaking his hold. "Don't touch him like that, dad."

John wrenched his hand out of Dean's hold, and backhanded his son. Dean fell back against the desk.

"You don't get to tell me how I touch him. Sam! Outside. Now."

Dean moved to block Sam's exit. His arms spreading out, shielding him. "Sam's not going anywhere."

John tugged Dean forward by the front of his shirt and growled. "I'm not letting him get corrupted by your filth."

Dean drew back his fist and hit his father as hard as he could. John hit the ground hard. Dean smirked.

John leapt up, and soon he and Dean were grappling across the room. For each hit there was a counter. For each lunge there was a parry. Sam edged over to stand with Bobby, watching the fight in a stunned silence. John had size and experience on his side, but Dean had flexibility and cunning on his.

It wasnt long before John began to get tired of this.

They broke apart, panting. John glanced quickly around the room, and saw that Sam was now standing behind him. He got an idea. With a smirk he straightened and turned his fists on his youngest son.

"Sam!"

Dean was behind him in an instant. John used his distraction, and caught Dean hard above the eye. Dean fell to the floor, and he did not get back up.

John drew a pistol.

Bobby quickly grabbed his arm. "Think about this, John! You don't want to do this!"

John yanked his arm back. "Yes I do. This sick faggot is not my son. Look at Sam, look at him! He is perfect! I won't have this… this poison ruining him. I won't lose both of my sons to this perversion, I won't." His gaze fell on Sam. "I want you to watch this. Watch and learn."

With his eyes locked on Sam, he pulled the trigger. And again. Until he was out.

Smirking, he turned to view Dean's body, but instead of a bloody carcass he saw something tan.

"What?"

There was a man standing in front of Dean, twelve perfect holes tinted red in his white shirt, his trench coat billowing behind him blocking Dean from view. His blue eyes eyed John sharply.

"Who the hell are you?"

The man reached out. John reeled back, but the man's fingers still found his forehead, and then all he saw was black as the floor flew up to meet him.

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