Again, I'm very sorry for the cliffhanger at the end of the last chapter. Two in a row is mean, whoopsie. Well, it's the way this story presented itself in my mind's eye. But I promise the worst part's over, and no cliffie this time! :) All Sam and Dean need now is a rescue party... please enjoy the next chapter!


These damn kids would be giving him a heart attack one of these days.

Kids, Bobby thought and shook his head. Dean was a man now, though, and Sam wasn't far behind. Didn't mean that they could just wander off into the freaking desert without their old man getting worried out of his mind for them. Yeah, and maybe Bobby was worried about those two knuckleheads too. Sue him.

Idjits.

He glanced to his side where the distinctive features of John Winchester – jaw clenched to the point of breaking teeth, squinting hawk-eyes, sweat beading on his brow – were outlined against the pink early morning sky. He sat behind his truck's wheel, white-knuckling it across the desert landscape. Who cared about a few scrapes in the paint job? As usual, Bobby would be the one to fix that mess later, a fact he decidedly didn't voice at this moment. Never provoke Papa Bear Winchester (and never dare say that aloud either).

"They're gonna be okay," Bobby tried to reassure his hunting partner.

A quick death glare was shot his way before John refocused on the non-existent road ahead. His lead foot made the car leave dust clouds in the air. "Don't tell me they're okay, Singer. You heard Dean's message," he growled. "And the Impala! Dean would never leave the car in the desert."

Bobby readjusted his hat and let his eyes sweep the vastness ahead. The eldest Winchester was a stubborn ass sometimes, especially when it came to his boys possibly being in danger. That, Bobby understood. After breaking a million speed limits to get past the border and finding the damn trailer empty (save for an impressive stack of research), it was the grumpy landlady who had pointed them in the right direction. At first, Erin had glowered at John as if he was the personification of the black plague, but when she learned that the boys were missing, she'd been more than cooperative. The two men had found the Impala soon after, sitting abandoned on the edge of the desert, faint tracks leading away from the car and further and further south into the barren land. John's worry had been spiking ever since. The only explanation was that the boys were still out there somewhere. Still, maybe there was a harmless reason for all of this.

"Dean's a damn fine hunter. Sam too," Bobby said. "When they're not busy bickering like an old couple, they're capable young men."

"They don't know that a whole pack's been roaming northern Mexico these past weeks," John reminded darkly.

Bobby grumbled into his beard. He knew that all too well. Once they had figured out that they weren't hunting the thing that killed Mary Winchester all those years ago, more and more puzzle pieces had clicked. Even Bobby, who'd seen more weird crap than most hunters, hadn't actually believed for a second that the mysterious creature existed. The lore was too thin. 24 hours ago he would have called everyone stupid who'd dared to say that the freaking Chupacabra was real. And every hunter worth his salt would have agreed with him that it was a hoax.

Well, not anymore. Yesterday, Bobby and John had seen two of its species with their own eyes and barely snuffed them without getting killed themselves. They had no idea if there were any more of the vicious monsters and if they'd made it past the border. Maybe they should have warned the boys sooner about their suspicions. When Dean's voicemail came through late last night, John had dropped everything and demanded they immediately hightail it back. The fact that the boys had missed their scheduled check-up call (and the sixteen calls that followed over the next few hours) was not a good sign.

"They should've called back by now," John said, his voice a little quieter but no less grim. "Something ain't right."

Bobby had been trying to stay positive. But even he had to admit that the lump of concrete in his gut was getting heavier and heavier the longer they didn't hear from the boys. To stop his mind from imagining the worst and his hands from fidgeting nervously, he hefted his shotgun closer and kept his wary gaze on the sun-baked wilderness.

Another while passed, the sky slowly turning baby blue in the distance, and along with it the temperature rose to an uncomfortable level.

It was then that Bobby saw it.

"Winchester!" He punched John's arm.

"What?" But before Bobby had contrived an appropriate reaction to what he was seeing, John's eyes turned wild. His foot settled even heavier on the gas pedal, everything in his posture pointing to a man on a mission.

There, on the horizon a few hundred yards away, were dark shapes on the ground. Barely visible under a fine coat of sand, but still two unmistakable bumps that didn't quiet seem to belong in the otherwise flat land. John's truck was still too far away for them to see any specifics, but Bobby could tell that the two shapes were not moving. His heart leaped into his throat. He was on the edge of his seat, his whole body vibrating with tension. They couldn't be… no, it couldn't be them.

As the car came to a sudden stop a few yards from the unidentified somethings and the dust cleared from the early morning sky, an ice-cold vice grip closed around Bobby's heart. The truck's headlights, still on despite daylight pouring down on them, pointed directly at the two shapes left no room for doubt.

"No!" John yelled, sharp, as if sucking in all the air around him with just one word. He tumbled from the driver's side and ran towards the figures on the ground. "No, no, no."

Bobby wasn't far behind. His legs were numb as his feet skidded across the bone-dry soil, ominously loud in the stillness of the desert. His heartbeat rang in his ears and his stomach roiled. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be.

"John," he called out when he finally reached the three Winchesters.

There they were. If it wasn't for the striking resemblance to their father, Bobby might've not even recognized them underneath all that grime. Sam and Dean lay motionless on the ground, slightly turned to one another, each brother reaching out a hand to the other. Both bruised, dirty, and absolutely wrecked. Sand in their hair, in what was left of their clothes, sand everywhere. Both hurt bad. Dried blood coated Dean's lower leg. Sam's shoulder and side were sticky with crimson. Their lips were chapped and, apart from sunburned noses, their faces were as white as chalk. Neither of them opened their eyes even when John tried to rouse them.

"Dean? Sam?" John barked and shook first his older son's shoulders, then patted his younger son's cheek.

Nothing.

John kneeled between his boys and tore at his hair, both hands clenched. The utter helplessness he was seeing broke Bobby's heart.

"Are they…" The sentence never got finished. Bobby crouched down next to the trio, steadying John with a firm hand.

The man was a mess, but he was still a hunter, still a soldier. John's practiced fingers found their way to Sam's pulse point. Bobby couldn't stop his hand from shaking, but he did the same for Dean, nonetheless.

Both men released a breath of relief at the same time.

"They're alive," Bobby announced, the weight of the world lifting off his chest.

John side-eyed him for a moment, for a split-second allowing his true emotions to show. Relief, worry, fierce love for his kids all poured from those expressive eyes. Bobby had been witness to this rare picture only a handful of times – John Winchester looking like a father. It suited him; he thought and wished the boys would see their dad's vulnerability more often than they did. Wished that John would allow them to see this side of him. The moment passed when John's usual mask of steel slipped onto his face again. Bobby's sigh went unnoticed.

John's gaze fell on his sons. "Let's get them home."


These were the longest six hours and three minutes in John's life.

That fateful night almost 17 years ago had been unbearably long, too. Back then, he'd known without a doubt and within a second of laying eyes on her up at the ceiling that the love of his life was dead. A part of him had died along with her almost instantaneously, and through that long November night, more and more pieces of him had been chipped away by the boding sense of evil threatening his family, his two little boys clutched tightly in his arms. To this day, he wasn't whole.

This time was different. This time, the not-knowing was slowly killing him from the inside with relish. John wasn't used to tailspinning. He was a soldier, a hunter. A strategist who always had a plan. Until he didn't. Carrying one's children's limp bodies, not unlike that night so long ago, would capsize even the most sturdy frigate.

John was a mess.

Thankfully, that brief period of lack of control was over when the doctors finally gave John the green light to be with his sons.

That was where he was now. In an air-conditioned two-bed hospital room, sitting on a plastic chair between said two beds. Thank goodness this Podunk hospital didn't have a pediatric ward. John could only imagine Dean's reaction if he'd been separated from his little brother. As it was, the boys shared a room. If it wasn't for the rainbow of bruises and the occasional bandaged or casted limb, John could almost pretend they were simply asleep. Asleep or not, they were alive. And they would be okay. Dehydrated, sunstruck, exhausted? Sure. Bruised, scraped, sore? Hell yes. But they were Winchesters. To say they'd had worse wasn't even an exaggeration, John thought ruefully. Even Dean's tendon rupture and Sam's clavicle fracture would heal with time.

Still.

Too damn close.

John had come way too freaking close to losing his sons this time. This time. John internally scoffed at the implication, dread crawling up his spine. He hadn't sent his barely adult kids on this hunt, no, but he might as well have. With how much John drummed into them the necessity of ridding the world of monsters, with all the training he put them through, Sam and Dean would never turn their backs on civilians in danger, even when they didn't have anyone as backup. When duty called, they were no longer boys but soldiers. They would risk their own lives to save others. And this time, they had almost overplayed their hand. They had almost died.

And John had done this to them. Was still doing it.

He held his breath, listened to his own rapid heartbeat thudding behind his ribs.

If he'd been there even a little later…

But he hadn't. He wasn't. He was right here, just like Sam and Dean.

He exhaled shakily.

Sam and Dean had survived out there not because John had rescued them. They had survived because they were smart, strong, resourceful, and fiercely protective of each other. John wondered sometimes if, in a twisted way, he'd done that to them too. Before this thought could ignite a spark in him that didn't quite feel reassuring, the time it would take to finish it was cut short.

"John?"

He looked up to see Bobby standing in the doorway. Familiar car keys were dangling from the gruff hunter's fingers. Bobby eyed the boys then John for a moment before he tossed the keys at his hunting partner with a swift flick of his wrist. John caught them easily.

"Bobby," John acknowledged with a curt nod and pocketed the Impala's keys. The thank you was implied, as per usual.

His friend dipped his head. "Sure." Message received. "She doesn't even have a scratch. The boys didn't mess with her."

"They better not," John said, half joking, half yawning.

"My guy and I," Bobby continued, a tiny smile hidden in his beard. "we didn't only bring back the car, you know. Found one of those suckers out there too. Looks like Sam and Dean put three holes in it. Killed the sonovabitch dead."

John looked between the boys and Bobby and realized he probably wasn't hiding his pride as well as he usually did. "Really?"

"Yup. Was a big one too." Bobby grinned. "It's taken care of."

John released a long breath. "Good. Any others?" Any more monsters that are alive and could be out there hurting people right this second went unsaid.

Bobby shook his head. He understood. "Far as I can tell, no. We're good. For now." His eyes wandered to behind John again. "The boys?"

"Will be okay." John gave the other man a tight smile.

Bobby scratched his beard, a pensive motion. His gaze lingered on the boys a little longer. John wasn't fooled by the other man's rough exterior. Bobby was as stubborn as they come, but deep inside, he cared about Sam and Dean more than he'd ever admit out loud. The two men butted heads over stupid shit all the time, and Bobby had given John hell about raising the boys in the life more than once. But the fact that the seasoned hunter was always there for Sam and Dean as if they were his own, no questions asked, earned John's respect and made him one of his closest allies.

None of that made it past John's lips.

Bobby gave the boys another visual once-over, then ducked his head in a see-you-later gesture and slipped out of the room.

John was by himself again. Well, not quite. His sons' snores were his companions. He turned first to Sam, who looked miserable and vulnerable in his bed, then to Dean, who wasn't faring much better but had a slightly healthier color to his cheeks. If you could call a severe sunburn healthy, that was. It was a while later when John finally decided to get a much-needed refill on caffeine that Dean's freckled nose scrunched up much like when he was a toddler. John knew exactly what that meant and immediately sat his ass back down on the chair.

"Dean, you awake?"

Only incomprehensible gibberish came from Dean's mouth. He wrinkled his nose and squeezed his eyes shut tightly. The kid needed a little time, John knew.

"I'm right here, Dean. It's okay," he said quietly.

Finally, Dean cracked his eyes open. "Dad?" he asked hoarsely.

John felt a smile tugging at his lips and warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the desert heat outside. "How you feeling, sport?"

Dean looked puzzled and gaped at his father wordlessly. Then, suddenly, something seemed to click in his mind and he got restless. "Where's Sam?" he croaked.

Typical. John smiled to himself.

When Dean barely managed to prop himself up on his elbows, John pushed him into the pillow with firm hands. "You're safe, Dean. You both are. Sam's right here."

John allowed Dean to lift his head a little so he could get a peek at his brother on the other bed. Sam was fast asleep, curled on his side, only his bruised face poking out from underneath a thin sheet. "Sammy," Dean whispered, relief written all over his face. "You sure he's okay?"

John nodded and gently cupped his eldest son's jaw to make him look at him. "Yes, he will be. How are you, Dean?"

Though unable to move much, Dean's gaze traveled across the room, briefly settled on his sleeping brother again, then fixed on John. "Better."

John chuckled a little. These boys. He leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat. "You boys scared the crap outta Bobby."

"Just Bobby, huh?"

"I'm just glad you're okay," John huffed, then hesitantly added, "For a second, I thought…"

"I know. We did too." Dean's voice was small, his eyes again on the lump of blankets and pillows that was his little brother before his focus was back on his father. "And… I'm sorry."

John shook his head and leaned forward in his chair, one elbow propped on Dean's mattress. "You should be. God, Dean, what were you thinking?"

And damn, Dean looked genuinely hurt. "That there were lives at stake."

"Your lives," John shot back, a spark of something hot and sharp igniting in his chest, then lowered his voice when he realized Sam stirring on the other bed. He didn't even mean to come off this harshly when the only thing he should be was grateful, but he was so used to being in command, to being in control – he couldn't help himself. "It wasn't your place to go out and play hero."

"What?" Dean asked, the look of confusion in his face slowly morphing into something that resembled anger. Maybe having this conversation now was a bad idea, John realized, but Dean continued, "Dad, you've been telling us all our lives that saving people, hunting things, that's our job."

John puffed out a breath. "It is. But you should've waited for me."

Dean's brows furrowed. When he spoke his next words, John could tell that Dean tried hard to hold his fire lest he wake his brother. "We called you!" he whisper-yelled. "More than once, Dad. We know we needed your help, okay? But you weren't there!"

"Dean—" John warned, incredulous. Dean usually didn't shoot off his mouth like that, not with his father. Dean never questioned John's orders or defied his commands. He followed them, simple as that. Dean was a good boy and a great hunter. Lashing out like this was more of a Sam-move. Then again, John couldn't help the whiplash feeling of guilt shooting through his body at Dean's words. His kids had needed him, they really had. And he hadn't been there to protect them. Dean was right. His anger had seldom vanished as fast as it did now. John deliberately softened his gaze and unclenched his jaw, as difficult as that was for him. "I know, okay? I know."

Dean sighed, obviously tired. "Sam and I, we called you. Sammy was the one who insisted. And you…"

John washed a hand down his face, that heavy-as-lead rock of guilt making itself very comfortable in his gut. "I was busy hunting the thing that ended up almost gutting my sons," he said, as if that would make any of this better.

Dean's eyes, weary and glassed-over, widened. "What do you mean?"

John blew out a breath. "The case in Mexico. When we found out what we were up against, you were already out there in the desert, Dean. Bobby and I, we were neck-deep in a Chupacabra nest—or pack, flock, whatever you wanna call it. One of them must've made it past the border."

Dean huffed tiredly. "No shit. But, uh, two of them. At least."

John arched an eyebrow. "Two?"

"I took out one in this… cave or whatever. Sammy shot the other one."

And for a moment, John was so damn proud of his boys that he forgot all about his guilt. "Not bad," he acknowledged.

Dean grinned, if weakly.

That miserable knot in his gut slowly unfurled until it disappeared almost completely. John let out a sigh. As happy as he was that his boys tended to exceed his expectations on a regular basis, his worry for them had never lessened. He was a father, after all. Which was all the more reason why he needed his sons to be strong and capable, to be able to defend themselves in a world full of horror.

"Okay…" he mentally prepared himself before his thoughts could turn any darker. "I want a full report on what you two idiots have been up to. But first, get some rest, Dean." John briefly put a hand on Dean's shoulder and watched as his son's eyelids drooped. "I'm gonna be here when you wake up."

It didn't take long for Dean to fall into a slumber again. John watched over him, over both his sons.

00000

Over the next two days, both boys would occasionally wake up and ask about each other. They'd be a little confused and in a lot of pain – nothing the good stuff couldn't fix. Sam turned out to be even more restless than Dean and very eager to get out of bed soon, but John was having none of it. Not this time. He shushed his youngest, patted his hair, and assured him Dean was okay until he calmed down. That's what always did the trick, assuring his boys that their sibling was fine.

When it was finally time to go home (even with Bobby's help, the hospital bills were stacking up too fast), both Sam and Dean were cranky and bitching almost as much as they usually did. Things were going back to normal.

Back at the trailer park, their landlady greeted them with a cigarette butt in her mouth. "Hi Erin," Sam mumbled sheepishly from underneath his bangs, but he wouldn't get to hear her answer. John silently ushered his boys past her and tried not to notice the anger in her face when she saw the miserable shape Sam and Dean were in.

A few seconds later, all three Winchesters and one Singer were crammed into their trailer.

"Boys, I want you to stay put," John announced. "No more slinking off. No getting yourself into trouble, capiche?"

"Yessir," the boys chorused, slightly languid, from their respective positions on the couch. Dean had his bandaged leg up on the couch table while Sam's arm sat in a sling. Banged up as they were, they wouldn't be going anywhere, would they?

"Good," John said and dropped off his duffel. He cast a glance at Bobby, who had just carried in some of their gear. "We'll leave first thing in the morning. Bobby and I just gotta tie up some loose ends. We'll be back tonight."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look, then nodded in sync. Of course they did.

John gave them a tight smile, then tilted his head towards his hunting partner. "Singer?" He was already turning on his heel and out the door on his way to the car when John realized that Bobby had not immediately followed him. He stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder.

Bobby stood a few paces away, in the doorway of their trailer, much like he had in the hospital, and said something to the boys – clearly in a low tone and kind of rushed as though he didn't want John to hear him. But John did. "I know your Dad is hard on you two. He means well. And I know for a fact that he's proud of ya," Bobby said. "So am I. And if you ever wanna talk, I'm here."

Whether the boys answered or not, John couldn't tell. He could, however, tell that this was something his sons needed to hear. And maybe they should hear it from him. It was a thought that brought his old friend guilt right back. There was no time right now, though. There were more important matters to tend to. Like making sure the creatures who hurt his sons were well and truly gone and that nothing and no one would ever take them from John. Bobby had taken care of the immediate threat, but John needed to check for himself.

A second later, Bobby caught up with John. The men wordlessly slid into the truck.

John longed for the moment they would finally leave this desert hell behind them.


To be continued...