A/N: This is actually NOT the promised sequel. This is a fic that goes between books 1 and 2. It will be 3 chapters long, then I'll start posting the sequel. Hope you enjoy, and I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Chapter 1 - Not his kid

On the second day of Jon's new life, Jon woke up before Sam came in to greet him. It was the first time he could, since he didn't have his own alarm before.

He slipped out of his pajamas and into some of the old clothes he'd been lent. They were clothes that fit a little tighter than most of the others, which he preferred, but he hadn't yet opened the box of clothes Sam bought him. He wasn't sure exactly why. The only new item he wore was the chain around his ankle.

Everything was different now.

He had to be the perfect son. Perhaps even more importantly, he had to show Sam he was the perfect parent. Whatever would prove Jon was worthy of the name he wore on that tag.

That boy is NOTHING to me.

He flinched, pushing aside the memory, and tiptoed out to the kitchen.

Jon opened the fridge. He and Jordan had sometimes helped their mom make breakfast back home, but it had been years. He remembered scrambled eggs were pretty easy. And he knew how to make toast. Usually Sam did a little more than eggs and toast, if he was making hot breakfast, but Jon could learn. For now, he'd do what he could.

He started with the easy part. Rummaging through the pantry, he found the bread, and he put two pieces into the toaster. That part was done.

Then he started trying to crack eggs. This was the part his mom had never had him do when he was little, and it wasn't exactly as easy as it looked. He couldn't figure out exactly how hard to hit the egg on the edge of the bowl, and by the time the toast popped, he was still fishing for eggshells.

He found a whisk and started beating the eggs, but then he realized he should have put a pan on the heat first. It was a different kind of stove than he'd used before, and it took him a minute to get it to light. Then he finally poured the eggs into the pan.

He sighed. Now all he had to do was wait.

Except it seemed to be taking a long time. And the truth was, he didn't really know how to tell when eggs were done. He kept waiting for them to harden, but it just sat there, a pan full of yellow liquid.

Jon figured he'd make good use of time by buttering the toast. He went to take the pieces out of the toaster. They were perfectly browned, but cold. He'd waited too long. He sighed and put them back into the toaster.

He waited for the toast, seeming to recall that there was another step to making scrambled eggs. If only he could remember what Sam had done! He didn't want to wake him up now, though.

The toaster popped again. The toast was a little more brown than before, though not burned. It was really dry and stiff, though. He doubted even butter could help. And he was realizing that if he buttered them now, they'd be cold by the time he figured out what he was doing with the eggs.

He'd gotten himself way in over his head. Jon ran his hands through his hair.

I can't trust him, Jonathan.

Jon clenched his teeth, turning away from the stove.

"Jon?"

Jon whirled back to see Sam coming in from the hallway. "I'm sorry," Jon said.

"Are you making breakfast?"

"I'm trying."

"Offer you a hand?"

"I can..." Jon looked at the pan of raw scrambled eggs. "Okay."

Sam came over to the stove, took a spatula, and scraped up the eggs. They were brown on the bottom and badly stuck to the pan. "Did you grease this?"

"Oh. I'm sorry."

Sam frowned at it, continuing to scrape at the eggs with the spatula. "How long since you put it on the stove?"

"Maybe fifteen minutes?"

Sam lowered the spatula. "Ever made scrambled eggs before?"

"Uh... I usually helped flip the pancakes..."

Sam laughed. "If you wanted me to teach you to make breakfast, you could've asked! You gotta scrape the whole time."

"Even if it still looks raw?"

"Yeah. And I usually cook up eggs in bacon grease. Makes 'em taste better."

"Oh."

"Coffee goes on first. Toast is last."

"I kinda learned that part," Jon said, picking up the destroyed pieces of bread. "I'm really sorry."

Sam chuckled. "I appreciate you trying. Wanna go out?"

"Uh . . ." Jon felt like this had to be some kind of test. "Is that . . . can we even . . ."

"Grab a sweatshirt, it's a chilly morning. There's a new bakery I've been wanting to try."

Jon obeyed, and they both headed out, driving ten minutes up the road in the truck. Jon wanted to ask whether he'd ruined the pan he'd used, but he didn't know how to get the words out.

Jon didn't know what to order at the bakery, so he settled for just getting the same thing as Sam. They sat down at a table with huge muffins and coffee, and Jon had no idea what to say.

Thankfully, Sam took the lead. "Wanna start on the fence today?"

"Yes, sir," Jon said, because even if he wasn't in trouble right now, they were talking about his punishment for running away.

"Great. We can get started when we get back."

"We?"

"Yeah. It's a big job. I wasn't gonna let you tackle it alone."

"But . . . it's . . ."

Sam looked him in the eye. "I like spending time with you, my boy."

Jon shivered. It felt so good. And so wrong. He didn't know what else to say.

They finished up breakfast and drove back to the house, where Sam started teaching Jon how to use the tools to take down the fence. "We're not taking it all down," he said "We'll leave a fenced-off area behind the house, for Lieutenant. Just have to move the fence around back."

"Is that easier?"

"Might be a little harder. You up to the challenge?"

"Yes," Jon said, and he stopped himself before he could say sir.

They started with taking down some of the wire fencing before they moved onto the first fence post. Jon was determined to work fast enough that Sam wouldn't have to do much. This was the job he'd been given to do, to make amends. He had to do it.

"Slow down, Jon," Sam warned.

He didn't have to take things slow. He couldn't afford to. He worked faster, yanking the fence post out of the ground.

Jon staggered under the weight, and the metal post fell. It was tall enough that the top end fell some distance; Sam only just dodged out of the way, and the end slammed hard into one of the small sections of maintained grass.

"Oh no! Sorry!" Jon ran over to lift it up, inspecting the damage. It wasn't too bad, but he'd almost hurt Sam. "I'm sorry!"

"What are you thinking, boy?"

I'm not wasting any more time on a lost cause.

Jon squeezed his eyes shut.

A warm hand squeezed his shoulder. "Hey. Jon."

Jon pried his eyes open.

"I know it was an accident."

Jon nodded.

"Slow down, okay? In fact, why don't you come in and take a break?"

"I'm okay."

Sam examined him, then he said, "Okay. We can go a little longer."

They worked quietly for a while, then Sam broke the silence by telling stories about other construction projects he'd done around the cabin. Jon wasn't catching a word of it. He focused on his work. He broke his silence a couple of time to ask questions about how to do something with one of the tools. Other than that, he kept his head down.

It probably wasn't more than a half an hour before Sam set down his tools and stood. "I'm gonna take a break."

"Okay," Jon said.

"Come on in with me."

"No, thank you."

"You've been at this for over an hour, Jon. It's time to head inside. Come on, it's a safety thing."

"I'm okay."

Sam cleared his throat. "Your skin's flushed, you're sweating. You need to get something to drink and put on sunscreen. I'm not gonna let you hurt yourself."

"It's not that bad."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Won't be ignored in my own home, son."

Jon sucked in his breath and straightened up. What was he doing? Arguing and disobeying . . . "I'm so sorry, sir!"

"Hey, it's okay."

"I respect you, I swear."

"I know. It was just a mistake."

Some mistakes are beyond forgiveness.

To Jon's horror, tears sprang to his eyes.

Sam put a hand on his arm. "Let's get inside, kiddo."

Jon drew in a shaky breath.

"Oh. I'm sorry. You don't like me calling you that."

"No, it's—it's okay. That was before."

Sam nodded, and they went into the house.

They didn't end up going back to work on the fence again until after lunch. By dinner time, they were about halfway done with it, but they'd worked pretty slowly and taken quite a few breaks. "We'll have to keep Lieutenant inside for tonight," Sam said as they were finishing dinner. "We can finish his part of the fence tomorrow."

"He won't like that," Jon said. "He was in all day."

"Yeah, but I can't let him out without a fence. He's not the smartest. He'll run off and get lost."

"Did you have a fence before I came?"

"Lieutenant didn't usually stay with me before you came here. When he did, he stayed inside. I took him out on a leash a few times a day." He stood with his dishes. "Ice cream?"

Jon didn't know what to say to that. It felt like a test, even though he knew it wasn't. He had felt like he was walking on eggshells all day, careful to work exactly hard enough and not too hard, to speak when spoken to and not be quiet or closed off but also not to be annoying. He was careful to be honest but not complain. Jon didn't want ice cream; he felt nauseous at the offer. "No, thank you."

"Why not?"

That felt even more like a test. "Don't feel like I earned it."

"It's not a matter of earning it. We're celebrating."

"Celebrating what?"

"You're home with me, where you belong."

If I see your face again, I'm sending you back to the cage, where you belong.

Jon swallowed. He'd learned from earlier. If he was going to live here, he had to obey.

He followed Sam into the kitchen, and he was careful to scoop out a portion that exactly matched Sam's. He ate it at about the same pace Sam did, too, without copying him motion for motion.

Tried to, anyway. He only made it through half the bowl in the time it took Sam to eat his, and he couldn't manage another spoonful.

"Slowing down?"

"Not really hungry," Jon said.

Sam's brow furrowed, and Jon looked away. He felt vulnerable, naked, like his guardian could see right through him.

But all Sam said was, "Okay," and he took Jon's bowl.

Jon let his breath out and sat back in his chair.

"Anything you wanted to do this evening?" Sam asked.

"Uh, I can do some cleaning . . ." Jon looked around the house. It was still pretty messy; Sam really hadn't taken care of things while Jon was away.

"No, no. You've done enough for the day."

He glanced outside. It was already dark, and the day had been cool; the night would be cold. He was stuck inside. "Maybe I'll read."

"Okay. A quiet night sounds good."

Jon nodded. "Sure I can't help with the dishes?"

"Uh, I guess you can."

They cleaned up the kitchen together, then Jon retreated to his room, beyond exhausted. Was this what his life was going to be now? Walking on eggshells for fear of upsetting his guardian and getting kicked out of home, forgiveness revoked?

Jon got ready for bed, and he lay down to read, but he couldn't process a word of the book. He pretended to read for a long, long time, his heart rate periodically skyrocketing as he remembered where he was and wondered if there was something else he was supposed to be doing.

He almost jumped out of his skin when the door to his room opened; he'd had it cracked, so he didn't hear the knob turn. Sam peeked inside; he'd put on his own sleep clothes. "Hey, I'm going to sleep. Just came to say good night."

"Okay."

Sam came over to Jon's bed and held an arm out. Jon stood and let Sam wrap his arms around him. "Love you so much, kiddo."

He wanted to say the words. They wouldn't come out.

Sam pressed a kiss to the side of his head and let him go, then left the room.

Sam hadn't said Jon had to sleep. But Jon didn't want to be caught up too late. He'd already brushed his teeth, so he turned off the lights and slipped into bed.

And he tossed and turned.

Jon had slept deeply in this bed for the past couple of nights, because he'd been so stressed about whether Sam would take him back for the week before, and being back in "his own" bed was a huge release. Now, he couldn't sleep at all.

It was so stupid. He'd begged to come back here, he'd agonized and fought and argued and allowed the Kents to speak on his behalf. He'd forgiven and accepted forgiveness in return. He was home now. The struggle was over.

But the struggle wasn't about Sam. It wasn't the fact that Sam had said so many horrible things about him, words that echoed in his mind and cut into his flesh and settled in his skin. It was the fact that every word was true.

He's not like you, Sam had told Jonathan.

How is he not like me? Jonathan had asked.

You're a good kid. You made a mistake, you wanted to do better.

And Sam was right. Jon-El hadn't just made a mistake.

He was a mistake.

Jon pulled himself out of bed as silently as he could. He had been stupid to think he could be anything but a mistake. He couldn't stand the tension or the wait. He was eventually going to get kicked out anyway; he might as well kick himself out now.

He put on a sweatshirt, grabbed one of his own notepads and a pen, and wrote out a letter:

Sam,

I'm sorry. I thought I could do this, but I can't.

I love you.

Jon-El

He'd meant to write more, but he didn't know what to say. He left his phone on his nightstand and the notepad on the kitchen table, and he slipped out of the front door.

Immediately, Jon was glad he'd worn his sweatshirt and regretful that he hadn't picked up a heavier jacket. He was pretty sure he had one in the box Sam had picked up, but he would have had to rummage through, and he knew it would have made some noise.

For a moment, he just stood in the doorway, half in shock at how easy it had all been. There were no alarms, no fence, no locks. Lieutenant hadn't even woken up, and Jon hadn't had to deal with the ankle monitor . . .

Jon swallowed hard. He knelt down to look at the chain around his ankle, but at the last moment, he averted his eyes. He couldn't have that staring at him. He took off the chain without looking at it, left it on the porch, and headed out into the night.

Jon passed by his basketball hoop and the pile of fencing materials and through the trees where he'd run the night Sam kicked him out. It was dark; he wasn't going to be able to find a bus. He could find a place to sleep on his own.

Maybe he'd end up homeless. Maybe he'd learn to steal better; maybe he could get on his feet enough to find a job this time. Or maybe he wouldn't, and he'd get caught stealing and go to jail. Maybe he'd even go back to the cage. He doubted that, though. He wasn't going to give his real name or Sam's name again if a police officer asked.

He's not my kid. He never was.

Jon wrapped his arms around his knees. If Sam wanted him back, he could come get him.