Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I WILL ALWAYS FIND YOU

The air smelled like sugar, smoke, and summer. The fairgrounds were bursting with color and noise, and four-year-old Dean Winchester was right in the middle of it all, sticky-fingered and wide-eyed. He clutched his dad’s hand tightly, his other arm wrapped around a half-eaten swirl of pink cotton candy.
John looked at his boy fondly. "You’re gonna go into a sugar coma, kid."
"Can I get a balloon?" Dean asked, mouth stained pink.
"We just passed the balloon stand," John teased. "You sure you don’t want to ask for a pony while you're at it?"
"A pony!" Dean squealed, eyes lighting up. John groaned theatrically.
Mary laughed from beside them, her free hand resting on the curve of her growing belly. She was seven months along, glowing with the kind of radiance only a mix of motherhood and late afternoon sun could create. "Don’t give him ideas, John."
They walked like that for a while, arms brushing, Dean swinging his dad’s hand as he pointed out everything he wanted to ride or eat or win. The carousel was next, and Dean insisted on the biggest horse, the one with the red saddle and golden mane.
John lifted him up and secured him, brushing Dean’s wild blond hair back before stepping down. Mary waited with a hand on her belly, watching their son beam as the ride began to move.
"He’s a firecracker," John said quietly.
"He gets it from you," she teased.
They rode the highs of the afternoon—carnival games, fried food, a quiet moment watching the clown act while Dean sat in John’s lap munching on popcorn. It was one of those rare perfect days where no one was tired or angry, where love felt like something alive and tangible.
Eventually, Dean tugged free and ran toward a booth stacked with shiny tin cans. “I wanna knock 'em all down, daddy. I wanna win a prize!"
"I’ll go," John sighed.
Mary smiled, but her eyes held fatigue. "I need the bathroom anyway. Meet you at the hot dog stand?"
"Deal."
Dean had a head start, weaving between legs, his tiny feet pounding the dirt. John was right behind him—until he wasn’t.
Dean looked back and didn’t see him.
He turned left instead of right, called for his dad, but the crowd swallowed the sound. The noise grew louder, the lights sharper. Dean spun in circles, panic making his chest tight. His cotton candy fell to the ground.
And then a woman appeared. Red curls, green eyes, a gentle smile. "Hey there, sweetheart. You look lost."
Dean nodded, eyes wide. "I can’t find my daddy."
She crouched to his level. "Don’t worry. I’m going to help you. We’ll find him together, alright?"
He sniffled, tiny fists clenched. "Okay."
They walked, the woman holding his hand. She asked him what his name was, what his daddy looked like, what his mommy's name was. Dean answered between hitched breaths. They checked the cotton candy stand, the carousel, the shooting gallery. Nothing.
And then they heard it.
"Dean!"
It was a raw shout, full of terror. John was stomping down the midway, wild-eyed, practically shoving people aside.
"Four years old! Blond hair! Green eyes! Wearing a red hoodie with—please, he was right here!"
"There," the woman said gently, pointing.
Dean broke into a run. "Daddy!"
John fell to his knees and caught him mid-air, holding him so tight Dean squeaked. "Don’t you ever do that again! You hear me?" John’s voice broke. He kissed the top of Dean’s head over and over. "I should kick your little butt straight into next week, young man. What were you thinking?"
Dean just buried his face in John’s shoulder and mumbled. "I got lost."
Mary reached them seconds later, pale and breathless, one hand on her bump, the other gripping John’s arm.
"Thank God. Is he okay?" she whispered. John simply nodded, still holding Dean close to his heart. Mary knelt beside them, kissing Dean’s cheeks, tears in her eyes.
The red-haired woman stood quietly nearby, smiling.
Mary looked up. "Thank you so much. I—I don’t even know what to say."
The woman just smiled wider. "Don’t bother. You would have done the same. No one should ever lose their child. We moms have to stick together, right?"
Mary nodded gratefully. The woman leaned down, ruffled Dean’s hair. "Take care of your mama, little man. And that baby brother or sister on the way."
Dean nodded. And then she turned away, disappearing into the crowd, her red hair catching the setting sun.
John kept brushing a shaking hand through his son’s hair. "Jesus, you scared the hell outta me, Dean," he whispered, voice cracking just a little. Dean’s lip trembled.
"I was… I didn’t mean… I couldn’t find you. I was scared, too," Dean mumbled, burying his face against John’s chest.
John cuped the back of Dean’s head. "Hey, hey. Listen to me." He waited until Dean lifted his tear-stained face. "I won’t ever leave you alone. I will always find you. You hear me? And if I have to tear down everything in my way, I’ll always find you."
Behind them, the red-haired woman stopped for a moment, just out of view. She tilted her head as if hearing John’s words, then turned back toward the crowd. Her eyes glinted with something far too knowing. She was still smiling— but this time, the smile was wrong.
Very wrong.

Eight months later.

The baby—Samuel—was six months old, chubby and pink-cheeked and loud when hungry. He had a set of lungs on him, Mary often joked.
Today, Dean had been up early, buzzing with energy, bouncing around the house in his socks, tripping over toys and shouting about going on a picnic. Mary tried to smile, but the second the morning sun pierced the kitchen windows, she winced and pressed a hand to her forehead.
By the time John came down the stairs, freshly showered and already teasing Dean about having put on his shirt inside out, Mary was curled in the corner of the couch, pale and pressing a cool cloth against her temples. “John, I don’t think I can leave the house today. My headache is killing –“
Dean suddenly stopped doing whatever mischief he was up to, ran out of the room and slammed a door in frustration. The sound of Sam's sudden, sharp wail had Mary groaning. "Dean!" she called weakly, but the sudden, loud sounds just made her curl further inward.
John moved in fast, lifting the baby and bouncing gently. His jaw tightened. “I swear, that boy—” he started, his voice low with that particular sharp edge.
“I know,” Mary cut him off softly. “But don’t. Please don’t.” She shifted slightly, the cloth slipping from her brow. “He is just excited. Just… take the boys. I already packed the basket, it’s in the fridge. You three go. Have a boys’ picnic. Give me a few hours.”
John blinked. “You sure?”
Mary gave him a tired, but genuine smile. “Completely. I love you three more than anything, but right now I might trade one of you for ten minutes of silence.”
John huffed a laugh, kissed her temple. “You’re lucky I’m smitten with you.” John saw Dean peeking around a corner. Then, a dramatic sigh from John as he looked at the two boys. “Alright. Everyone’s happy. Except for the dad who’s gotta chase a hurricane toddler and stop the baby from drowning in a juice pouch.”
Mary chuckled, pulled him in, and kissed him. “I’m lucky to have you. All three of you.”

A little while later, the black Impala rolled up to the park with the windows cracked and Dean singing off-key in the back seat. Sam was in his car seat, making happy baby noises, smacking the air with gummy fists.
John carried the basket, tossed out the blanket they had inherited from Mary’s great-grandmother, and settled them all under a big shady tree. The sun filtered through the leaves, warm and soft. The grass was green. The sky was blue. Mary had outdone herself—tiny sandwiches, sliced fruit, cookies wrapped in wax paper. Dean beamed like he’d personally been gifted the world.
For a long, peaceful stretch, everything was perfect. Dean tried to feed Sam a grape, John stopped Dean. Dean tried to teach Sam how to say “bird”. He took his instructions very seriously. John stopped his kid again while smiling fondly at his eldest. “Gonna break your momma’s heart if his first word isn’t ‘mom’.”
John, sprawled on his side, kept watching his sons, founding himself swallowing around the sudden, aching love in his throat. Then -
“Stay on the blanket, okay?” he told Dean, standing.
“Where are you going?” Dean asked, clutching a cracker in one hand, a bird feather in the other.
“Just a quick bathroom run. Hundred meters tops. You stay here with Sammy. You’re in charge, alright? Two minutes. Top. Stay. On. The. Blanket. Got it?”
Dean nodded solemnly. “I’ll protect the snacks.”
John smirked, ruffling Dean’s hair. “That’s my boy.”

He was gone for two minutes. Maybe even less.
When he came back…
The blanket was empty.
No Dean. No Sammy. Just a spilled bottle and the faint imprint of two small bodies that had been there.
John’s chest caved in.
“DEAN!” he roared, already running. “DEAN! SAM!”
And everything else fell to pieces.

"Dean!"
John’s voice cracked like a whip through the park. Heads turned. A mother on a nearby bench looked up, startled. A jogger slowed.
"Sammy!"
He was sprinting now, dodging strollers and picnic blankets, eyes scanning every direction, heart pounding hard enough to drown out reason.
The blanket was still there. Dean’s shoes were there. Sam’s little rattle.
But no boys.
Not a sound.
John doubled back. Scanned the playground. The public restrooms. Under the picnic tables. Behind trees. He dropped to his knees, checked beneath bushes like a madman.
Nothing.
"DEAN!" he shouted again, breath ragged. “DEAN WINCHESTER! ANSWER ME!”
His voice bounced back at him off the trees. A few parents started murmuring. One man came up, cautious. “Hey… did you lose your kid?”
“My kids,” John snapped. “Two boys. One’s six months. The other’s five. Blond. Big green eyes. They were right here. I was gone two minutes.”
He showed them the blanket, the rattle. The baby bottle still half full.
The man paled. “I am calling the cops.”
John was already moving again. Pounding the paths. Screaming his sons’ names. He knocked into people, barely apologized. He retraced every step, every corner of the park.
No crying. No baby babble. No Dean. No Sam.
No trail.
By the time the police arrived, John had torn up most of the flowerbeds near the lake. A shoeprint. A scrap of fabric. Dean’s shirt. He held it in shaking fingers.
Mary.
He had to call her. Didn’t want to. But he had to. So he did.
She answered on the first ring, groggy and hoarse. "Hey. Everything okay?"
John couldn't speak.
"...John?"
He forced the words out. "They’re gone."
Silence.
Then, "What do you mean gone?" Her voice shattered.
He didn’t answer.
Police tape. Officers fanning out. They questioned him. He couldn’t remember his own answers. Two minutes. He said that a hundred times. Two minutes.
The hours bled together. They searched the whole park. Canvassed the surrounding blocks. Every car, every person questioned.
No one saw anything.
No one.
There was no one.
It made no sense.
No tire marks. No screams. No witnesses. No ransom. Just—
Gone.
Vanished.
Like they’d never been there.

Chapter Text

The alley stank of rot, piss, and something sharp that stung the back of his throat. Every breath lit up his ribs. His mouth was dry from the cold wind and hours without water. His fingers were numb as he pried open yet another dumpster. Empty. Or worse—full of spoiled food crawling with things he didn’t want to name.
Fifteen-year-old Dean had checked seven dumpsters already. Nothing. Not even moldy crusts or bruised fruit. Just cardboard, coffee filters, half-crushed cans, and the sour stench of piss and grease.
His stomach clenched with something past hunger. Exhaustion burned behind his eyes, and he blinked hard, fighting the way the world wanted to tilt.
He let the lid slam shut and leaned against the cold brick wall, breath fogging in the air. His stomach growled in open rebellion. Sam hadn’t eaten anything decent since yesterday morning—half a bruised apple. Dean had lied and said he wasn’t hungry. Sam hadn’t believed him, but the kid was too polite to push.
He couldn’t go back to Sam like this. Not again. Not with empty hands and empty pockets. They hadn’t eaten anything real in almost two days.
Dean scrubbed a filthy sleeve across his face. He couldn’t go back empty-handed again. He just couldn’t.
“C’mon,” he muttered to himself, breath visible in the evening air. “One more shot.”, he said, his voice low and hoarse, as he got up again.
He turned down a narrow alley behind an old bar, where a dented dumpster leaned like it had given up trying to stand straight. He stepped toward it, but stopped.
Footsteps.
Dean froze and sank back into the shadows. A man was walking, distracted, hands in his jacket pockets. Early or Mid-40s, maybe. Dark brown hair, a streak of gray at the temple, face rough around the edges but clean-shaven. His eyes looked tired. Shoulders slumped like he carried something heavy. His jacket looked warm. His boots didn’t have holes.
Dean didn’t think. Instinct took over.
He dropped like a stone to the pavement, clutching his ankle, his face twisting into a grimace and letting out a hoarse, “Aah! Aah—damn it, it hurts—”
The man stopped in his tracks, looked around, spotted him.
He came over in a rush.
His eyes scanned Dean immediately—sharp, focused, worried.
“You okay, kid?” the man asked, already kneeling beside him. “What happened?”
A pang of guilt hit Dean. There’d been something honest in the man’s voice — raw, worried — maybe the first genuine kindness Dean had heard from a grown-up in years. Figures. The one time someone actually sounded like they gave a damn, he was about to rob them.
He sniffled, kept the act going. “Fell. My ankle—I think I twisted it. Hurts like hell. Could you… just give me a hand?”
“Mind if I take a look first? Just to be sure it’s not broken?”
Dean hesitated for half a second, then gave a small, reluctant shrug. Without a word, he stretched out the supposedly injured leg toward him, jaw tight as if bracing for pain.
The man reached out, careful and steady, fingers pressing lightly around the joint. Dean flinched but didn’t pull away.
“Doesn’t feel broken,” the man said after a moment. “Might be a sprain, but nothing’s out of place.”
Dean let out a shaky breath, half-relief, half-guilt.
“I’ll help you up now,” the man said, already offering his hand. “Easy now.”
The man’s hands were warm and rough, callused from years of work, as he slipped an arm around Dean’s back and helped him to his feet. As Dean leaned in, he caught the scent—whiskey, oil, something earthy and grounding. The kind of smell Dean imagined dads had. Real ones. Dean shook his head at the thought.
And then, smooth and fast, Dean’s fingers slipped into the man’s coat, into the back pocket. The wallet was easy to grip and came out smooth, Dean’s fingers tight around it as he eased his weight back.
He’d done it before.
He knew how.
Done.
The man didn’t notice. He steadied Dean, then asked, “You need a ride home? Hospital?”
Dean stepped back fast, careful not to look guilty. “No. I’m good. My dad’d freak if he found out I got in a car with a stranger. Seriously—I’d be dead.”
Something flickered across the man’s face. Not suspicion. Something softer. Something Dean couldn’t quite put. Pain? Guilt? Regret?
He snorted, smiling faintly. “Smart dad.”
“Yeah,” Dean murmured, the smile fading just a little. “Something like that.”
The man looked him over again, really looked at him. At the worn hoodie, the hole in the jeans, the bones showing under thin skin.
He didn’t ask. Just said, “You sure? I could walk you home. This part of town’s rough. You shouldn’t be on your own.”
Dean shook his head. “I’ll be fine. Thanks though, really. You helped a lot.” More than you know, Dean added in his head.
The man looked at him—not suspicious, but… something else. Something quiet. Something that settled like a weight in Dean’s chest.
“You sure you’re gonna be okay?” the man asked again, softer now.
Dean swallowed. “Yeah. Like I said, don’t worry.”
His hand tightened around the wallet in his hoodie pocket.
There was a pause. Then the man said gently, “What’s your name, kid?”
But Dean was already turning. Shoulders hunched. Heart pounding.
He kept up the limp until the corner. Then he ran.
The wallet thudded against his chest like a second heartbeat. Heavy. Real.
He ducked into an empty lot, crouched behind a half-burnt fence post.
Fingers trembling, he opened it.
Cash.
Enough for real food. Enough for at least one week.
He laughed just a little in disbelief.
His stomach growled, but all he thought about was Sam.
“Tomorrow, Sammy,” he whispered. “Tomorrow, we eat good.”
He leaned back against the fence, clutching the stolen wallet to his heart, chest aching a bit.
But tomorrow his little brother would sleep with a full belly. And that was all that mattered.
*****

Dean strode across the salvage yard he and his brother momentarily called their “home”. Gravel crunched under his boots, but he kept walking like he owned the place, a grin stretched across his face like he’d won the lottery.
He carefully slipped into the car they slept in at night, trying not to jostle the frame. The door creaked anyway.
Sam stirred from where he was curled in the backseat, shivering under his too-thin hoodie.
Dean leaned over, voice low and buzzing with excitement.
“Sammy,” he whispered. “You awake?”
Sam sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Where the hell were you?” Sam mumbled, his voice small and scratchy. “You were gone forever.”
“Sorry, munchkin,” Dean said softly. “It was totally worth it though. You’re not going to believe this.”
He dropped into the front seat and pulled the wallet from his hoodie like it was a magic trick, flipping it open with a flourish.
“Fifty-three bucks.”
Sam blinked. “You robbed someone?!”
Dean ignored him. “Fifty-three dollars. We can eat, Sammy. We can feast.”
Sam didn’t match the grin. “Dean… seriously. Where did you get it? Did you really rob someone?”
Dean leaned back against the cracked leather. “From a guy who was real nice. And real careless.”
“You stole it.”
Sam sat up straighter, his tone tense, almost disappointed. “Dean…”
“We’ll make it last,” Dean said quickly. “Breakfast burritos, burgers, hell—we might even get fruit, like actual oranges or something.” Dean’s voice faltered just a bit.
Sam didn’t smile. He reached forward and took the wallet from Dean’s hand. No asking.
He flipped it open, digging through the contents.
“No ID,” he muttered.
Sam kept looking.
In the inner pocket, folded nearly flat, was a worn photo. Creased – like someone touched it every day. He slid it out carefully.
Two boys.
The older one was laughing, head tilted back. Maybe four, five years old. A baby lay in his lap, wrapped in a blue blanket, wailing with his mouth wide open.
Sam stared at it.
“Dean.”
Dean glanced over. “What?”
“He has kids.”
Dean’s grin faltered. “So?”
“He probably needs that money.”
Dean shrugged.
“Yeah, well, maybe they don’t. Maybe it was just sittin’ there in a pocket, gathering dust.”
“He has kids, Dean.”
Dean shrugged. “So does every third guy in this city. Doesn’t mean they don’t have a fridge full of leftovers and a wife who nags them for spending too much on takeout.”
“You don’t know that.”
Dean’s voice sharpened. “We don’t know anything, Sam. That’s the point.”
Sam didn’t back down. “What if they get into trouble now? What if they can’t pay rent?”
Dean turned away, jaw clenched. “Do you really think that they would need the money more than we do, Sam?”
Sam didn’t answer.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought. Well, go ahead and return it then. Just don’t whine when dinner tomorrow is half an apple between the two of us.”
Sam looked down. Hit by his brother’s harsh words.
Dean sighed and then softened. He held out a hand. This was his idea of a peace offering.
Sam gave him the photo.
Dean stopped short, the looked at it. Something in his chest tightened.
He stared too long.
Sam watched him. “What is it?”
Dean shook his head too quickly. “Nothing.”
He turned the photo over. Blank back. No names.
“He kinda looks like you,” Sam said, almost to himself. “All those freckles…”
Dean forced a laugh. “Yeah, right. Kid’s got pudding cheeks. I was always sharp as a knife, a lean, mean machine at from the beginning. Just for the record, both kids don’t look like they’re starving”, Dean joked.
Sam didn’t laugh.
Dean’s grin faltered again.
He looked down at the wallet, then at the bills.
“Listen, I am not trying to be a jerk, Sam. If there was another way, … I’d take it. We’re not wasting it, okay? We’re not blowing it on stupid crap. I’ll make it last. I’ll stretch it, I swear. And once I turn eighteen? I’ll get a real job. No more crap like this, okay?”
Sam slumped against the seat.
“Okay,” he finally said defeated.
“Still feels wrong though,” he added.
Dean didn’t argue, he did, however, clutched the bills to his chest like treasure.
“Wrong’s a fair trade for dinner.”
But his smile faded when Sam wasn’t looking.
He turned toward the windshield, watching their breath fog the cracked glass.
Sam didn’t speak another word for a long time. The cold settled back in.
And Dean stared out at the night, jaw tight.
Dean closed his eyes. A family. Two kids.
He tried not to think about it, tried to focus on the crumpled bills in his hand and the image of Sam biting into something warm and greasy.
Dean told himself the guy probably wouldn’t even miss it. But then again… the wallet hadn’t been thick. Just a few bills, some cards. And the photo.
What if that cash was all he had? Gas money? Grocery money? A birthday present?
Wrong’s a fair trade for dinner, he had told Sam.
But then why did it feel so bad?

Chapter Text

The city had cooled with the dusk, the oppressive weight of the day finally lifting as evening settled over the streets. Dean and Sam walked close, their shoulders brushing now and then, not out of tension, but familiarity. Dean had his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn hoodie, hood up against the wind. Sam walked beside him, a little straighter, arms swinging lazily at his sides. Neither spoke much—they didn’t need to—but the quiet between them wasn’t heavy. It was just... comfortable.
The money Dean had stolen had gone far, but not forever. It never did.
Tomorrow, it’d be dumpster dives and cold nights again. But tonight? Tonight they had enjoyed one last warm meal together.
“Still don’t know how you managed to finish your burger before I even opened the wrapper”, Sam said now, glancing sideways with a lopsided smile.
Dean bumped his shoulder into him.
“Talent, Sammy. You either got it or you don’t.” Sam huffed, but there was no real annoyance in it—just amusement.
“You didn’t even breathe.”
They both chuckled, and Dean gave an exaggerated sigh, but there was pride in it.
“Can’t help it. I’m a growing man.”
“More like a bottomless pit.” Sam huffed.
“Hey, I shared, didn’t I?”
“You gave me the salad of your burger and called it a ‘peace offering.’”
Dean grinned, teeth flashing briefly in the low light. “Best part. You’re welcome.”
Sam rolled his eyes, but it was good-natured.
They kept walking. The streets were worn, the light flickering from a streetlamp above them, but their rhythm didn’t falter. There was no urgency tonight. No hunger clawing at their insides. Just the comfort of full bellies, shared jokes, and the kind of brotherhood that wrapped around them like an old blanket—thin in places, fraying at the edges, but warm all the same.
They didn’t need much. Not really. Just each other.
Dean was mid-sentence—telling Sam how the flickering streetlamp made him feel like they were walking through a scene in some low-budget horror movie—when a hand gripped his shoulder hard. Dean’s heart slammed against his ribs.
He barely had time to turn before a hand seized his shoulder and shoved him back. Not hard enough to bruise, but fast and sure enough to slam him into the brick wall like a rag doll. His breath whooshed out of him as his spine hit cold stone, and his palms shot up instinctively—open, empty, placating.
“Hey—what the hell—?”
The man’s face was a stormcloud of fury and grief.
“You,” he growled. “You little son of a—where’s my wallet?”
Dean blinked, working to steady his breathing and doing his best to look baffled. “What? Man, I don’t even know you—”
“Don’t screw with me,” the man snapped. His hand slammed on the brick beside Dean’s head. The sound cracked like a gunshot, sharp and final. His voice was low, but trembling. “Twisted ankle, my ass! I don’t care about the cash. You needed it? Fine. Take it. But there was a photo in there. Two kids. That’s all I want back.”
Dean’s heart lurched, the panic coming fast and hot. The guy wasn’t just angry—he was desperate. And desperate people were unpredictable. In his unrelenting rage, the man’s gaze was fixed solely on Dean, completely unaware of Sam standing just behind him. Dean knew he had to get Sam out of sight before things got worse.
Dean’s eyes flicked sideways, sharp and subtle—Poughkeepsie. The word wasn’t spoken, but Sam would hear it loud and clear: Run. Hide.
Sam froze mid-step, his eyes flicking to Dean’s face, silently asking if he would be okay alone. Dean gave the faintest nod, barely perceptible, urging him to go. Without a word, Sam hesitated a moment longer, then backed slowly into the nearest alley and vanished.
Dean turned back, exhaled slowly, trying to loosen the panic in his chest. He dropped his shoulders a little, let his voice tilt younger, smaller. “Look, I still think you got the wrong—”
“Don’t,” the man cut him off. “Don’t you lie to me, kid. I know it was you. I looked into your damn eyes and you just—played me.”
Dean rolled his own. “Didn’t know I was supposed to curtsy after pickpocketing you,” he muttered.
The man’s jaw locked. His hands curled into fists.
Dean shrugged, almost casual. “Man, you’re really hung up on this. It’s just a picture… You ever try therapy?”
“You think this is funny?”, the man growled.
“If it was that valuable,” Dean suddenly said, low and sharp, “maybe you should’ve kept a better eye on it.”
The man looked furious. His face flushed deep red, more hurt than rage now. “You little bastard,” he said, voice raw. Then –
“Right. Enough talk. You want the hard way? Fine by me. I’m calling the cops. Let’s see if your so-called ‘dad’ even knows you exist—or if you’re just another lost kid, scrounging through life, stealing scraps because nobody ever cared enough to teach you better. And now you walk around like the world owes you something.”
Dean flinched like he’d been slapped, just for a second. A crack in the armor, gone as quick as it came. But then he smiled. Not a real one—something crooked and cold that didn’t reach his eyes.
His fingers twitched halfway up, a mocking gesture of surrender, even as his body coiled.
“You don’t know shit,” he said, voice low and shaking. “So… fuck you.”
Then he kicked the man’s shin with everything he had.
The man shouted, stumbling back. Dean didn’t wait. He bolted, shoving past him, pavement hammering under his boots, lungs burning, blood roaring in his ears, the world narrowing down to the sound of escape.
Dean didn’t look back right away. He couldn’t afford to.
His legs pumped hard, lungs burning with every breath, vision tunneling down to nothing but the alley ahead.
No cops. No way. He wasn’t going back to that foster home, to another family. He’d take a beating, take a broken rib, hell, take a bullet—anything but that.
He swerved down a side street, vaulted a low fence, feet slipping as he hit the other side, gravel tearing into his palms.
Behind him, angry footsteps—close. Too close.
Damn, the guy’s fast. And pissed. He moved like he had nothing to lose—and he wasn’t letting up."
Dean risked a glance over his shoulder.
The man was still coming. Red-faced, breath ragged, wild-eyed. Not shouting anymore—just chasing. Determined. Dangerous.
Dean swore under his breath, nearly twisting an ankle on the uneven sidewalk.
Sammy was right. I fucked this one up.
He ran like hell, like everything depended on it—because it did. He just hoped that Sammy was safe.
Dean ducked between two cars, jumped a low fence, his legs screaming with every stride. He glanced back once— “Stop! Hey! Kid—STOP! STOP!” —and didn’t see the car pulling out of the alley ahead.
The impact was sudden and brutal. Dean slammed into the hood with a sickening thud, his body rolling up and over before crashing to the concrete with a wet crunch. He didn’t move.
The man saw it happen. “Fuck—!” He skidded to a stop, horror twisting his face as he watched the kid fold like a paper doll.
The driver slammed the brakes, stumbled out of the car, pale and shaking. “I didn’t see him! He came out of nowhere—I swear—I didn’t— God, is he –?”
“Call 911! Now!” the man barked, already on his knees beside Dean. His hands hovered for a second before gripping Dean’s shoulder, gently, like he might shatter. “Hey, hey—no, no, no, no—”
Dean’s eyes fluttered open, dazed. His lip was split, nose bleeding, one knee scraped raw. Arm at a wrong angle. His breath came in short, wet gasps. Sharp with pain.
“Hey. Hey, come on, kid—stay with me. Please.”
“S’my. S’rry…”
“Hey, you will be okay, alright? Just stay with me, Ace,” he said without thinking.
Dean blinked at him, confusion flashing across his face. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy. Blood trickled from his split lip, down to his chin. His breath rattled.
Then his lips moved. “A..a-ce…,” he murmured, and for a second something stirred—like an echo in his bones – familiar and wrong and warm, all at once.
“Yeah. I got you,” he whispered, voice cracking, eyes stinging. “You’re gonna be okay. I won’t leave you. I’m right here.”
Sirens howled, closer now. But all the man could do was hold the boy’s hand tight and pray to a God he hadn’t spoken to in years that he wouldn’t lose this kid he didn’t even know. It felt like the world had narrowed to one point. One boy. One heartbeat.

Dean woke to pain — sharp, raw, dragging like a freight train in his ribs, a dull ache that throbbed behind his eyes. His head felt thick, fuzzy, as if wrapped in cotton and it was pounding like a drumline in a metal band. His whole body felt like someone had thrown him down a flight of stairs and then backed a truck over him. Twice.
Something beeped steadily nearby — sharp, insistent — and the air smelled too clean, too sterile.
He turned his head—slowly, because everything hurt—and then he saw him.
The guy from the alley.
Sitting in the cheap plastic chair next to the bed, elbows on knees, face pulled tight with something Dean couldn’t name. Guilt? Fear? Concern?
Dean’s mouth twitched in a dry groan. “Ugh. You again.”
The man looked up, lips tugging into something that was almost a smile — tired, a little worn, but real.
“Nice to see you too,” he said, lightly, like it was meant as a tease — but the weight behind his eyes gave him away. He meant it.
“You stayed,” Dean said as a matter of fact.
“Told them I was the one who called it in. Said I’d stay until someone came for you.”
Dean looked away, the silence thick and raw between them, punctuated only by the steady beep of machines and distant footsteps.
“You got a broken arm,” the man said quietly. “Fractured ribs. Mild concussion. Bruises everywhere. Nose might be broken too — they haven’t decided yet. Arm on the other hand is definitely broken. Lucky, they said.”
“Awesome,” Dean muttered. “You should see the other guy.”
No laugh. Just a slow lean back, hands clasped tight, the lines on his face deepening like the weight was dragging him down.
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to look before crossing the street?”
The words hit sharp, but the edge wasn’t anger — it was worry. Tight and raw.
For a moment, Dean almost softened. Almost.
Then he shoved it down.
“Sorry, was kinda busy dodging some lunatic chasing me into traffic.”
The man’s jaw clenched.
“You stole my damn wallet.”
“I didn’t steal your kid.”
That landed harder than Dean expected. The man’s throat worked, but he said nothing.
Dean pushed on. “Pro tip: next time, just don’t chase kids into traffic.”
“What? This is my fault now? You ran like a squirrel on caffeine, not watching where you’re going.”
“Because the big scary man was yelling at me—hello!”
John let out a low, tired scoff and sank back into the chair. “Unbelievable.”
Before they could go any further, the door clicked open.
A nurse stepped in – late thirties, maybe. Blond curls pinned back in a messy bun, kind eyes, soft features. She looked tired, but something in her glowed—like sunlight pushing through rain.
Dean blinked, squinting against the hospital lights. For a second, she looked like an angel.
She stopped short.
Her eyes landed on the man, and something in her face cracked.
"John."
He stiffened, looked like he had just been slapped. His voice was hoarse. “Mary.”
The name hit Dean low in the chest, sharp and strange. His gaze flicked between them, a chill crawling down his arms. The air in the room shifted. Heavy. Tense.
Mary didn’t even glance his way—her eyes locked on John like she was holding back a storm just for him.
“What are you doing here?” she said, her voice flat, controlled.
“Right”, she said coldly.
Mary turned to him at last, checking the monitor as if the air hadn’t just gone radioactive. She scanned the chart, then looked up and met his eyes with a steady, calm gaze.
When she addressed Dean, her voice was different — softer, warmer. It wrapped around him like a blanket. “Hey, there. My name is Mary. I am your nurse. Do you remember what happened? Why you are here?”
“I got hit by a car,” he said flatly.
She nodded. “You gave us a good scare out there. You were lucky. Only got a mild concussion, some bruised ribs, three stitches on your forehead and a broken arm. We’ll get you some pain meds to help with that. But you’re stable. That is what is important. We still need to keep an eye on you for a little while though. We’re going to take good care of you.”
He wanted to say something sarcastic—he always did—but his mouth wouldn’t move right.
Instead he simply said “Okay.”
“Can you tell me your name, sweetheart?”
Dean hesitated, then mumbled, “Dylan.”
Mary softened her voice just a touch, kneeling slightly to meet his eye level. “Nice to meet you, Dylan. Can you also tell me your last name, Dylan?”
“Thompson.”
She nodded, putting it on her chart. Then she reached out gently, feeling his pulse as she spoke, then wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his good arm. “If you feel dizzy or worse, you let me know immediately, okay?”
Dean nodded slowly.
“Alright, Dylan. We’ll be calling your emergency contact shortly—do you have someone you want us to reach? I am sure they must be really worried by now,” she said, still gentle.
Dean shook his head, eyes flicking away. His throat was dry again. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
Then, with a small shrug and a steady voice, “I don’t have anyone. There’s no one who cares.”
The words hit harder than he meant them to. Even he felt them echo.
Mary stilled for a second. John’s jaw clenched.
“Right,” she said softly. She tucked the blanket around him just a little more snugly. “I’ll be right back with your pain meds, okay? And I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake.”
Mary gave him a faint, reassuring smile. But before she turned, her eyes flicked to John—brief, brittle. Like looking at a scar you forgot was still there. There was something in her eyes that didn’t belong in a hospital. Something personal. Wounded.
John stepped forward.
“Mary—can we talk? Outside? Please. Just a minute or two?”
Her mouth tightened, then she sighed.
“Later, alright? Right now I have a patient to take care of.”
The door clicked shut.
“Ouch,” Dean muttered. “You are in even more trouble than I am. She really doesn’t like you, does she?”
John shot him a glare. "Don't start."
“What’d you do to piss her off that badly?” Dean grinned, though it tugged at his lip.
“Did you broke off with her or something? Was she just a ‘thing’?”
John exhaled slowly. “Don’t you have broken ribs or something to shut you up?”
Dean’s smile slipped, and he suddenly went still. “You broke my ribs.”
John scoffed. “The car broke your ribs.”
“Because you were chasing me.”
“You kicked me first!”
“You chased me like a lunatic!”
"I said stop, kid."
“I didn’t have time to stop! Big scary guy with a death glare was chasing me down!”
John opened his mouth, then closed it. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Jesus. You are not going to let this go, huh?”
The door opened again. Mary came back in, medicine in hand.
"Here," she said softly, offering the pill cup and a paper cup of water.
Dean took them silently, downed it all.
She gently checked his IV again and fluffed his pillow with surprising care, then brushing his hair gently off his forehead like she didn’t even realize she’d done it. “We’ll get you more comfortable in a bit, okay? And then we will see what our next steps are.”
Dean didn’t look at either of them. He knew what that meant. They would go back into the system. A single, traitorous tear slid down his cheek—quick and silent—before he wiped it away with the back of his good hand. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and said nothing.

Outside, Mary crossed her arms, jaw tight, eyes flashing with something fierce and tired all at once.
“You brought him in. We took over. So why are you still here?” Her voice was low but edged with accusation.
John rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding her gaze. “Look... the kid—he stole my wallet, alright? I kept a picture there of our – of Dean and Sammy.”
Mary’s eyes narrowed, the silence thickening.
“I chased him,” John admitted, voice rough. “Not proud of it. I just wanted my damn photo back. Told him to keep the money, just the photo. But when I caught him, he took off again—right into the street.”
Mary’s lips pressed together, biting back something sharp. “You chased a kid over a damn picture? Jesus, John...”
“This photo means everything to me, Mary.” His voice cracked, the weight of it hanging heavy in the air.
“It is just a photo. It’s not real. And now a kid is lying alone in a hospital bed.”
John flinched, the words hitting like a punch.
“I already feel guilty as hell, alright? I just wanted to make sure he was alright. That’s why I stayed,” he said quietly, voice cracking.
Mary let out a long breath. “We’ll have to call Child Protective Services. If there’s no parent, no record...”
John nodded slowly, swallowing hard.
They stood there—two people bruised by the past, the silence between them colder than the night outside.
Mary’s voice softened, but the edge remained. “You still know how to find trouble.”
John said nothing.

Chapter Text

The boy hadn’t said another word all night.
Mary had tried—gently, unobtrusively—to coax something out of him. A name. A phone number. Even just a hint about the other boy—his brother? His friend? John had told the nurses there’d been another with him. But the kid was like a vault.
She checked in more often than protocol required. Quiet visits under the pretense of routine care. Once to adjust the IV line. Once to check the monitor. Another time, she carefully pulled the blanket up around his shoulders, even though it hadn’t really slipped. Each time she entered, he went still.
He was awake. She could tell.
His breathing was too deliberate. His limbs too stiff.
Other times, he turned his face to the wall, his back drawn tight like armor. No reaction. No movement. Just the slow, mechanical rhythm of breath.
She didn’t press. Kept her voice low, her presence calm, her movements even. She commented on the cooler air, the steady drip of the IV, or the way the monitor beeped with a comforting rhythm. A signal: I’m here. You’re not alone.
But the boy gave her nothing.
His silence wasn’t petulant or angry. It was deeper than that—ingrained. Not defiance, but something far more practiced. The kind of silence you learn young, when speaking stops making a difference.
Now, as the early morning light crept soft and silver through the hospital windows, Mary stood at the foot of his bed, watching him one last time before shift change.
He looked so small like this. Still and silent in the sterile bed, ribs bruised beneath white bandages, face turned toward the wall.
He’s just a kid.
So young, and already he’d learned how to shut the world out. She wondered what it had taken to teach him that. How many times he’d tried reaching out—only to find no one there.
Her heart was heavier than it had any right to be.

The corridors smelled faintly of disinfectant and sleep. It was just past seven when Mary stepped through the staff entrance again— fresh scrubs clinging to her skin, a tray balanced in one hand.
“Erin?” she called softly, spotting her friend near the nurses’ station.
Erin turned, blinked in surprise, and tilted her head. “Wait—aren’t you off tonight?”
“Victor asked if I’d cover his shift,” Mary said, her voice light, casual.
“Didn’t mind,” Mary added, shrugging like it was nothing.
Erin squinted at her. “That’s your fourth night in a row.”
Mary offered a small, unreadable smile. “Victor always covers for me when I need time. Just returning the favor.”
Erin crossed her arms, giving her a knowing look. “You’re not fooling me. You came back for him, didn’t you?”
Mary didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
“Room 220,” Erin said slowly. “The kid.”
Still, Mary said nothing.
Erin tilted her head. “What is it about him?”
Mary hesitated. Then, with a dry exhale, said, “Well, for starters… it was John who chased the kid into traffic. Over a damn picture, can you believe it?”
Erin blinked. “Wait. What? John? Mary, I am so, so sorry. That must have been hard. How long haven’t you two seen each other?”
“Nine years,” Mary answered softly.
She looked down at the tray in her hands, at the soft food and neatly packed meds. Her voice softened even a bit more. “But it’s not just that. There’s something about this kid. He’s so young, and already—” she paused, struggling to find the right word, “—he’s already given up. It’s like he’s learned not to expect anything from anyone. I don’t know. I keep thinking, under all that armor, there’s a really sweet boy in there. Someone who’s just scared out of his mind.”
Erin softened a little, her voice dropping. “Well, just so you know—he didn’t talk to anyone today. Not a word. Barely even looked up.”
Mary stilled. “Not to anyone?”
“Nope. Barely moved. Just lay there. Ignored everyone.”
Mary nodded slowly, something faint settling in her chest. The quiet confirmation that maybe—
maybe she’d been the closest thing to safe he’d known in a long time.
That just maybe, maybe —she’d been the least frightening person in a world that had clearly given him every reason to be afraid.

She moved quietly down the hall and into his room without turning on the overhead light. The small bedside lamp glowed gold against the sterile white walls, casting long shadows that softened the edges of everything.
He was lying on his side, facing the door this time.
Eyes open. Watching.
Mary didn’t speak at first. She just moved carefully, setting the tray down on the rolling table beside him.
“Brought something soft,” she said gently. “Soup. A bit of toast. Easy on the stomach.”
No reply.
She pulled a small pack from her pocket and set it down next to the tray. “Painkillers. And fresh bandages. Thought we might check those ribs later.”
Still nothing.
But he didn’t turn away.
Encouraged, Mary pulled the chair closer to the bed, careful not to let the legs scrape the floor. She sat down slowly, folding her hands in her lap.
“Feeling any better today?” she asked softly.
No reaction. No eye contact.
But he was listening. She could feel it.
She kept her voice low, calm. “I know this must be scary. Waking up somewhere unfamiliar. Not knowing what’s coming next.”
A long pause.
Then—his voice, hoarse and cracked, barely above a whisper—“You don’t know shit.”
Still didn’t look at her.
Mary blinked. Not at the words themselves, but at the sound of his voice. Rough and defiant, but unmistakably young.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold. She only nodded, her eyes softening as she watched him fix his gaze on the far wall, like it was the only thing holding him together.
“No,” she said quietly. “I probably don’t.”
She leaned back, folding her arms across her chest, letting the silence return—but this time, not trying to fill it.
In the stillness, Mary studied his face in the warm, dim light—the curve of his jaw, the purpling bruise on his temple, the dried split on his lower lip. And underneath all that, the unmistakable fragility of a kid who hadn’t been allowed to be a kid in a very long time.
“I’ll come back in a bit to change your bandages, alright?” she said softly.
No response.
She stood, the lump in her throat thick, her chest tight. She hesitated at the door.
“I’ll be nearby if you need anything,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Even if you don’t want to talk.”
And then she slipped out.
Mary moved between rooms, checking vitals, adjusting IVs, murmuring encouragements to patients. Just a usual shift for her, except it wasn’t. Her mind kept drifting back to him. The kid.
As she headed toward her next patient, Claire intercepted her in the hallway, phone still in hand, brows knit.
“They got a match in the system,” she said quietly. “David Miller, age fifteen. He’s got a little brother — Tyler Miller, eleven. Both wards of the state. Reported missing from a foster placement two months ago. The foster family’s been contacted. They’re on their way.”
Mary absorbed that with a nod. “Okay. Thanks, Claire. I’ll tell him.”
When she entered his room, the tray balanced on her hip, she kept her steps soft. The lamplight hadn’t changed. That quiet, golden haze still made the room feel smaller, safer somehow.
“Hey,” she said gently. “Just me again.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
But she could see the tension — the rigid line of his back, the too-still set of his shoulders beneath the blanket.
“I brought you something for the pain,” she said, setting the tray down. “If you want it.”
She pulled over a stool and sat beside the bed again, her tone steady, practiced — but warm.
“Your chart said they wrapped your ribs in the ER. They didn’t change the dressings this morning, though. I thought I’d take a look. Just to be safe.”
No answer.
“He didn’t talk to any of the other nurses,” Erin had said.
No answer, but he was letting her stay.
That had to count for something.
Mary reached for the gloves and the bandages she’d brought. Her movements were quiet, careful. “I’ll be gentle,” she promised, and slowly folded the blanket back from his side.
He didn’t speak — but he didn’t flinch either. She took it as permission.
The bruising had spread across his ribs in deep purples and sickly greens. But the skin was clean. No signs of infection. Still—so much pain, so much damage.
“Still tender?” she asked softly, watching his face.
His jaw clenched, but he didn’t answer.
She cleaned the skin with practiced care, then began wrapping fresh gauze in even, gentle passes. Her voice stayed low, calm, offering presence more than words.
“You’ve got a stubborn kind of quiet,” she murmured, half to herself. “Most boys your age would’ve asked for the TV remote by now.”
No reply. But he hadn’t pulled away. Hadn’t told her to stop. And when she glanced up, she saw that his eyes were open — just a sliver — watching her hands work.
Mary smiled, but said nothing about it. Just finished taping the bandage down and pulled the blanket back over him.
“All done,” she said. Then she hesitated — her hand resting on the edge of the bed, not touching, just steady. Offering something wordless. And then she spoke.
“We found a contact.”
The reaction was immediate.
He went pale, all the blood draining from his face. “No.”
He tried to sit up, the motion clearly painful, and Mary instinctively reached out but stopped herself short.
“They ran your description through the national database,” she said gently. “Your name isn’t Dylan, is it? It’s David. David Miller. You’ve been missing for two months. You have a younger brother, too — Tyler. Is that right?”
The boy’s breath caught. Paled further.
“They’ve contacted the foster family,” Mary continued. “They’ll be here soon. We can also try to locate your brother. You might know where he is, don’t you? I imagine he’s scared, too—”
“Family,” he spat, bitter.
Mary flinched inwardly, then softly said, “Your listed guardians.”
“Your system’s broken, Lady.” His voice cracked under the fury. “And I’d rather die than give up where my brother is. He’s safe. And he’s—he’s capable. He can take care of himself.”
He didn’t sound convinced.
“We didn’t need your help.” His voice was tight with fury, each word spit like it burned on the way out.
Mary let the silence sit for a moment, then said quietly, “I’ll give you some space.”
Then she stepped out and closed the door behind her.

Outside the room, the door clicked shut behind her. Mary stood still for a beat, pressing her palm to the wood.
She hadn't called the foster family.
Hospital protocol had. Automatically, the second the intake file matched.
But that didn’t matter to him.
And now he hated her.
She exhaled shakily and leaned back against the hallway wall, one hand rising to pinch the bridge of her nose. Her vision blurred, just slightly, just enough to sting.
They’d had cases like this before. Angry kids. Runaways. Broken bones and broken homes. She’d done this dance a dozen times.
It never got to her.
Not like this.
She didn’t know why. Couldn’t sort it out, really.
Maybe she wasn’t ready to lose another one.
Maybe it was the way he’d looked at her – like she had betrayed him.
“Hey.” A warm hand touched her arm.
She startled slightly and turned. Erin stood there, quiet and steady, reading her in that gentle way she always did.
“Didn’t go well?” she asked softly.
Mary shook her head, unable to form words. Her throat was thick.
“Take ten,” she said, nodding down the hall. “I’ll cover for you.”
She gave a grateful squeeze to her forearm and stepped away from the wall, swallowing hard.

---

Ten minutes later, the air outside had cooled her, calmed her — not enough, but a little. When she walked back into the ward, her eyes were clearer, but her heart still heavy.
And then she saw him.
John.
Leaning in the hallway just outside David’s room, shoulders stiff, hand on the doorknob like he was waiting for courage. A paper bag in his other hand.
She stopped in her tracks.
“Jesus, John,” she hissed under her breath, crossing to him fast. “What are you doing here?”
He looked at her, eyes tired. His hair was mussed, grease on his hands and sleeves.
“I just wanted to see if the kid was okay.”
“Visiting hours are over.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I had to work all day at the garage. I would’ve come sooner. Just… let me see him. Please.”
He raised the bag slightly, a small rustling sound. “I brought him something. Sweets. He seemed like a candy bar kind of kid.”
Mary opened her mouth to argue — but then she looked at him.
The tension in his jaw. The way his eyes softened when he said kid. The quiet guilt in his voice.
He wasn’t just being nosy. He meant it.
And damn it, he was still a very attractive man, even with the stubble and grease and tired eyes. Especially like this — raw, trying.
It really didn’t help that he was still John. She didn’t want to notice — not the way his hair curled slightly behind his ears, not the warmth in those tired brown eyes, not the quiet ache in the little smile he gave her. She wanted to tell him to leave. But she didn’t. Because even now, with grease on his hands and regret written all over his face, something in her still pulled toward him — still remembered how that dimple in his cheek used to mean home.
“Five minutes,” she said at last, voice low. “Then get lost. For good. Got it?”
John gave a faint smile.
“Got it.”
“He’s going to be picked up by his family anyway.”
He blinked. “You found the family?”
“Yeah,” she muttered, with a shrug that didn’t want to explain.
She turned away, not waiting for a follow-up. She couldn’t take another emotional conversation tonight.
Not with him.
Not when her chest still ached from the first one.
“Thank you,” John said as he slipped quietly into the room.
Mary turned to go, but movement in the hallway caught her eye — a woman speaking sharply to Erin, her expression tight, mouth set in a hard line. She looked agitated, impatient.
Not good.
Mary's stomach sank. She didn’t need to ask — she already knew.
The woman didn’t wait for directions. She marched straight toward room 220, heels clicking briskly against the linoleum, brushing past Mary without so much as a glance, let alone a knock.
Mary followed her in. She had a bad feeling about this.
The woman stank of smoke and stale liquor. Her hair was flat and greasy, lips thin, arms folded tight. Her makeup was smudged and her coat buttoned wrong.
“Well. There he is,” she said flatly. “Heard you got into trouble. Again. You’re nothing but a problem child. Always were.” She dropped a frayed backpack at the foot of the bed without even looking at the kid.
"There. All his stuff.", she said to no one in particular.
Mary blinked. "I thought you were here to take him home?"
The kid stared at the ceiling, silent, still.
“We’re not taking him back,” she added to Mary, as if he wasn't even in the room. “Talked to my husband. We’re done. He’s too much trouble. Too much everything. Boy’s a damn curse. Always stealing. Lying. Picking fights. No amount of money’s worth him. He’s not even worth the food he eats.”
Mary was frozen near the door, horror written across her face.
She looked at John who wore the same expression.
“His little brother, now he’s quiet,” the woman continued, voice shrill. “He could’ve had a chance. But this one,” she jerked her thumb towards the bed, “wouldn’t let him. Ruins everything. My husband tried to beat the nonsense out of him, over and over and over, but the boy’s like rubber. Nothing sticks. Like a damn cockroach.”
Mary sucked in a breath. “Ma’am, I—”
“He’s had eight families,” the woman interrupted. “Eight placements in ten years, and they all sent him back. Not one single family wanted to keep him. That should tell you something. He’s not worth anything. Better get rid of him now while you still can. And also – lose our number. We’re done with this one.”
The kid was still staring at the ceiling, expression locked, burning red with humiliation.
"He’s your problem now."
The woman left without another word, not once looking at the kid, the door slamming behind her. The backpack stayed on the floor.
The silence left behind was heavy. Mary bent down and picked it up. It was almost weightless.
She stared at the door.
“She didn’t mean it like that,” Mary said in shock.
“She did,” the kid said calm. “It’s fine.”
John wanted to say something. Anything. But he couldn’t find a single word.
The kid spoke first, voice hoarse but brittle with fury.
“Told you not to waste your time.” His voice was thin, bitter. “I told you there’s no one. No one that cares. So – what happens now?”
Mary’s reply was gentle, steady. “You’re still a minor. So is your brother. The state will find somewhere—”
“Oh, awesome,” the kid said, throwing his head back against the pillow with a dry laugh. “Can’t wait to meet the next pair of saints. Maybe this time, they’ll shove my head in a toilet just for variety.”
John winced. Mary looked down.
“I don’t want ‘somewhere’,” he snapped. “You think I’m exaggerating?” He barked a laugh, sharp. “You think what just happened was bad? She was one of the nicer ones. Just some slaps and a belt. Maybe a shove into a wall when they were drunk. That’s basically affectionate in foster care terms. You wanna know what the worse ones did?”
“David—” Mary started, heart breaking, but he didn’t stop.
“Try sleeping in a place where they stub cigarettes out on you when you screw up. Where they hurt your brother and your not able to stop it.” His voice cracked. “We were safer out there.”
She wanted to stay distant. Professional. But her chest ached.
“You shouldn’t have had to go through that. But it’s not my call, sweetheart. I can try to advocate for you two to stay together—”
“Try,” he echoed, like the word tasted bitter. Then his eyes widened. “They’re gonna split us up,” he said, very quietly.
Mary met his eyes, but said nothing. She just looked at the boy—skinny, bruised, exhausted. Gone was the smirking, smartass kid.
He stilled. Something in his posture shifted. He looked smaller now. More fragile.
“They can’t,” he whispered.
Mary didn’t answer. The silence was answer enough.
His breath hitched. Then he lunged forward and grabbed her sleeve, eyes wide and wild. “Please. Please, I’ll do anything. Don’t let them do that. I have to protect him. I am the only family he has left. He’s just a kid.”
His voice broke. And then he did too.
“I shouldn’t have grabbed the wallet,” he started sobbing. “We were fine. We had each other. Finally free. He was right. I shouldn’t have stolen it. And then you—” His eyes snapped to John, full of venom. “We were just fine until you showed up.”
John blinked, caught in it. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“All because of a damn photo. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.” He was rambling now, every word thick with panic and grief. “I can’t even run. I can’t protect him. I fucked it all up. I promised him. I promised.”
He choked, wiped his face roughly, then turned away.
“I hate you. Both of you. You were supposed to help.”
His voice was quieter now. A whisper.
“Not make everything worse. I thought you were different…” His eyes shifted to Mary, betrayal sharp in his gaze. “I thought you were better than the others.”
Then he turned to John. His face didn’t twist in anger—just something hollower. “And you. Keep your stupid sweets.”
He looked away, down. „Just go. Both of you.”

Outside the room, Mary paused.
She drew in a breath, trying to calm herself. John was standing next to her — just standing — like a man who didn’t know what to do with his hands or his past. He clutched the crumpled paper bag full of untouched sweets.
Part of Mary still hated him. Wanted to hate him.
But right now, watching the way his shoulders curled inward … She didn’t wish that kind of guilt on anyone.
Some old feeling stirred — deep and unwelcome. She had buried it a decade ago, or tried to.
Damn it, she thought.
“The coffee here is crap, but…” she offered quietly.
“Thanks,” John said, just as quiet.
She nodded toward a waiting chair. “I’ll be back.”
Ten minutes later, she returned with two coffees. Handed him one. Sat down beside him.
John took a sip and winced.
“Still better than the one you used to make,” Mary teased, then tensed.
That kind of familiarity didn’t belong here. Not anymore. Maybe not ever again.
John cleared his throat. “What happens to him now?”
She looked down at her cup. “He’s medically cleared. But they can’t discharge a minor without a safe release plan. His foster mom already said no.” She shook her head, her jaw tightening. “He’ll need a new placement. But there are complications. His injuries need consistent follow-ups, therapy… and not many homes can handle that. Especially not with a sibling in tow.”
John didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on the opposite wall. His fingers had gone white around the paper cup.
“The agency will try to keep them together,” Mary said, a little softer. “But the chances are … slim.”
Silence stretched between them.
“I should get back to my patients.” Mary stood slowly. “You can leave the cup when you’re done.”
She hesitated — just a second.
“Goodbye, John.”

Chapter Text

John felt utterly lost. Like he’d been thrown into a dark maze with no way out. What had he done in some past life to deserve this? Where had everything shattered so completely? His boys—his flesh and blood—had been missing for a decade. Maybe dead. The thought clung to him like a weight he could never shake. Mary—the woman he’d loved with everything—was gone too, the memories of what they had together nothing but echoes now. His garage was drowning in debt, a sinking ship he couldn’t bail out. The two-room apartment he called home was threadbare and crumbling, just enough to keep the rain out. His whole life was a mess, scattered and broken like shards of glass underfoot.
He thought about that one single day that has altered his life forever —how he wished he’d just pissed himself. Dean would’ve laughed—probably still would be here to tease his old man for it. Why hadn’t he just taken the kids with him to the bathroom? That question gnawed at him endlessly, a sharp ache beneath his ribs. He ran it over and over in his mind, looking for an answer that never came.

And now this kid—this broken kid—was caught in the wreckage of his life, too. All John had wanted was to get his photo back. But somehow he had nearly gotten the boy killed because of it. The look in that kid’s eyes still haunted him. The kid has been through the ringer, got beaten and beaten down over and over again but that hollow look – John put it there.
Mary still hated him. The kid, too, hated him. And John… he hated himself most of all.
He couldn’t undo the past or fix things. All he did was screw up—again and again.

John found himself lingering outside the hospital room near the nurse station, pacing like a man trapped in his own head. Minutes slipped by unnoticed. No one asked him to leave. No one pushed him forward. The hospital’s sterile lights hummed overhead as the weight of everything settled heavier and heavier on his shoulders.
Eventually he went home. Didn’t sleep. Just sat on the couch in the dark. Thinking.
First thing in the morning, he picked up the phone and waited. His heart thumping with a strange mix of fear and determination.

Mary had taken the day off. Not by choice, exactly. But yesterday, no one offered to swap shifts. Not even Victor would switch shifts with her this time. Everyone else acted the same. No offers, no trades, no loopholes. Her colleagues made it very clear: this time, she was really taking the day off. Not thinking about the kid. Not doing anything at all but rest.
A quiet, unspoken consensus: she really needed to stay away. And so she did.
She had stayed in bed, the blinds drawn tight against the sun. She had cried—ugly, silent crying that left her throat raw and her chest aching. She cried for her lost boys, for the man she used to love, for the kid. For everything that had gone so wrong, and everything she couldn’t fix.

The next morning, she returned to the hospital coffee in hand, jaw tight with effort. Her scrubs were spotless. Her hair pulled back with surgical precision. Her expression unreadable, practiced.
Mary saw Claire in the hallway near the stairwell, her arms full of chart folders. Claire spotted her and immediately looked away, suddenly deeply invested in the peeling corner of a noticeboard.
Mary didn’t push. She walked up slow, steady, pretending not to notice. “How was the shift yesterday? Everything quiet?” she asked, casual like they were just two coworkers passing time. She wasn’t sure which of them she was fooling less.

Claire’s mouth tightened. She shifted her folders to one arm and ran a hand through her hair.
Claire hesitated, then sighed, not quite looking at her. “You mean with the kid, don’t you?”
Mary didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
“Didn’t eat all day yesterday. Just… refused. Brenda floated the idea of a feeding tube if it doesn’t change soon. Fluids are still going through the IV, but… he just lay there, Mary. All day. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t even flinch. Just stared at the ceiling.”
Mary's throat closed, but she kept her face still.
Claire looked at her now, eyes heavy. “Still wouldn’t talk about his brother’s whereabouts. Wouldn’t let anyone touch him. Blood pressure, bandage checks—he trashed. Screamed until his voice gave out. And then… he just stopped. Just shut down. Wouldn’t look at anyone, wouldn’t talk.”
“Jesus,” Mary whispered.
“Victor tried,” Claire added. “He really tried. You know how patient he is.”
Mary nodded slowly. “He’s the most patient nurse I know.”
Claire gave a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Well. Even he gave up. Joked about wheeling the bed onto the roof, see if the fresh air does something.”
Mary’s eyes snapped to her. Claire raised a hand quickly.
“It was a joke. Bad one. But everyone’s fried. They were literally drawing straws to see who’d go in next.”
Mary swallowed hard, eyes stinging.
Claire hesitated again. “Brenda took you off the case.”
Mary blinked. “What?”
“She gave you the diabetic kid in 201. Eight years old. Sweet kid. Nice family.”
Mary stared ahead, everything inside her going very still. Her voice, when it came, was cool and clinical. “What’s his name?”
“Aaron.”
“Aaron it is, then,” Mary said. But her voice lacked everything now—warmth, weight, care. It was just noise now.

Dean hadn’t slept that night too well either.
His body ached in too many places to count, but none of that mattered. Not when Sam was still out there, cold and alone. Dean lay in a hospital bed, warm, medicated, patched up—while Sam had nothing but the thin blanket in the backseat of the car. If he hadn’t found the emergency cash Dean stashed in the glove box, he might not even have eaten.
The guilt pressed down harder than the pain ever could.
He hadn’t touched the food they brought him. Wouldn’t. Not while Sammy was still out there, hungry. Vulnerable. Lost. Sammy didn’t even know about his brother’s whereabouts. Maybe kept hoping every night that Dean would finally come back? Wondering if his brother was in prison? Alive?

Time was running out. Dean couldn’t run—not like this, not with bandages tight across his ribs and stitches pulling at his skin. Arm broken. But he also couldn’t wait much longer.

They would separate them.
And Dean wouldn’t be there to protect his brother.
He’d seen it before—had lived it. The last time he was stuck in a hospital, getting his appendix out, Sam had been left alone with a foster dad who’d pushed him down the stairs for not taking out the garbage fast enough. And that memory—Sam’s pale face, the sling on his arm, the way he tried to smile through it—had branded itself into Dean’s bones.
He couldn’t let that happen ever again.
So far, they’d been lucky. No one had crossed a line they couldn’t come back from. Just belts, slaps, angry hands. And Dean had always stepped in first. He’d taken the hits. Protected Sam from what he could.
But he couldn’t shield him from this. Not from what came next. Not from the system. Dean’s throat felt tight. His chest even tighter. He knew he was playing for time. But it was hopeless.
They weren’t going to find some miracle foster family in the next hours who’d take both of them—who’d keep them together, who’d understand. That was a fantasy. And Dean didn’t have time for fantasies.
He had to make a choice. Soon. A real one.
Stay here and keep hoping.
Or give them Sam. And pray to God he’d survive without him.

He knew what the right decision was. Had known for hours—maybe days. But knowing didn’t make it easier. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not yet.
Still, time was running out.
Tears slipped down his cheeks before he even noticed, hot and quiet. He scrubbed them away with the heel of his hand, drew in a single, shaky breath.
Please forgive me, Sammy.

Mary didn’t sit with the others during break.
She grabbed a tea she didn’t want and took it to the quiet alcove near the vending machines—technically not even a real break area, just a forgotten corner with bad lighting and a single cracked chair. She didn’t touch the tea. Just sat there, hunched over, elbows on her knees, eyes fixed on the floor tiles like they were going to rearrange themselves into answers.
A few nurses passed by. No one stopped. It was the kind of silence that came not from carelessness, but from a collective understanding: let her be.
When her break ended, Mary returned to the ward. Her steps were steady, purposeful, but her insides still felt like glass.
Erin later caught sight of her near the nurses’ station. “Hey, Mary—can we talk?”
Something in her voice made Mary’s stomach twist.
“They found someone,” Erin said quietly, leading her a step aside, away from passing ears. “For the kid. Temporary. Until a long-term placement is found. For both boys.”
Mary’s brow furrowed.
“Wow, that is … faster than expected.”
“Yeah…”
“What is it?”, Mary asked her friend.
“John…,” Erin said softly. “He signed the papers. Emergency custody. Just so they’re together. So the kid gets his follow-ups. He already agreed to a background check, social worker visits. Full cooperation. Spare room for both boys, car to get the kid to his appointments. Brenda got a call from him first thing yesterday morning. She wasn’t too convinced at first – he is no foster dad. But she made the calls anyway. Couldn’t hurt to try.”
Erin hesitated. “When the kid outright refused food… and medical attention… Given the urgency, … Brenda thinks they might consider it.”
Her breath caught, but her face didn’t move.
She just stood there, quiet, while something deep inside her shifted—too soft to name yet, but too loud to ignore.

Mary stood in the staff room, heart thudding.
She went through the file. There it was. The contact sheet. Brenda really did love her paperwork.
John Winchester. Emergency applicant.
His number stared up at her like a dare.
Her fingers hovered for a moment before she tapped the call icon.
Two beats. The he picked up.
“Hello. This is John Winchester.”
Mary didn’t waste time.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, John?”
A pause.
Then: “…Mary.”
Her voice dropped, low and sharp. “You couldn’t even take care of your own sons. You left a five years old to look after a baby. What kind of father does that? Who in God's name thinks that’s okay?”
John said nothing.
She pressed harder, voice shaking now. “What makes you think this time will be any different? What if you get these boys hurt too?”
That landed. She could feel it in the silence that followed. Could almost hear him pulling in a breath through his teeth.
When he did speak, it was clipped, furious, but quieter than before.
“Don’t twist this. This isn’t about our past, Mary.”
She let out a bitter breath. “Like hell it isn’t.”
His voice hardened and he almost spat the words. “We’re divorced. This isn’t your decision. I don’t need your blessing.”
Mary stared ahead, blinking. Her heart pounded so hard it ached.
He wasn’t yelling.
He wasn’t apologizing.
He was just… resolute. Stubborn. Like always.
John went on. “He’s lying in that hospital bed with nowhere to go. They don’t have anybody else. You think I can live with myself if they get split up? You think I’m doing this because I want to play dad again? I’m doing this because there’s no one else. And you know it as well as I do—the kid would fall apart if they separate them.”
Then, quietly: “I’m not asking for redemption, Mary. I am beyond redemption… And I can’t change what happened to our boys, but I can change what happens to these ones.”
He paused. Just for a second.
“It is up to the state to decide if I’m suitable.”
And then—he hung up.
Mary lowered the phone slowly, her hand trembling.
She just stood there, alone in the quiet, the weight of everything they had lost pressing down on her chest like a fist.

The approval came faster than anyone expected.
By late afternoon, the call arrived. CPS had cleared the emergency placement — background check passed, preliminary home visit waived due to urgency. A provisional custody order had been signed by a judge. It was official.
A social worker knocked gently and stepped into Dean’s hospital room.
“David?” she said softly.
He didn’t answer. His arms were crossed, jaw tight, eyes wary and unreadable as he stared at her.
“We’ve found a place for you,” she said carefully. “For both of you. You and your brother.”
That got a reaction. Dean sat up straighter, eyes sharp and calculating.
“Both of us?” His voice was skeptical, cautious.
She nodded. “Yes. You’ll be placed together. Temporary custody has been approved. It’s not permanent, but it keeps you together now.”
Dean exhaled slowly. His shoulders dropped just a fraction. He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers like testing if they still belonged to him.
“This isn’t some trick to get to know where he is, is it?”
The social worker offered a small, sad smile.
“No. It’s not.”
Dean’s gaze snapped back up, voice low and firm. “I want that in writing.”
She nodded. “You’ll get it.”
“What’s their name?” he asked.
The social worker hesitated briefly. “John Winchester… From what I understand, you two have quite a history”, she added with a smile.
Dean didn’t flinch. Just blinked. Took that in. And then – blushed just a little.
“Okay,” he said flatly. No panic, no relief. Just a quiet, final acceptance.

A little while later, the door opened again.
John stepped inside, cleaner than usual — jeans pressed, boots wiped. He paused just inside the room like he wasn’t sure if he should come further. The light caught the lines on his face, making him look older, heavier.
Dean stayed still, silent, eyes downcast.
John gave a brief nod. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
John had already signed the discharge papers. Erin was there, too. Handed him a schedule for follow-ups, a bottle of painkillers, and clear instructions on when and how to give them. John listened intently, committing everything to memory.
They packed Dean’s few belongings in silence. The bag zipped closed with a sharp hiss. Dean pulled on a hoodie that wasn’t his, a hospital donation. John swung the bag over his shoulder.
Then he held the door.
Dean passed him without a word.

Mary stood waiting in the hallway, tense, unsure if she was allowed to say goodbye.
Dean looked at her. Hesitated. Then –
“Thanks for taking care of me. I know I didn’t make it easy,” he said sincerely.
She was taken aback by his rare kindness.
“It was no trouble,” she said quietly.
“Right,” Dean smirked. “Still… Thanks for not putting my bed on the roof.”
“Never even considered it.”
“Well, the other nurses definitely did.”
Mary grinned. “Yeah, well… from what I’ve heard, it wouldn’t have been entirely unjustified.”
Dean gave a lopsided smile. “Can’t help it. It’s part of my charm.”
She tilted her head. “You gonna be okay?”
He nodded.
“Alright. Then there’s only one thing left to say, young man: no more jumping in front of cars—no matter how cool it looks in the movies.”
“Yes, Mom,” Dean said with a crooked smirk.
She froze. Something flickered across Mary’s face—quick, complicated.
“Sorry, I didn’t –,” he said immediately, voice quieter.
Mary waved it off gently, smiling through it. “Of all the things you’ve said to me, that’s the one you apologize for?”
Dean gave a small shrug.
Mary looked past him to John, who was standing just out of the way, silent and unreadable.
“You and your brother,” she said gently, “you’ll be okay. I know John and I... we didn’t always see eye to eye. But he’s a good man. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”
Dean gave a small nod. It wasn’t like he had much say in any of it—but still, he knew it could’ve gone a hell of a lot worse.
John finally stirred, eyes on the kid beside him.
“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s go pick up your brother. I bet he’s dying to see you.”
Mary and John exchanged a brief look, but no words passed between them.

Chapter Text

Dean walked behind John toward the black car parked at the curb. One look, and he gave a low whistle.
“That yours?”
John only grunted.
Dean grinned faintly. “Chevy Impala. ’67, right? V8 engine, 327 small-block, probably a four-barrel carb if you’ve kept her mean.”
That made John glance over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Yeah… that’s right.”
Dean shrugged. “I know a little. Real cool ride! Haven’t seen one in years.”
John didn’t say anything at first, just looked at him a beat too long. His jaw shifted like he was holding something back.
As they got closer, John muttered, “Yeah, I know. Bit rusty. Bit old, but—”
“But what? It’s the perfect car!” Dean cut in. “You could fit a body in the trunk.”
John snorted. “Any plans I should know about?”
“Nothing concrete yet,” Dean said, deadpan. “But for the record—I will not hesitate to stab you if you make a wrong move.”
John huffed—dry, amused. “Guess I should’ve read the fine print, huh?”
Dean smirked and didn’t answer.

They got in.
Dean sank into the passenger seat carefully, holding his side. The old leather groaned beneath him. He gave directions—brief, tight-lipped. Left here. Keep going. Next right.
His fingers tapped lightly against the dashboard. Not loud. Just steady. Nervous energy looking for somewhere to go.
John glanced at him, then at the car in the rearview.
“CPS is right behind us,” he said quietly. “They’ll want eyes on your brother before they let either of you stay with me. Just a quick check at the hospital, that’s all. Then we head to my place.”
Dean nodded without looking up.
John added, “You alright?”
“Fine,” Dean muttered.
His fingers didn’t stop tapping.

They pulled into the salvage yard a few minutes later. Rusted-out cars sagged in rows, skeletons under the heavy gray sky. A busted neon sign buzzed faintly overhead.
“This is it,” Dean said.
He got out slowly, clutching his side as he walked. He approached the old car, quiet, cautious.
The moment he came into view, the door of a blue Ford Escort flung open.
“You’re back!”
The voice cracked like a whip. A blur of motion—skinny limbs, too-big hoodie, sneakers flapping—Sam tore across the cracked pavement like the world might end if he didn’t reach his brother in time.
Dean walked slowly to meet him, bracing his side.
Sam crashed into him.
“Oof—careful,” Dean managed, stumbling back with a laugh that came out more breath than sound. “I have a broken arm, munchkin. Go easy.”
But Sam wasn’t smiling. Tears streaked his cheeks.
He clung to Dean like he couldn’t tell what was real. His face burrowed into Dean’s chest, fists clenched at his sides, his small shoulders trembling with every breath.
“You were gone,” he choked. “Three whole days. You told me to run and hide. But you just didn’t come back.”
“I thought you were dead,” he added, voice muffled. “You didn’t come. You always come!”
Dean swallowed hard. He wrapped his one good arm around Sam, holding him as tight as he dared.
“I know, munchkin. I’m sorry. I’m here now, okay? I’m here.”
Sam pulled back just enough to glare up at him, eyes red and wet. “What happened?”
Dean hesitated, then gave it to him straight. “Car clipped me. Pretty bad. Cracked ribs, busted arm. Hospital.”
Sam looked scared, then slowly nodded, tears still falling. He shoved his face back into Dean’s shirt and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “Don’t do that again.”
Dean kissed the top of his head. “Deal.”

Behind them, John had gotten out of the car, standing next to the CPS caseworker, who cleared her throat gently.
Dean glanced over, still holding onto Sam.
“Karen got to the hospital,” he explained. “Said they wouldn’t take us back in... So, CPS is looking for another placement. Till then – temporary custody’s been granted. Paperwork’s signed. You’re getting checked out at a hospital first—just routine—and then we’re going with him.”
Dean nodded toward John.
Sam hadn’t noticed him until now. His eyes widened.
He stiffened a little, then looked over at the man standing awkwardly by the car.
“Him? The guy from the alley? Are we in trouble? Are you in trouble?”
“Well, he chased me into traffic, so I guess we’re even?”
Sam still looked confused.
“Later, okay?” Dean said. “I’ll answer all your questions—even if there’s a thousand. Like usual.”
Sam boxed Dean’s side lightly in protest.
John raised a hand in a stiff wave. “Hey, Tyler.”
Dean nudged him gently. “He’s rough around the edges. But… I think he means it.”
Sam waved back, uncertain but willing to try.

At the hospital, everything checked out fine. Sam was a little dehydrated but otherwise healthy — he’d found the emergency cash Dean had stashed. With the paperwork cleared and no objections from CPS, they were cleared to leave with John.

John opened the door to a small apartment on the second floor of an old building. The apartment was small, lived-in, but clean and warm. He gave a quick, awkward tour — pointed down the hall. “Bathroom’s there. Towels are in the cabinet. Shower’s kind of busted — water pressure’s moody, but if you twist the knob halfway and wait ten seconds, it works fine.”
He motioned toward the kitchen. “Fridge is open game. If you’re hungry, take whatever you want, whenever.”
Then he led them to the small spare room. A worn couch was pushed against one wall, a couple of blankets folded neatly on top. “Guest room, I guess. Not much, but it’s yours.”
He stepped over to the dresser in the corner, tugged open a drawer. “Cleared a few of these out. You can put your stuff in here.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. Sam looked down at his shoes.
Right. They didn’t really have stuff.
John seemed to register it a beat late. “We’ll go get clothes tomorrow,” he added quietly. “Whatever you need.”
Then, John cleared his throat. “You guys hungry? I am starving.”
Dean glanced at Sam, then shrugged. “Sure.”
“What do you want to eat?”
Dean shrugged again. Sam didn’t even look up.
“Anything is fine”, Dean said casually.
It hit John like a punch—this silent rhythm between them. How Dean answered for both. How they both looked at him like they were waiting for the moment to turn dangerous. Like it usually did.
“You can pick,” John said.
Dean’s eyes flicked up. “Anything?”
John smiled faintly. “Sure. Maybe not caviar. Got robbed a month ago… Everything else is fair game.”
Dean huffed, almost amused. “Can we get pizza?”
“Yeah. What toppings?”
Dean glanced at Sam again. “Ham.”
John tilted his head. “Both of you?”
Dean shrugged. “Yeah. We share.”
John blinked. Then frowned. Shook his head. “You don’t have to share your dinner. I can buy two pizzas. One for each of you. So—what’s it gonna be?”
Dean looked confused, like the words didn’t quite compute. Then slowly, something in his face shifted.
“I like pepperoni,” he said. “Sa - Tyler… Tyler likes ham. And mushrooms. That okay?”
John nodded. “That’s fine.”
He ordered three pizzas—Dean’s, Sam’s, and a Hawaiian for himself.

When the food arrived, Dean opened the boxes and grabbed a slice immediately. Sam ate more slowly, sitting on the floor near the coffee table, still quiet but focused on his own pizza.
John settled on the couch and took a bite of his pineapple-covered slice.
Dean gave him a look.
John raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Dean pointed at the slice. “That’s not a pizza. That’s a crime.”
John grinned. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”
Dean shook his head, mock-serious. “Fruit does not belong on pizza. That’s, like, a rule.”
Sam let out a tiny snort. Dean shot him a quick grin.
The tension thawed just a little. Not much. But enough.

After the pizza boxes were cleared away and the TV had long gone to static, the boys got ready for bed. While the boys were in the bathroom brushing their teeth, John moved around the living room, shutting off lights, locking the door.
Then he walked into his own room and got an old t-shirt from his dresser. Worn, soft, a little stretched out. One of his favorites from a few years back — now too small for him, but not for Dean. He laid it across the arm of the couch where the boys would sleep.
When the boys came out of the bathroom, they both noticed it right away.
John cleared his throat. “Might be easier with the cast,” he said. “It’s mine. Bit looser.”
Dean didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over and picked it up.
Then a quiet, almost imperceptible nod.
Sam stepped in silently, helping him ease it over his head without jostling the cast.
Dean let him, jaw tight, eyes down – still not used to needing anyone.
John wished them a good night and left the door open just a sliver.

Later, when the apartment was dark and quiet, John passed by the room. The door was still cracked open.
Dean lay on his back, arm in the sling, the other wrapped carefully around Sam’s shoulders.
Sam’s head rested on Dean’s chest, and Dean was whispering something low. Soft reassurances.
“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll always come back for you. You’re safe. I got you.”
His voice was low but sure—one of those promises you make with your whole body, not just your words. John stood in the hall a moment longer, listening. That was a grown man’s promise, spoken in a boy’s voice.
It landed like a stone in his chest.
Then he turned away, quietly.

Chapter Text

Dean woke to Sam’s arm slung across his stomach and pale light bleeding in through the window.
The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
He sat up. His ribs twinged and his arm ached, but he pushed through the pain and stood, glancing toward the living room.
No John.
His heart kicked up. Did he ditch them?
Then—click. The front door opened a heartbeat later. John stepped in, arms full: two plastic bags and a paper sack tucked under one arm.
Dean let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“Morning,” John said casually. “Didn’t know what you like, so I quickly grabbed a few options. Also got sandwich stuff, and juice for lunch later.”
He dropped the bags on the counter. Dean stepped closer and blinked at the pile of cereal boxes—Froot Loops, Cheerios, something chocolatey, and one suspicious-looking off-brand mystery cereal.
Dean smirked, cocking his head slightly as he leaned against the counter.
“Why didn’t you just buy the whole supermarket?”
John grinned. “Told you last night—someone swiped 53 bucks from me. Now I’m broke.”
Dean actually chuckled. Not much, but enough to make something ease behind John’s ribs. Maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t screwing this up entirely.
“I’m gonna run a quick shower,” John said, reaching for a mug. “Then we’ll head to your appointment, alright?”
Dean gave a short nod, still watching him like he wasn’t entirely convinced this was real—but it was the most relaxed he’d looked yet.
Right then, Sam padded out, sleep-mussed and bleary-eyed, already making a beeline for the Froot Loops. Dean reached over, opened the cupboard, and wordlessly passed him a bowl, then got one for himself. The younger kid was grinning like they have just won the lottery. The elder kid, too, smiled.
John stayed for a moment longer, then stepped into the bathroom.
The water was hot, steam rising fast. He let it pound over his shoulders, running a hand down his face.
Just as John turned off the shower he heard something small and sharp hit the floor. A muted crack. Then silence.
When he stepped into the kitchen, he froze.
Dean was crouched low, one knee on the ground, carefully collecting shards of glass into a little pile with his good hand. His mouth was tight, lips pressed into a thin line. Sam stood behind him—wide-eyed, still.
“What happened?”
Neither of them answered. Dean didn’t look up.
John stepped closer.
Dean finally lifted his head. His face was calm. Too calm.
“I broke it,” he said evenly.
Then he stood—slow, deliberate—and something in his posture shifted. He tensed, shoulders bracing like he was expecting the blow to come any second. His jaw clenched, but his eyes stayed locked on John.
Before John could get a word out, Sam darted forward and planted himself in front of Dean, arms spread wide like a shield.
“He’s lying!” Sam shouted. “I did it. I knocked it over. He’s just saying that to protect me. Please—please don’t be mad at him! I am sorry. I’ll be more careful next time, I promise!”
John blinked.
It was just a drinking glass. Some old thing from the dollar store.
But these two—one frozen and waiting for pain, the other leaping in like it might save a life—acted like it was something so much worse – like it was life or death.
John’s voice softened.
“It’s just a glass, okay? No big deal. Leave it. I’ll clean it up.”
Dean didn’t move. He just watched him, wary. Waiting for the twist.
Sam looked up at his brother—confused, but visibly relieved.
John exhaled slowly, grabbed the dustpan from under the sink, and knelt down. The shards made a soft clicking sound as he brushed them together.
Behind him, both boys silently sat down at the table again, as if nothing had happened.
The only sound was the faint clink of broken glass and John’s own heartbeat thudding too loud in his ears.
After a moment, he stood, dustpan in hand.
"Alright. Shoes on, both of you," he said, not looking at them. "We’ll be late for the appointment."

The hospital waiting room was too white and too quiet, the kind of silence that made people whisper without knowing why.
Dean had disappeared behind the double doors with a nurse, his broken arm bound tightly to his ribs.
John sat down stiffly in one of the plastic chairs. Sam took a seat two spots away, arms crossed, eyes locked on the floor.
John glanced over. Tried.
“So… you like cartoons?”
Sam didn’t answer. Just gave a tiny shrug. Not even a real one—barely enough movement to count.
John cleared his throat.
“Tom and Jerry? Looney Tunes? You and your brother watch anything lately?”
Sam barely looked up. “We don’t watch much.”
John rubbed the back of his neck. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above them.
Then—footsteps behind him. A familiar presence.
He looked up.
“Hey,” Mary said.
“Hey.” John’s tone was neutral, but something flickered under the surface.
Mary then looked at Sam. “And you must be Tyler, right?”
Sam gave a small nod.
“I’ve heard a lot about you. All only the best,” she added with a warm smile.
Sam’s ears turned a little pink.
Mary went on, gently, like she hadn’t noticed. “It’s really nice to meet you. I’m Mary—I took care of David after his car accident.”
She looked back to John, voice light but pointed. “How’s it going?”
“They’re still alive,” John said. “If that’s what you’re aiming for.”
Mary didn’t flinch. Just nodded. “Good.”
The kind of good that meant: I didn’t come to fight. But don’t push me.
Silence settled again—thicker now. Sam’s eyes flicked between them, but he stayed quiet, smaller in his seat.
Then a voice broke the moment.
“Mary? You assigned to this floor today?”
A tall guy in scrubs passed by, surprised and smiling.
Mary turned quickly. “Oh—yeah, no, just…” She gave a soft, practiced laugh. “Just grabbing something.”
The guy nodded, already moving. “Alright. See you around.”
Mary waved after him. When she turned back, her eyes flicked—briefly—to Sam, the door. Then to John.
John caught the look.
This wasn’t about charts.
She’d come for the boys.
Mary stood a second longer, clearly hesitating. Then said softly, “Tell him I said hi, okay?”
John nodded, stiff. “Sure.” Then, eyes narrowing slightly, he added, “Or you tell him yourself?”
The door creaked open the very same moment, and Dean stepped out —his arm back in a sling, jaw tight the way it always was when he was holding back pain. His movements were slow, careful.
John stood. “Everything good?”
Dean nodded. “Said it’s healing okay.”
His eyes shifted to Sam. “Hey, you good?”
Sam slid off the chair without a word and moved straight to Dean’s side, brushing his fingers lightly against Dean’s—like he needed to make sure he was really there. He didn’t speak.
John watched them. Still that silent code between them. Still that automatic closeness.
Dean’s eyes then landed on Mary.
She stepped forward, offering a soft smile. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Dean said softly.
“How are you doing?” she asked. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. More or less,” he shrugged.
John blinked. That last part landed somewhere deep in his ribs. But before he could respond, Dean added dryly, “Dude thinks Hawaiian pizza is actual pizza.”
John let out a surprised breath of laughter, the corner of his mouth twitching. Mary chuckled softly.
“That’s it,” she said. “I’m calling Child Protective Services.”
Dean grinned. So did Sam.
John gave them all a mock death glare—but he didn’t stop smiling.

The next morning, their caseworker Amanda Harris stopped by for a routine check. She greeted them with a practiced smile, clipboard in hand. She asked the usual questions.
Sam rambled excitedly about all the cereal John had bought for them, about how they could grab snacks from the fridge whenever they wanted.
Dean was quieter. He answered politely, short and to the point.
She seemed satisfied.
Every visit went more or less the same after that.
She ticked her boxes, smiled, and moved on.
Same with the hospital check-ins. Everything looked fine.
Until it didn’t.

Two days later, John caught their voices through the cracked bedroom door.
Sam’s was quick, insistent: a hiss of something that sounded like “you should tell—”
Dean’s reply was quiet. That stubborn edge in his voice—the one John was starting to recognize—audible. “I can handle it.”
John frowned.
He gave it a beat, then knocked lightly and pushed the door just enough to lean his head in.
“Everything okay?” he asked, keeping his voice casual—just a touch of suspicion beneath it.
Dean turned, cool and unreadable. “Peachy,” he said.
John held his gaze a second longer, waiting for the real answer.
It didn’t come.
Dean’s expression stayed still. Carefully blank.
John nodded slowly. “Right. Peachy.”
He stepped back, closed the door behind him.
He let it go.
For now.

He didn’t have to wait too long for an answer though. The very next morning, Dean shuffled into the kitchen, pale and clammy, his skin damp with sweat. He leaned against the counter, panting like he’d just run a mile. He didn’t flinch when John pressed a hand to his forehead — just blinked slowly, unfocused.
“Jesus, kid…” John muttered. “Alright. Couch. Fluids. Rest. That’s the deal.”
Dean didn’t argue. He barely registered it.
The day passed in a haze. Dean mostly slept. When he was awake, he stared at the TV without really seeing it, eyes glassy. By nightfall, he was burning up. His cheeks flushed red, hair plastered to his forehead, breaths short and shallow.
John crouched beside him. “Hey, sport?”
Dean blinked at him slowly, lips dry. Didn’t speak. Didn’t look too good.
“Alright,” John said, standing. “Get dressed, boys. We’re going to the hospital.”
A small shake of the head. Barely there — but firm.
“No hospital,” Dean croaked. Voice rough, barely audible, but stubborn.
John scrubbed a hand down his face. “Great. Coherent enough to argue. That’s just fantastic.”
He didn’t want to push him. But he looked awful. Worse than before.
John let out a slow breath, then crouched again — softer this time.
“Look, I’m not gonna drag you anywhere if you aren’t okay with it, alright? But I am getting help.”
Dean just blinked at him, then nodded carefully.
John grabbed his phone, thumb hovering a second before dialing. Still knew the number by heart. It got picked up almost immediately.
“Mary. It’s me.”
A beat of silence.
“Everything okay?”
“David’s got a fever. It’s rising. I don’t have any Tylenol here, and I don’t want to leave the boys alone. He’s rejecting the hospital like it’s a damn death sentence.”
“Probably scared he has to stay there without his brother”, Mary sighed. “I’m on my way, John. I’ll bring what I can. Just keep him cool.”
In the living room, Dean gave a quiet cough. Sam sat on the arm of the couch, watching him, small and worried.

Mary arrived quickly, carrying a bag, her hair pulled back, eyes sharp and focused. She settled beside Dean. Gently touched the kid’s forehead.
“Sweetheart,” she whispered, “you need to take some medicine, so you get well soon, alright?”
Dean hesitated, then nodded, lips barely parting. Mary helped him swallow the medicine, propping him up with a gentle hand. She rubbed his back, soothing him, telling him it was okay—that he was safe.
John watched from the kitchen, gripping the edge of the counter.
Sam sat nearby, eyes locked on his brother, never more than a foot away.
John had brought the towels, wrapping cool cloths around Dean’s legs while Mary gently brushed damp strands of hair from his forehead.
She was so tender. So calm.
The way her fingers moved through his hair, the way Dean blinked at her with glassy, unfocused eyes—
It ached. God, it ached—because they both remembered what it was like to parent. Remembered their Sammy making those happy squeaking sounds, Dean in footie pajamas, remembered Mary humming lullabies in the dark. John wrestling on the floor with Dean, both of them laughing until they couldn’t breathe.
Their eyes met for just a moment.
They had been robbed of this. All of it.

Mary offered to stay the night. They could take shifts.
John opened his mouth to say he’d manage but the look in her eyes stopped him. Quiet. Earnest. A kind of plea she didn’t voice aloud.
So he nodded. Told her to take the bed. He’d take the couch.
The apartment settled into an uneasy hush, like the calm before a storm.
Then the storm came.
Screams tore through the dark.
“No! Don’t—please don’t!”
John bolted upright. Mary was already at the bedroom door.
Inside, Dean thrashed beneath the blankets, soaked in sweat, face twisted in fear. His eyes were shut tight, caught deep in whatever nightmare had its claws in him.
“David!” Mary rushed to his side. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. It’s just a dream.”
But he didn’t hear her.
“Please! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—please don’t—”
Sam was already there, kneeling by the bed, gently shaking his brother. “Please wake up.”
Dean’s face was flushed, limbs jerking. His body was burning. Mary touched his forehead and gasped. “He’s burning up. The meds aren’t working.”
She turned sharply to John. “Fill the tub. Cold water. Ice if you have it.”
He didn’t argue. Just ran.
The bathroom roared to life as he twisted the tap full-blast, dumping every ice cube they had into the rising water.
Back in the bedroom, Dean was spiraling. Fevered. Half-lost.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered, clutching blindly at John’s arm as they tried to lift him. “We didn’t mean to break the glass. I swear. I’m sorry for being rude all the time—I didn’t mean it—please don’t be mad.”
John felt something twist in his chest.
They got him to the tub, but Dean fought. Weak as he was, he still kicked and writhed, crying out as they tried to ease him in. The cast didn’t help.
“You’re safe now,” Mary whispered, her voice thick. “It’s okay. You’re not in trouble.”
But Dean didn’t hear her.
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—please! I’ll be good—”
His voice broke on the last word.
And then—without a word—Sam peeled off his shirt, stepped into the tub, and climbed in behind him.
He wrapped his arms around Dean from behind, holding him steady as the freezing water swallowed them both.
Dean blinked, dazed. Disoriented. But the panic started to slow.
John’s breath caught.
“I’m here,” Sam murmured, pressing his forehead to Dean’s damp shoulder. “We’re okay. This isn’t punishment. I promise. You’re safe.”
Dean trembled. Then sagged back against him, sobbing softly, his cheek pressed to Sam’s collarbone.
Mary reached for a towel, her hand trembling. Wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of it.
John couldn’t move.
They had each other.
And they had never seen anything so painful—or so impossibly precious—in his entire life.

Morning came slowly, dragging pale light across the apartment’s worn walls.
The fever had finally broken.
Dean was dry now, though his hair still clung damp to his forehead. The shadows under his eyes had only deepened, carving out a tiredness too old for his age. He sat hunched on the edge of the pull-out bed, shoulders curved inward, staring at nothing.
Mary stood a few feet away, arms loosely folded. She didn’t crowd him—just watched, her voice gentle.
“You feeling better? You really scared us last night, sweetheart.”
Dean didn’t answer. Didn’t even look up. His fingers worked at the seam of the blanket, slow and aimless.
She didn’t push. Just stayed close, quiet.
It was Sam who finally broke the silence.
“…What is that smell?”
From the kitchen came the unmistakable hiss of something burning.
John, apronless and determined, was making breakfast.
Smoke curled up from the frying pan, and a second later, the fire alarm screamed into life.
Dean snorted without lifting his head.
John cursed under his breath, waving a towel wildly at the alarm until it stopped screeching. Then he tried again—this time, toast.
Golden. Not burnt. Miraculously edible.
He held it up like a trophy.
Both boys snorted. Mary just shook her head, smiling into her coffee cup.
John placed the toast in front of the boys with a dramatic flourish, earning a slow eye-roll from Dean and a small, reluctant smile from Sam.
Mary refilled her mug and took a seat at the small kitchen table. Steam curled from the rim as she wrapped her hands around it, watching the boys pick at their plates.
Then—something caught her eye. Half-hidden on the cluttered counter behind John, wedged between a stack of unopened mail and a mug gone dry, was a paperback. The cover was creased, the corners softened from handling: Parenting Teens Without Losing Your Mind.
It had clearly been thumbed through more than once.
Her gaze lingered.
She didn’t mention it. Just took another sip of coffee, a faint smile touching her lips as she turned back to the boys.
Dean was still pale. Still quiet. But he was eating now. Not much—but enough. Mary’s expression softened slightly.

Chapter Text

Sunlight filtered through the blinds as the boys got ready. Sam was buzzing with energy, practically bouncing as he zipped up his new backpack – bright blue, covered in little rockets and planets, and he wore it like a badge of honor.
Dean stood by the door, face tight with displeasure. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, heavy and worn, the world clearly ending in his eyes.
“We didn’t go for two months,” Dean muttered darkly, dragging the strap. “No one cared. The world moved on without us.”
John rolled his eyes, a small smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“Welcome to the new chapter, kid. No going back now—time to show this place what you’re made of.”
Dean shot him a look.
Sam grinned, bouncing on his toes.
“Come on! It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”

***

The principal’s office smelled like old paper and polished wood. The woman behind the desk was all smiles — but her enthusiasm clearly favored one file over the other.
She flipped through Sam’s papers with a sparkle in her eye.
“Well, Tyler’s records are very impressive. Excellent attendance before the break, glowing teacher notes… We’re lucky to have him here.”
Then her smile faltered as she pulled out Dean’s thick file. It was bulging with notes, reports, and warnings.
“David…,” she said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Quite the reputation, huh?”
John squared his shoulders. “He’s been through a lot. We’re working on it.”
The principal tapped a pen thoughtfully.
“Well, I’ll be honest, it’s going to take some work. But we don’t give up on kids here — no matter how big their file is.”
Dean, standing beside John, gave a small scoff.
“Right…” he muttered under his breath, voice dripping with disbelief.
The principal’s lips pressed into a thin line, clearly not amused by the interruption. Her pen stilled in her hand.
John’s hand came down firmly on Dean’s shoulder—not harsh, but enough to silence him. A subtle squeeze, meant as both a warning and a reassurance.
“Enough, alright?” he said quietly, the weight behind his voice clear.
Dean didn’t answer. His jaw shifted, but he didn’t pull away.
John turned back to the principal with a calm expression. “He’s a good kid underneath it all. He’s definitely worth it. You’ll see.”
Dean blinked. His mouth parted slightly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. He didn’t say anything, but he looked at John with a flicker of stunned disbelief that someone would vouch for him, without hesitation.
The principle just nodded. Expression blank.

They said their goodbyes in the school hallway. John asked the boys if he should walk them to their class, but they both shook their heads very quickly. John fought to hide the grin tugging at his lips. “Alright,” he said. “See you after school then.”
He watched them disappear down the corridor, then turned and headed to his car. The drive home was quiet, John hoping things would go smoothly from here.

The door later opened with a clatter and a gust of late afternoon air. John looked up from the stove, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
“Hey,” he said. “How was your first day?”
Sam was all sunshine, practically glowing as he dropped his bag by the door. “It was awesome! My teacher’s super cool, she showed us this science trick with vinegar and baking soda. Oh! And I already got homework — I already finished it!”
John smiled, then turned to Dean, who had flopped onto the couch, closed off. “And you?”
“Fine,” Dean muttered.
“Just fine?” John raised an eyebrow.
Dean let out a breath. “What, you need a slideshow?”
Then he stood up again and stalked off toward the bedroom. The door slammed shut a second later, and from behind it came the unmistakable thud of a backpack hitting the wall.
The apartment went quiet.
Sam’s smile faded a little. He looked toward the closed door, then up at John. “I think… he just needs a little time. He doesn’t really like changes. But he’ll be okay.”
John didn’t answer right away, just nodded and went back to stirring the pot on the stove — but the crease between his eyebrows stayed.

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly. John stayed in the kitchen, chopping, stirring, checking the clock. Sam read a book at the table, casting occasional glances toward the hallway.
When the food was finally done, John wiped his hands on a dish towel and raised his voice, not quite shouting.
“Dinner’s ready!”
He waited. Nothing.
He tried again, a little louder. “David!”
Still no answer.
John exchanged a glance with Sam, but the kid just shrugged, already sliding into a chair. The table was set with reheated spaghetti and garlic toast. It wasn’t fancy, but it was warm.
John waited another beat, then sighed and sat down across from Sam.
The chair beside them stayed empty.
Sam twirled his fork through the noodles, appetite dimmed. His earlier excitement had softened to silence, something heavier settling in his shoulders.
John cleared his throat. “So. That science project you mentioned. What’s the deal with the baking soda and vinegar?”
That made Sam glance up, cautious at first — then a little smile broke through. “It’s for chemical reactions. You mix them and it fizzes, like a mini volcano. I wanna add red food coloring tomorrow.”
John nodded slowly, leaning his arms on the table. “Like lava, huh? You figure out how much of each you need yet, or just winging it?”
Sam’s eyes lit up — not just from the question, but from the fact that someone – other than Dean – was listening. Really listening. “I measured! It works best with a tablespoon of baking soda and two of vinegar. But I’m still testing it. I might try more vinegar next time to see how much it overflows.”
John gave a small huff of appreciation, not mocking — almost proud. “That’s smart. Gotta test it, right? See what works best.”
Sam beamed. “Exactly.”
John smiled faintly, nodding along, then his went toward the hallway.
The bedroom door stayed closed. Dinner came and went without a word from Dean. John didn’t push — just set a plate on the counter, covered it with foil, and said nothing when Dean didn’t show.
A few hours later though, John heard soft footsteps.
Dean slipped into the kitchen, kept his head down, and ate the cold dinner in silence, not looking at anyone.
John stayed on the couch, pretending to watch the muted TV. Dean never glanced his way. Never spoke. Just cleaned his plate, rinsed it, and disappeared again behind the closed bedroom door.
Later, when the apartment had gone still and Sam had finally drifted off—tucked close to his brother’s side like always—John sat alone on the couch, nursing cold coffee and the kind of silence that pressed hard against your chest.
Then, from down the hallway, came a sound.
Barely there. A breath caught wrong. A soft, broken hitch in the dark.
John froze.
It came again. A muffled sob, smothered into a pillow. The kind of crying someone only does when they’re afraid of being heard. Afraid it’ll cost them something.
John’s knuckles tightened around the coffee mug.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
The door to the boys’ room was half-closed, the strip of light from the hallway cutting across the floor like a boundary. Something about it felt fragile—like if he crossed it now, if he opened that door, he might shatter whatever threads were barely holding the kid together.
So he stayed where he was. Silent. Still. Helpless. Listening to the ache he couldn’t fix echo down the hall. And he hated himself for every reason the boy thought he had to cry like that. Alone.

***

The knock came just after lunch.
John wiped his hands on a dishtowel and opened the door to find their CPS caseworker—Amanda Harris—standing there, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable.
“Afternoon,” she said briskly, stepping inside with a practiced ease. Her eyes moved over the apartment, catching the folded blankets on the pull-out couch, the dishes drying on the rack, the faint scent of whatever John had just reheated for lunch.
“Boys at school?” she asked, more conversational than concerned.
“Yeah. They’re in class right now — should be back around three.”
She nodded, jotting a note, then moved through the space with quiet efficiency. She peeked into the boys’ room—beds made, a half-finished science project on the desk—and gave a faint nod of approval.
“Looks like you’ve kept things steady,” she said at last, flipping through her notes. “They’re in school, they’ve got food, a place to sleep, no complaints from neighbors. I also spoke with their school, Tyler’s thriving. Real sponge, that one. Teachers love him.”
John allowed himself a small smile. “Yeah. He’s loving it.”
She nodded, making a note. “And David?”
“David… he’s surviving.”
That got a flicker of a smile out of her.
She glanced up. “Yeah, David’s… a little rockier. Some late assignments. Bit of attitude. But nothing unexpected given what he’s been through.”
“Yeah. He’s still… adjusting,” John said quietly.
Amanda didn’t write that down. She just met his eyes and said, “Adjustment takes time. He’s been through a lot. Nothing I’d flag as alarming—yet.”
There was weight in that word, but no judgment. Just a professional reminder.
John gave a slow nod. “So… what now?”
She closed the folder, tucking her pen behind one ear. “I’ll be recommending we extend temporary custody. No objections from my side. Unless that’s an issue?”
John shook his head. Then, softly, “It’s not.”
“Good,” she said, and her tone softened just a touch. “Still working on long-term options, but stability’s the priority right now. And this”—she gestured to the apartment—“this is stable.”
John didn’t answer right away. Just nodded, arms folded, jaw tight with something halfway between relief and tension.
Her voice softened, almost reluctant. “So for now, let’s keep things as they are and until then, keep doing what you’re doing. We’ll review again in two weeks.”
“Right,” he said. “Thanks.”
She gave him a small smile, then left.
The door clicked shut behind her.
John nodded, pretending he’s fine with it. But as soon as the door closed, he sagged against the wall—because even if he doesn’t say it, he wants them to stay. Desperately.

***

Over the next few days, a kind of rhythm settled in.
Sam bounced through the apartment like always, bright and eager, chattering about school projects and cafeteria mysteries. Dean still didn’t want to talk about school, but he wasn’t quite so closed off when John talked about other things — cars, movies, music. He didn’t volunteer much, but he listened. Sometimes even smirked at John’s dumb jokes.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was something. And John — he just liked having them around.

Then, mid-afternoon just a few days later, his phone rang.
He wiped his hands on a rag, leaning against the open hood of a Chevy. The caller ID said the school. His stomach dropped.
The voice on the other end was tight. “Mr. Winchester? We need you to come pick up David...”
John didn’t ask for details. Didn’t have to. The tone said enough.

Chapter Text

Dean was sitting on the wooden bench outside the main office when John arrived, hands clasped between his knees, backpack at his feet. His head was down, shoulders stiff. One cheek was swelling, lip split.
John stood in front of him, heavy boots stopping with a quiet thud.
Dean didn’t look up.
“You okay?” John asked, rough but not unkind.
“Yes, sir,” came the reply, soft and automatic.
John lingered just outside the door for a second, glancing back at Dean. The boy’s posture was stiff, like he was trying to make himself small. John’s gut tightened—he hated seeing him like this.
Taking a slow breath, John pushed open the door and stepped inside. The principal looked up immediately, expression a careful mix of sympathy and professionalism.
“I’m really sorry, Mister Winchester,” she said, shaking her head with a sigh. “I know David’s history, and we all want him to do well. But school policy is school policy. He got into a fight and beat up another student — a senior, actually,” she added, with a look that hovered somewhere between disbelief and a grudging kind of respect. She paused to let John take that in, then added, “We have to suspend him for three days. He can come back Monday morning.”

John rubbed his jaw, voice low. “Caseworker’s gonna love this.”
The principal gave him a sympathetic look. “I know it’s tough. He’s been good lately. But it was pretty one-sided.”
John shifted in his chair. “Does he have to apologize or write anything?”
The principal nodded. “Yes. He’ll need to write a letter of apology to the other student. It’s part of the suspension process — shows he’s taking responsibility. We’ll send the details home today.”
John frowned but nodded. “And homework?”
“We’ll provide assignments so he doesn’t fall behind. He can work on them at home during suspension.”
John’s gaze flicked to the principal, then to the file on her desk — Dean’s ‘big file’ looming over the room. He sighed. “Alright. We’ll do what we can.”
She gave a firm nod. “Thanks for working with us. We want to see him succeed.”
“So do I,” John said quietly, then turned toward the door.
Out in the hall, Dean hadn’t moved — still sitting stiff on the bench.
John gave him a small nod. “Come on.”
Dean stood without a word, falling into step behind him, just a little too far back, head still low.
At the car, John tilted Dean’s chin up gently with his fingers. Dean flinched a little, but didn’t pull away. There was heat on his cheeks, some fresh bruising, and a little streak of pride barely holding together.
John sighed, but didn’t say anything. He just opened the passenger door and waited. Dean climbed in without a word.
The ride home was quiet — not tense, just thick with the kind of silence that had weight to it.
John kept one hand on the wheel, the other tapping absently against his leg. He glanced at Dean once, maybe twice, but the kid just stared out the window, jaw clenched.
At the apartment, John closed the door behind them a little too hard. He dropped the car keys on the counter with a sharp clink, then turned to Dean, who stood silently, his lip split and knuckles bruised —signs that hit John harder than he wanted to admit.
“You wanna tell me what the hell that was about?” John’s voice was low, tight, barely holding back the edge.
Dean shrugged, eyes down, avoiding John’s, like he didn’t want to be anywhere near this conversation.
John took a step forward and gripped Dean’s shirt with a slight shake—not anger, but fear and desperation clawing under his skin. “Do you even realize what’s at stake? Do you know what this looks like – to CPS? You have no idea how close we are to losing all of this. Jesus, kid,” John sighed and released the kid’s shirt.
Dean’s eyes flicked up, red-rimmed and defeated, then quickly looked away. His voice cracked when he finally spoke, barely a whisper: “You… gonna kick me out now?”
It was like the words nearly broke him. Like he was already bracing for the worst, expecting to be thrown away again.
John’s breath hitched, bitterness and something softer twisting in his chest. He just stared at Dean for a long moment, caught between frustration and fierce protectiveness. Then, shaking his head, he said quietly, “You really think I’d kick you out over a fight? Over anything? No, I’m not gonna kick you out.”
He shook his head, voice low but steady. “I’m grounding you. Two weeks.”
Dean blinked, eyes wide, silent, surprise flickering across his face.
John took a deep breath. “No going out. No TV. No sweets. You’re here, you’re with me, and you’re gonna do your homework and keep your head down.”
Dean swallowed hard and finally nodded – no fight, no argument.
Just a quiet acceptance. “Okay.”
John almost didn’t believe it. “Okay?”
Dean shrugged, voice small but steady. “Yeah. Sounds fair.”
No rebellion, no storm – just a boy learning his place in a home that was slowly, gently, becoming his.

Later that afternoon, John found himself driving to Sam’s school alone. Usually, Sam and Dean walked home side by side—but today, with Dean suspended, John had to pick Sam up.
When John showed up, Sam’s face immediately scrunched in confusion.
“Where’s De – David?”
“Suspended.”
That was all John said. Nothing more.
Sam’s heart sank.
He didn’t ask anything else—not with that tone.

At home, Sam pushed open the apartment door slowly, his backpack sliding off one shoulder. The place was quiet. Heavy with tension.
He spotted Dean asleep on the pull-out bed, a magazine still clutched in his good hand.
Sam went to the kitchen and started his homework. John was quiet, tense, moving stiffly as he cooked dinner.
When food was finally ready, John said without looking up, “Get your brother for dinner, would you?”
Dinner was just as quiet as the rest of the evening.
Dean barely touched his food, pushing his peas around his plate with the tip of his fork. Every so often, his eyes flicked toward John—who was sitting rigidly across the table—but the moment John’s gaze met his, Dean quickly looked away, staring down at his plate again.
John’s jaw was tight, and his fingers tapped absently against his glass. His eyes darted to Dean when he thought no one was watching, a flicker of something softer buried beneath the stern exterior. But every time Dean glanced back, John would immediately turn his head, as if afraid to give away too much.
They both were trapped—wanting connection, craving it even—but unsure whether they deserved it. Dean felt like he had let John down badly, causing trouble and breaking his trust. John was ashamed of losing control earlier and of not realizing how hard the kid had been struggling.
Sam watched quietly, feeling a tight knot form in his stomach. He cleared his throat softly, trying to break the spell.
“Everything okay?”
John pressed his lips into a thin line and Dean, too, said nothing.

After dinner, the boys slipped quietly into their room.
Dean immediately dropped onto the edge of the bed with a grunt, one elbow on his knee, staring at the floor like it had done him wrong. Sam lingered near the dresser, fiddling with a loose drawer knob.
“Hey,” Sam tried, voice low. He hesitated, then added, “You okay?”
Dean didn’t answer. Sam’s eyes searched him. “Did you… get in trouble?”
Dean shrugged without looking up. “Guess so.”
Sam took a small step closer, eyes narrowing with concern. “John told me about the suspension. Did he…?”
Dean cut in, voice sharp, “Did he what?”
Sam swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “Did he… hit you?”
Dean’s head jerked up, eyes wide and steady. “What? No.” His voice was quiet but firm, a line drawn.
“He grounded me,” Dean added, softer now, almost confused by it himself.
Sam’s eyes widened. “No way,” he breathed. “You’ve never been grounded.”
Dean finally looked at him then, something flickering behind his tired smile. “Yeah. First time for everything.”
He scratched at the corner of his bandage with his good hand now. “He even made rules. Like a whole list. No TV, no going out, no sweets... I think I’m basically a prisoner of war.”
Sam cracked a grin, amused. “Dude, you got GROUNDED.”
Dean let out a soft huff of air, something between a scoff and a laugh.
“Yeah,” he said again, quieter this time, almost to himself. His fingers absently brushed over the edge of the sling like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands.
“I got grounded.”
His voice carried something fragile — not shame, not anger… just a quiet kind of awe. Like he still couldn’t believe it happened. Like part of him wasn’t sure whether to laugh or hold onto it like it meant something. Maybe it did.

While Sam got ready in the bathroom, John quietly stepped down the hall to the boys’ room. He hesitated for a moment before knocking softly on the doorframe.
“Hey,” he said, voice low and almost scared. “Can I come in?”
Dean looked up, startled at first, but then something in his expression eased. He gave a small nod. “Yeah.”
John stepped inside slowly, like the room might break beneath his boots. He stood for a moment, hands in his pockets.
“Look,” he began, “I’m sorry I was loud with you earlier. I—I got scared.”
Dean didn’t say anything right away. Then, soft and quiet, he murmured, “It’s fine.”
John exhaled. “Now—what was this all about, anyway?”
“Nothing,” Dean muttered.

John’s voice lost the softness, just a little. Steady, but not harsh. “Kid, you’ve got a broken arm and you still took on someone twice your size. Whatever happened—it mattered to you. That means it matters to me. So don’t bullshit me, alright?”
Dean looked down, shoulders sagging. After a long pause, he spoke, voice gravelly and low.
“Kids from Tyler’s class—they were picking on him.” He swallowed hard. “Made fun of his science project. You know, the volcano thing? They did it like he was some kind of joke.”
John’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent, waiting.
Dean met his eyes, quietly determined.
“I told ’em to shut their mouths and walked away. Thought that’d be the end of it.” He shook his head. “Then today, one of their older brothers found me during break.”
His voice grew colder, bitter.
“Said he’d make Tyler pay for having such an asshole as a brother and that there is nothing I could do”. He gestured to his sling. A bitter laugh escaped him, short and sharp.
John’s voice was soft. “And you stopped him.”
Dean nodded once. “He got a hit in. But it didn’t go how he thought it would.”
He looked back at John, quiet but fierce.
“It’s my job to protect my brother. No matter the consequences.” Dean hesitated for half a second, then added quickly, “And I’m not sorry for that.”
As soon as the words were out though, he flicked his eyes toward John — guarded, just for a moment — like he was bracing for trouble, or waiting to see if he’d crossed a line.

John rubbed the back of his neck, the weight of it all settling heavier than ever. He didn’t try to argue. He just sat with it, letting Dean’s words hang in the quiet between them.
After a moment, John spoke—low, careful.
“You’re not used to being taken care of. I get that.”
His eyes flicked toward Dean. “Truth is… I’m not used to taking care of someone either. Not the way you deserve.”
Dean didn’t move, but something in his expression shifted—just a little.
“But we’re in this together, alright? We need to be in this together. A team. So let’s figure this all out together.”
John’s voice was steady, calm — not pushing, just offering. There was something open in his face, a kind of quiet determination mixed with worry.
“All I’m asking—next time things start to go south… just give me a heads up. Let me in. Can you do that?”
Dean hesitated, then nodded once. “I can try.”
“That’s all I ask.”
Then John reached over, rough fingers ruffling Dean’s hair.
“Hey!” Dean immediately swatted his hand, faking offense.
John just snorted. “We good?”
Dean gave him a look, but the corner of his mouth curved up.
“We’re good.”
God, that kid was gonna be the death of him.

Chapter Text

John got the call from their caseworker, Amanda, first thing the next morning.
His heart kicked up instantly, thudding hard in his chest as he answered.
She asked about the school incident — what happened, how it unfolded. John kept his voice steady, walking her through the details without excuses. Just the facts.
There was a pause. Then a quiet sigh on the other end.
She wasn’t surprised. Not really. She knew these things happened — especially with kids like him.
When John finally asked, carefully, about their custody status, she didn’t hesitate.
“It’s fine,” she said gently. “From what I see, they’re safe. They’re cared for. That’s what matters.”
John nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “Alright. Thank you.”
He ended the call, then slowly let his back slide down the hallway wall, phone still clutched in his hand. His heart was still racing — but now, something in his chest gave way.
Relief.
He still had them. He still had the kid.
He let his head fall back against the wall, eyes closing briefly as his shoulders eased.
A slow, quiet smile crept across his face.

***

Later that morning, they sat around the kitchen table, the quiet clink of spoons and the faint, comforting smell of burnt toast in the air – just like every other day.
Dean slouched in his chair, still in a T-shirt and boxers, hunched over his cereal like it had personally wronged him.
John glanced up from his coffee and gestured with the mug. “After breakfast, go get dressed.”
Dean blinked. “Why? I’m suspended, remember?”
John leaned back, voice casual. “Yeah. And if I leave you home, you’ll end up on the couch all day with a bag of chips and the remote, watching cartoons. You’re coming to the garage.”
Dean froze, spoon midair. “Wait. What? You’re kidding.”
“You’ll do your homework there. And while you’re at it, help me organize the tool room.”
Across the table, Sam snorted into his milk and dissolved into laughter at Dean’s face.
Dean scowled. “This is child labor.”
John took another sip of coffee, deadpan. “This is parenting.”
Dean groaned, scraping back his chair and muttering all the way to his room.
John watched him go, then turned back to his coffee, fighting a smile he didn’t bother to hide.

Ten minutes later, Dean trudged into the hallway fully dressed, dark look etched across his face.
John didn’t say a word — didn’t have to. The kid’s expression said it all: he'd been spot-on about the chips and cartoons.
They dropped Sam off at school — John watching through the rearview mirror as Sam waved and disappeared through the double doors — then turned toward the garage.
It smelled like oil, dust, and that old burnt-coffee tang that clung to the place like wallpaper. Dean stopped in the doorway, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
John tossed him a broom without ceremony. “Floor’s not gonna sweep itself.”
Dean caught it, eyed it like it might bite, then sighed loud enough to shake the rafters and started dragging it over the concrete.
The first hour was mostly sweeping. Slow, pitiful sweeping. A couple customers came and went. John answered the phone once. The second time, Dean beat him to it.
“Yeah? Winchester Auto. What do you need?”
John blinked. Didn’t say anything. Kid sounded halfway professional — grumpy, but competent. Still — boring day. No music. No TV. Nothing fun. Exactly how grounding was supposed to feel.
By late morning, Dean was so bored he actually pulled out his assignments and started working through them — one-handed, no complaints. That, more than anything, told John the punishment was working.
Around noon, Dean wandered over and leaned against the counter.
“So,” he said flatly, “what’s for lunch?”
John didn’t look up from under the hood of a ‘98 Ford. “You didn’t pack Lunch?”
Dean blinked. “No?”
John made a show of shrugging. “Too bad.”
A pause.
Dean stared. “Seriously?”
John finally glanced up — and smirked. “Just kidding. Catch.”
He tossed the phone. Dean caught it clean, one-handed, reflexes sharp even in sulk-mode.
“Order pizza,” John said. “My treat.”
Dean perked up. “Anything I want?”
John grunted. “You can ask. Still short fifty-three bucks.”
Dean’s mouth curved into a slow, crooked grin.

***

Thirty minutes later, the pizza guy showed up — a teenager with a mop of curly hair, earbuds in, and the hollow-eyed look of someone who hadn’t slept since Friday. He gave Dean a quick once-over, took the cash without a word, and handed over two warm boxes.
Dean nodded a thanks, cradled them like treasure, and headed back inside.
He opened his — pepperoni, sausage, extra cheese — and let out a satisfied groan.
Then, without ceremony, he slid the second box across the table to John.
John flipped it open. Pineapple and ham.
John blinked. “You got one for me too?”
Dean didn’t even glance up, just bit into his slice. “Figured you wouldn’t. Still criminal,” he mumbled through melted cheese. “But enjoy.”
John huffed a laugh — surprised, real.
They didn’t talk much after that.
It had been a good day.

***

Day 2 started early. John was under the hood of a Dodge that refused to cooperate. He grumbled. He swore. And finally he stood back, wiping sweat and smudging grease across his temple.
Dean sat on the counter, legs swinging.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Could you please stop that?” John snapped, harsher than he meant.
Dean paused mid-swing on the counter, boots drumming the wood.
"Sorry," he said, subdued.
John went back under the hood, muttering. The Dodge wasn’t cooperating. He yanked at the distributor cap, grumbled, checked wires. Sweat gathered at his brow.
“You stubborn piece of junk,” John muttered through gritted teeth.
Dean blinked, then calmly said, “You gotta treat her like a lady.”
John gave him a sideways look. “Excuse me?”
“You gotta treat her like a lady,” Dean repeated, hopping down from the counter. “Not force her to start. Listen to her. The Dodge. You’re working the outpost like it’s the problem, but…” He leaned in, eyes squinting at the wiring. “...see that melted casing?”
John frowned.
Dean hesitated, then pointed. “Pretty sure that wire’s fried. Ignition relay’s getting overloaded — probably trying to compensate.”
John bent closer.
Paused.
“…Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
Dean looked smug — but not too smug.
John stared at him, eyebrows raised, somewhere between impressed and disbelieving.
Dean just shrugged, like it was no big deal.
“I read it in that old Haynes manual you keep in the truck.”
John smirked. “Thought you were using that to stash candy bars.”
Dean smirked right back. “Multitasking.”
John huffed a laugh. “You got all that from one book?”
“And like… a dozen others. Turns out libraries have whole shelves on this stuff. Who knew?”
He gave a crooked grin. “Figured, if I’m stuck in the library for hours waiting for Sa – Tyler to finish reading every damn book ever written, might as well learn something useful. Cars make more sense than people, anyway.”
John just looked at him for a second — a little surprised, a little proud.
Then he handed over a socket wrench. “Alright, professor. Show me what else you know.”

And just like that, they got to work —
Side by side, no words needed. Dean fetched tools before John asked. John passed sockets when Dean reached.
By 2 p.m., the Dodge was humming like it had just rolled off the line.
John reached out to give Dean a solid clap on the shoulder. “Good job.”
“Don’t worry,” Dean said, grabbing the rag. “I won’t let it go to my head. Much.”
John snorted. “Kid, if sarcasm paid the bills, I’d be retired.”
Dean grinned. “Good thing you’ve got me then.”
John watched that grin. A little grease on Dean’s cheek, sunlight catching his hair.
A proud smile, easy and real.
John looked a second longer than usual. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Good thing.”

***

Day 3 was the easiest day of all.
Dean tightened bolts with practiced ease, the clang of metal under his hands almost rhythmic. John handled a customer at the counter, occasionally glancing over with a raised brow and a smirk.
They each had a soda at lunch, the fizz tickling their noses as they made half-hearted jokes about the world’s worst radio station blaring from the ancient speakers.
When Dean flicked a few drops of oil at him, John raised an eyebrow—then narrowed his eyes, not in anger, but in challenge. Without missing a beat, he snatched a greasy rag from the counter and threw it casually over, landing it square in Dean’s face.
Dean blinked, then wiped his cheek with a grin. “Alright, you’re playing dirty now.”
John chuckled. “You started it.”
As the end of the shift neared, John clapped a heavy hand on Dean’s shoulder, grease smudging across the fabric of his shirt.”
“You wouldn’t… by any chance,” John said slowly, “be interested in working a few hours here on weekends?”
Dean blinked, caught off guard by the offer. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” John nodded. “I’d pay you. Fair wage.”
Dean hesitated, glancing down at the cast still wrapped around his arm, then back at John. “What about Tyler?”
“We’ll bring him along,” John said. “He can work on his projects in the office.”
Dean’s smile grew wider, cracks of excitement showing through the usual guarded expression. “Okay. Yeah. I’d like that.”
“Good. You start next Saturday.” John hesitated, then added with a raised brow, “And kiddo? No more fights in school.”
Dean lifted a hand in mock solemnity. “No fists—unless someone calls my brother names.”
John gave him a long look, lips twitching.
Dean sighed, lowering his hand. “Fine. No fists. Not unless it’s really, really bad.”
John chuckled, the sound warm. “We’ll work on it.”
Dean shrugged, then flexed his fingers carefully around the edges of the cast.
“They probably won’t bother us anymore anyway once I finally get this thing off,” he muttered.
His voice was casual, but his eyes stayed fixed on the white shell like it had betrayed him.
“Hard to protect anyone like this.”
John glanced over, then stepped closer and laid a firm but gentle hand on Dean’s shoulder.
“Hey.”
Dean looked up.
“You protected your brother just fine. Cast or no cast.”
Dean didn’t reply, but the line of his jaw eased slightly.
John gave his shoulder a small squeeze.
“Not that long now,” he said, voice low and steady. “You’ll be back to full strength before you know it.”
Dean muttered, “Yeah, if I don’t saw it off first.”
John shot him a side-eye. “Try that, and I’m wrapping your whole arm in duct tape.”
Dean smirked. “Stylish.”
John shook his head, amusement clear in his voice. “We’ll get it taken off at the hospital. Properly and very soon. So stay patient, Rambo.”
Dean gave a crooked smile, just a flicker — but it was there.

Chapter Text

The cast saw buzzed with a high-pitched whine, making Dean flinch.
“You sure that thing doesn’t cut skin?” he asked the tech, tone flat but skeptical.
John sat nearby, watching with a small grin. “Kid, you’ve been through worse. This is nothing.”
Dean shot him a look. “I doubt it.”
The tech chuckled. “You’ll be fine. I’ve done this a hundred times.”
Dean tensed anyway, shoulders stiff while the tech carefully started splitting the cast.
One final snap and it split open.
The tech peeled it away, revealing the pale, skinny arm beneath — and just like that, it was over.
Dean blinked at his arm like it belonged to someone else.
“…Huh,” he said, flexing his fingers slowly. “That’s so weird.”
John leaned forward a little, watching carefully. “Any pain?”
Dean rolled his wrist, winced, then shook his head. “Nah. Just stiff. Feels like it’s been asleep for a year.”
The tech gave a few instructions — take it easy, keep it moving, no heavy lifting — then finished up.
Dean stared at his arm a second longer, rubbing at the faint mark the cast had left, then looked at John. “So, that’s it?”
John stood, tossing Dean’s hoodie over his chair. “That’s it. You’re free.”
Dean caught it with his newly freed arm, then grinned.
It was lopsided, tired, but real.
“One and a half months in a cast – thought I’d lose my mind.”
John laughed. “You might’ve been milking it.”
Dean smirked. “Maybe.”

He pulled the hoodie on, careful with the arm, but his whole body looked looser. Lighter. Like the cast had weighed more than just his bones.
John clapped him on the shoulder. “You did good, kid.”
Dean nodded, a little lighter now. “Feels good to be done with that thing.”
They headed out together, the small victory hanging between them.
“First thing I’m doing when we get home?” Dean said casually. “Pull-ups.”
John didn’t miss a beat. “First thing you’re doing is eating. Then homework. Then we can talk about stupid ideas.”
Dean groaned. “You’re no fun.”
But he was smiling anyway — easy, loose, whole again.

***

John unlocked the door, toeing off his boots with a sigh. It had been a long shift, and he’d warned the boys he’d be late — but what he didn’t expect was… this.
The apartment smelled — good.
He frowned and followed the scent to the kitchen, where he found Sam sitting cross-legged on the counter, talking animatedly, his whole face lit up.
Dean stood by the stove, stirring something in a pot with one hand and holding a wooden spoon like a weapon of authority in the other. He was nodding along to whatever Sam was saying, a soft, almost amused look on his face.
John blinked, caught off guard.
“What are you two up to?” he asked.
Sam turned, all smiles. “De—David is cooking dinner for us.”
Dean shrugged, not looking away from the pot. “You said you’d be getting home late, so I figured I’d start dinner. Nothing fancy, but considering you always burn our food, I thought it couldn’t be worse.”
“I don’t always burn the food,” John said, mock-affronted.
“Right,” Dean replied dryly. “Last week it was just the apartment you were trying to burn down.”
Sam snickered, and Dean finally grinned, clearly proud of himself.
John stepped farther into the room, sniffing the air again. “So, what’s for dinner, Mr. Smartass?”
“Chili,” Dean simply said.
Sam’s face lit up. “It’s really good. Like, better than that chili place you took us to that one time.”
John raised an eyebrow, amused and—if he was honest—quietly touched by the domestic calm in front of him. Sam's trust, Dean’s care, the way it all seemed to click together without any noise or fuss.
Dean looked a little embarrassed at the praise, ducking his head and muttering something about “just following the recipe, it’s no big deal,” but when he thought no one was watching, John caught the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth — proud, in spite of himself.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” John said with a laugh.

They sat down together at the small table, steam rising from their bowls, the cheap cutlery clinking gently as they ate. Sam dug in fast; Dean followed—quieter, but steady.
John took one bite — paused.
Then he looked up, surprised. “Okay. This is… actually really good.”
“Told you,” Sam mumbled through a mouthful, grinning.
Dean just gave a one-shouldered shrug, but Sam beamed. “He used to cook all the time when we didn’t have anyone else to do it,” he said through a mouthful. “Sometimes he made stuff up when there wasn’t much in the fridge. Once we had chili with like… ketchup and beans and some hot dogs cut up in it.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Dean muttered, stabbing at his food.
“It was awesome,” Sam said firmly. “Way better than anything they gave us at that group home.”
John looked between them. Dean didn’t seem eager to elaborate — head down, eyes on his bowl. But John noticed the way his spine straightened at the praise, like something inside him rose to meet it.

And maybe it wasn’t just the chili.
Maybe it was the way the table didn’t feel empty.
The way Sam laughed mid-bite. The way Dean ducked his head, trying not to smile — but clearly holding on to his brother’s praise like it meant everything.
The way the place smelled warm and lived-in, not cold and temporary. The quiet, ordinary normalcy of it all.
John hadn’t realized how much he missed that — or how badly he wanted it back.
And maybe, for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like a man just filling a space.
For the first time in a long time, something settled in him — heavy and certain.
He felt like part of something.
And damn, it might’ve been the best dinner he could remember.
And damn, he couldn’t imagine going back to life without them.
He couldn’t imagine how anyone ever had.

***

The shock hit hard when Amanda’s name lit up on John’s phone just an hour later.
The boys were in the kitchen, the clink of dishes underscored by Dean’s voice — “Our treat tonight,” he’d said, half-proud, half-teasing.
John stared at the screen. For a second, he thought about not answering.
But he did.
“Mr. Winchester? Hi, it’s Amanda. I’m calling with an update.”
His grip on the phone tightened.
From the kitchen came Dean’s laughter, bright and unguarded — something about Sam’s “dumb chili face.”
John turned away, stepping into the hallway like it might somehow shield him.
“We’ve found a potential long-term placement for the boys,” Amanda said. “It’s a licensed foster home. Good people, solid references. There’s room for both kids. Even a dog. They’re available to meet as early as next week.”
John swallowed hard.
Didn’t answer right away.
“Right. Okay,” he said eventually. His voice felt foreign in his own mouth.
“You’ve been great with them, Mr. Winchester,” Amanda added, gentle. “I mean that. This was always meant to be temporary, but… you’ve given them some real stability these past few weeks.”
He had no idea what to say to that.
Couldn’t say it didn’t feel temporary anymore.
Couldn’t say he wasn’t ready.
“We’ll set up a transition plan soon. Just… give the boys a little space to process, alright?”
“Yeah,” John said, quiet. “I’ll tell them.”

***

Dean was washing the dishes, Sam beside him with a rag, drying.
Dean cracked a joke — low and easy — and Sam laughed, the kind of unguarded sound John hadn’t heard from them often.
He stood in the doorway, watching. Just a second too long.
Dean noticed first. “You okay?”
John cleared his throat. “Yeah. Just—uh. Got a call from Amanda.”
Dean went still.
Sam paused, fork in one hand, rag in the other.
John rubbed the back of his neck. “They found something. A place. Long-term. It’s got space for both of you. A yard. A dog.”
He added the last part like it was supposed to make it easier. It didn’t.
Silence.
Dean stirred the soapy water again — slower now, like his hands needed something to do.
Sam blinked. “...So we’re leaving?”
John tried for a smile, but it came out uneven. “Not today. Just… soon. They want to schedule a meeting.”
Sam looked down at the table. “Oh.”
Dean didn’t say anything. Not right away.
He just stood there, shoulders slowly drawing in, the warmth he’d worn all evening dissolving like steam.
His jaw tightened.
“…It was always temporary,” Dean said at last.
Not cold. Not bitter. Just… resigned. Like he was already putting the armor back on.
John nodded.
And hated, deeply, how much that hurt.

***

The apartment was quiet.
The kind of quiet that settles in after an evening spent pretending everything’s fine.
Sam had gone to bed first. No protests, no bedtime routine, no one more minute. Just folded into himself and slipped away with a quiet “’Night,” eyes not quite meeting anyone’s.
Dean had followed a few minutes later, the last dish dried, the kitchen spotless again like they’d never lived there at all.
He muttered a tired, “Night,” but John heard the difference. It was the kind of tired that had nothing to do with sleep.
Now John sat alone on the couch in the dark, the only light coming from the microwave clock across the room.
9:42.
Late, but not late enough.
His phone sat heavy in his hand. Amanda’s name hovered at the top of his recent calls — Amanda, CPS (Mobile) — right there.
One tap. That’s all it would take.
From down the hall came the faintest creak of floorboards, a reminder that the boys were still here. Still under this roof.
For now.
Amanda had sounded so cheerful on the call. Like she was giving him good news.
He rubbed his thumb over the screen, slow.
They hadn’t said anything real. Not really. No protests. No arguments.
Thought about Sam’s face when he’d asked, “So we’re leaving?”
Thought about Dean’s face when he’d said, “…It was always temporary.”
How he hadn’t pushed back. Hadn’t flinched. How he’d just accepted it — like he’d packed the goodbye from day one.
And that wall he’d been quietly lowering, brick by brick over the past few weeks — it was already going back up.
John swallowed. His ribs ached — no, hurt. Like something too big was pressing out from the inside.
He tapped the screen. Amanda’s contact opened.
His thumb hovered over Call.
He didn’t press it.
After a long moment, he dropped the phone on the cushion beside him.
A beat of silence. Then another.
“Don’t,” he muttered aloud.
To the phone. To the guilt sitting in his gut like stone.
To himself.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, dragging both hands down his face.
“Don’t make this harder,” he whispered. “It’s not about you.”
He got up slowly, turned off the kitchen light.
Left the phone where it was.

Chapter Text

The apartment was dim, lit only by the low flicker of the television. Some late-night show played on mute — more for company than entertainment. Sam was curled on the couch, deep under a blanket, breathing slow and even.
John sat beside him, elbows resting on his knees, coffee cooling in his hands. He hadn’t touched it in a while. His gaze wandered toward the hallway, then drifted back to the TV. The silence pressed in, thick with everything unspoken the past few days.

Dean hadn’t said more than a handful of words since the call from Amanda. Nods, shrugs — nothing that asked for more. He kept to the spare room, only emerging when Sam coaxed him out to eat, and even then, he just pushed food around his plate. Face pale, eyes avoiding John’s and his movements stiff.
So when John heard soft footsteps and felt the couch shift beside him, he almost didn’t believe it.

Dean sat down without a word, careful and quiet.
John glanced over. The boy’s face was pale, lips pressed in a hard line. His arms were folded tightly, like he was holding himself together by force. But he was here.
That was something.
A long silence passed between them, only the flicker of the TV playing shadows across their faces.
“You okay?” John finally asked, voice quiet. “You want me to turn this off?”
Dean’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. “It’s fine.”
Another pause.
Then — sudden, sharp — “John, can I ask you something?”
His voice was rough. Like Dean had been carrying it for days. Like the question had scraped its way up from somewhere deep.
John turned toward him, surprised, yet very gentle. “Yeah. Of course. Go ahead.”
Dean was quiet a beat longer.
Then – “Why did you take us in? You didn’t even know us. You didn’t have to take us in. Why’d you do it?”
John blinked. Of all the questions he’d braced for, it wasn’t that one.
Dean still refused to look at him.
John sat back slowly, weighing his answer. Then he let out a breath and started low.
“I’ve asked myself that a few times, too,” he admitted.
“At first?” he said slowly. “Guilt.”
Dean’s expression didn’t change, so John kept going.
“I saw you in that ER, bruised, bloody and beat to hell. All by yourself. Alone,” he said. “You wouldn’t have been in that situation if it hadn’t been for me. Taking you in — it felt like the least I could do.”
John sighed, then added, “But it wasn’t just guilt. Not really.”

He paused again, then said more quietly, “You looked so young. Vulnerable. Like someone who’d already been let down too many times.”
His eyes flicked up to Dean’s, voice turning rough — not angry, just stripped bare.
“I didn’t think you needed saving. But I thought… maybe you deserved someone who wouldn’t leave. Someone who’d stay. Who’d care. And the way you looked out for your brother — that fierce, steady love — I couldn’t turn my back on that.”
He hesitated, dragging a hand down his face.
Dean didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded — slow, like the words were settling somewhere sore.
Then, carefully, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out.
A photo. Folded, edges worn soft with time. He set it on the coffee table between them without a word.
John stared.
The photograph.
He stared at it like it might vanish if he blinked. His heart gave a sharp twist.
“I thought you’d tossed that,” he said, voice quieter now. “After you spent the money.”
Dean gave a half-shrug, didn’t look at him. “Always gotta keep something as backup,” he said, too lightly. “Bargaining chip. Just in case.”
But there was weight under the joke. Like it wasn’t the first time he’d had to survive that way.
Dean leaned back slightly, but not away.
His eyes found John’s, tired but steady. “Who are they?”
A beat. Then, softly:
“The boys. In the picture.”
And then even quieter, not accusing — just asking, like he deserved to know:
“They yours?”
John’s hand tightened on the coffee mug.
He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
Dean held his gaze. “Yours and Mary’s?”
Another nod.
They sat in silence, the television flickering dull and gray across the walls.
Dean’s voice was careful again. “We’ve been here almost two months. But not once have they come to see you. And you’ve never gone to see them. Why?”
The question wasn’t cruel. Just confused. Honest.

John stared ahead. The words didn’t sting — not freshly, anyway. The hurt was already deep, already rotted in his chest like something too long buried. Familiar. Heavy.
He set the mug down, set it aside like it suddenly weighed too much. Then he clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking.
“You’re right,” he said. “Mary and I — we had two sons. I was supposed to keep them safe. That was my one job.”
His voice broke, and he let it. No point hiding anymore.
“I was watching them that day. One second — that’s all I took. One stupid second. I turned away and…” He rubbed his hands hard, like he could scrub the memory out. “Mary… she couldn’t stay. She couldn’t even look at me. I didn’t blame her. I couldn’t look at myself either.”
He laughed, dry and bitter. “We were divorced before the year was out. I hadn’t seen her since. Not until that day in the clinic.”
Dean said nothing. Just watched him — quiet, still.
He hadn’t expected that.
But there was no judgment in his face. Only something gentler. Understanding. Maybe even… compassion.
“I lost everything that day,” John said. “Everything that mattered.”
Another silence. Longer this time.
Dean glanced at the photo again. Then back at John. His voice, when it came, was so gentle it ached.
“What were they like?”
John blinked. The question cut straight through him. But Dean wasn’t asking for himself. Not really. He was giving something — he did it for John.
“You don’t have to,” he added quickly.
But John nodded. His throat was tight. His eyes burned.
Still, he smiled — soft and crumbling.
“They were perfect, really” he said. “My eldest – he was a real firecracker. Fierce. Loud. Brave. Always trying to act older than he was. Always up to something, keeping us on our toes. Full of ideas. Too clever for his own good. He’d get this look in his eye like he was already three steps ahead of you. Always looking out for his brother.”
His voice turned gentle. “He had this huge heart. Smart. Kind. Beautiful kid.”
He tapped the photo. “And my youngest – he was just a few months old. But he’d look at you like he already knew everything. His brother was his whole world. You’d never seen anything like it. The way they loved each other.”
John chuckled, quietly. “You’d think the sun rose and set on his big brother. Strong bond, even at that age. Nothing could touch it.”
He reached for the photo, turned it gently so Dean could see. “It’s one of the last pictures we ever took of them.”
His voice cracked, just a little.
“This one,” he said, pointing. “That’s my Dean.”
Dean flinched.
“And the baby — that’s Sammy.”
Dean immediately froze. The words hit like a gunshot in the quiet.
His entire body locked up. His breath stilled. He stared at the photo without blinking.
He definitely hadn’t expected that.
Not the names.
Not their names.

His breathing went shallow, his hands curling into fists against his thighs. Something ran through him like icewater. His jaw tensed.
John didn’t notice. He was looking at the photo like it could take him back, just for a second. Dean stood up suddenly, knocking his knee against the coffee table.
John looked over, startled. “You okay?”
Dean’s voice was tight. “Yeah. Fine.” He was already backing away. “Just tired.”
And then he was gone — down the hallway, door clicking shut behind him.
John sat frozen, frowning faintly. Something wasn’t right. But he didn’t understand what.

On the other side of the door, Dean leaned against it, chest heaving. His legs shook. He slid down slowly until he was sitting on the floor, arms wrapped tight around his knees.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, forcing the tears back.
His whisper was so quiet it barely existed.
“No way.”
His body trembled with the weight of it — the photo, the names, the story — the truth threading itself through every fractured piece of his memory.
Dean.
Sammy.

The names weren’t just coincidence.
He held himself, and shook.

And the picture was still there on the table. Two boys in sunlight. Frozen in time.

Chapter Text

Inside their room, Dean leaned back hard against the door, like he needed it to hold him up. His breath came in short, shallow bursts—too fast, too loud. He squeezed his eyes shut, fists clenching at his sides, then dragging through his hair as if that could somehow ground him. It didn’t.
This doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.
His heart was pounding in his throat. He could feel it everywhere—his chest, his ears, his fingertips. Everything was tight. Blurred.
He tried to focus, to force the thoughts into order, but they were slipping—skipping from one jagged fear to the next before he could catch hold of any of them.
The room felt smaller than it had before. Too quiet. Except for the noise in his head. The pressure behind his ribs. The buzz in his hands. He wrapped his arms around himself and slid down the door, drawing his knees close.
He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, digging in as if he could will the panic away. The edges of his vision swam. His chest kept stuttering—like he couldn’t pull in a full breath no matter how hard he tried.
A sound caught in his throat. He clamped his mouth shut.
So he sat there, silent and trembling, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, desperate for the world to stop spinning just long enough for him to catch his breath.

But the stillness never came.
He didn’t sleep that night at all. Instead, he spent it pacing the narrow length of the room—quiet, controlled, counting steps like it might keep his thoughts in check.
It didn’t.
His mind kept looping back on itself, over and over, trying to piece things together that didn’t want to fit.
By the time the first light cracked through the blinds and he heard John moving in the other room, his nerves were frayed and raw. He dropped onto the bed like it was reflex, heart hammering, eyes clamped shut as if he’d been asleep all along.
Just in time.
He heard John’s boots in the hallway, then the soft creak of the door opening. Dean stayed still. Shallow breaths. Blank face.
John stood in the doorway for a beat too long. Dean could feel it. The weight of being watched.
Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Then the door clicked shut again, and a moment later, the front door followed. John was gone.
Dean sat up slowly, his body stiff and aching from tension. His fingers curled tight into the blanket.
That gut-deep instinct—the one he’d learned to trust more than anything else—was screaming at him. They needed to leave and they needed to leave now.

Sam was still asleep on the couch, curled tight beneath a too-thin blanket, his hand tucked under his cheek like he was still six. The living room was dim, quiet except for the soft tick of the wall clock and the distant rumble of a car passing outside.
Dean’s hands trembled as he zipped up the duffel. Just a couple of snacks. A change of clothes. The emergency cash John had hide in one of the kitchen cabinets. Sam’s beloved blue backpack. It wasn’t much, but it was all they could carry. Just enough to get them through the next few days on the road.
Dean crouched beside the couch and gently shook Sam’s arm. “Hey, Sammy. Wake up. We need to go.”
Sam stirred with a sleepy hum, eyes half-lidded, still caught in some dream. “Huh? Wha’s time?”
Dean tried to smile, but his voice was tight. “Time to go, munchkin. Get up. We gotta move.”
Sam blinked, confusion deepening as he sat up. “What? Go where?”
Dean stood, already pulling Sam’s backpack off the floor. “We can’t stay here, Sammy. We’re leaving. Now. I’ve got it all worked out.”
“What?” Sam frowned, rubbing his eyes. “Why? What’s going on?” He glanced around the room, bleary.
Dean swallowed hard. “Look, it doesn’t matter. We just have to go now, alright?”
“But…” Sam looked around, like he couldn’t understand why anyone would want to leave. “Why? It’s been so nice here. And we are getting a new family soon. A real one. Amanda said they are great people. We will both get our own rooms. And they have a dog, Dean!” Sam exclaimed excited.
Dean’s throat felt raw. He didn’t have time for this. “We just have to get out, okay? I’ve got a plan. Pack your stuff. We’ll go now, while John’s out.”
Sam’s face fell. “But Dean, I don’t want to leave.”
Dean’s hands curled into fists. “Sam. Don’t argue. Please. Not now. Just grab your stuff.”
“No.” Sam’s voice was firmer now. “You’re not even telling me why. You’re just dragging me out of a place I like!”
Dean’s pulse thundered in his ears. He couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t explain what he didn’t have words for. The fear. The gut-deep certainty that someone was awfully wrong.
Panic was starting to rise.
He turned away, pacing a step, then spun back toward Sam. “You know what? Fine. Stay. Be stupid. I’m done trying to save someone who doesn’t want saving. I’m out.”
Sam’s eyes welled up. “Why are you being like this?”
Dean ignored him. His heart pounded so hard. He simply snatched the duffel off the floor and shouldered past the couch, heading straight for the door.
But Sam was faster.
“No, don’t!” Sam cried, scrambling after him. His socked feet slid on the floor, breath catching. “Don’t leave me, Dean. Please—just sit down. Just talk to me.”
He reached out and grabbed a fistful of Dean’s shirt, desperately yanking him back with more strength than Dean expected.
Dean jerked around – more instinct than intention – yanking hard to break free. “Sam, let go!”
So Sam did. At the exact wrong moment.
The sudden release, combined with Dean’s force pulling the other way, unbalanced him completely.
He stumbled backward, arms flailing for balance, his heel catching the edge of the rug.
Then came the crash—his back struck the coffee table, shoulder first, then his head, a sickening crack against wood. He hit the floor hard, curling in on himself, one hand flying to his temple.
Dean’s heart slammed to a stop. He dropped the bag instantly, heart crashing against his ribs. “Sammy—!”
He dropped to his knees, cradling his brother’s shoulder, trying not to fall apart. “Fuck, shit. Fuck, are you okay? Sammy?”
Sam whimpered, fingers pressing against his temple. A thin trickle of blood slid down the side of his face.
Dean felt like he’d been punched in the gut.
Sam blinked at him, dazed. “My head hurts…”
Dean grabbed a towel from the kitchen and pressed it gently to the cut, trying to breathe through the sick panic crashing through him.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—Sammy, I’m sorry, I swear.” His voice broke, barely audible.
“Don’t move,” Dean whispered, already grabbing the phone with trembling fingers. His whole body was vibrating with adrenaline.
“I’m calling a cab. We’re going to get you looked at. You’re gonna be okay, okay? I swear.”
Sam didn’t answer. He just closed his eyes, breathing shallow, one trembling hand still reaching for his brother.
Dean gripped it tightly.
Running wasn’t an option anymore. Plans didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered now was Sam.

***

The cab smelled like stale smoke and cheap pine air freshener. The driver didn’t ask questions—just muttered “Hospital, yeah?” and kept driving.
Dean sat sideways in the back seat, one arm around Sam, holding the bloody towel gently against his brother’s temple.
“You still with me?” Dean asked, voice thin with worry.
Sam gave a tiny nod. “Hurts.”
“I know, Sammy. Just hold on. We’re almost there.”
Sam sagged into his side, shivering despite the warmth. “Dean…” he mumbled.
“I’m here,” Dean whispered. “I got you, okay? We’re almost there.”
They pulled up to the ER entrance. Dean threw a wad of bills at the driver, not waiting for change. He half-dragged, half-carried Sam inside, chest tight, heart jackhammering.
The lobby lights were harsh. Everything smelled like bleach and plastic and fear.
Dean still half-carried Sam through the clinic doors, blood on both their sleeves.
“Help! I need someone!” Dean called out as they entered, voice hoarse with panic.
The receptionist startled. “What happened?”
“I need help,” Dean said, approaching the front desk, voice cracking. “My brother hit his head. He’s bleeding pretty badly.”
And then—
“David? Tyler?”
The voice hit him like a slap. He turned.
Mary.
She was coming around the nurses’ station, her badge clipped to pale blue scrubs, hair tied back, a pen still in her hand. She froze when she saw them.
Dean’s stomach dropped. Of all people.
“What happened?”, she asked.
“He hit his head,” Dean said quietly. Eyes casted down.
Mary’s eyes were already scanning Sam, her nurse instincts clicking in.
“Okay. Come on. Let’s get him to a room,” Mary said, already moving. Then, over her shoulder to her colleague, voice steady – “I’m taking over.”
Dean was still holding onto Sam, steadying him as best he could. When Mary reached out and touched Dean’s arm, he flinched — just slightly, barely a twitch — but she noticed anyway.
She figured it was the stress, the fear for his brother.
“You can let go — I’ve got him,” she said, voice low and calm. Then she added, “Come with us.”
Dean just nodded, jaw tensed, and fell into step behind them.
Mary helped Sam lay down on the padded exam table. Dean hovered beside him, arms wrapped around himself tightly, eyes on the blood-streaked towel in the sink. Sam was pale, blinking slow and sluggish.
The moment his head touched the surface, his face paled further and his stomach clenched. Mary was ready — she’d already set a small bin nearby.
Before Sam could say anything, he leaned forward and vomited quietly into the bin. Dean immediately moved closer, one hand rubbing soothing circles on Sam’s back, whispering reassurances.
Mary stayed calm, her touch steady as she then cleaned the cut in silence. “He might need a couple stitches,” she said softly, more to herself than anyone else. “Concussion’s very likely. He’ll need to stay overnight. Just to be safe. The doctor will want to run a scan, monitor him for changes. With head injuries, sometimes things don’t show up right away.”
Dean blinked fast, throat tight. “Yeah. Okay.”
She picked up the chart from the wall. “You’ve probably already called John, didn’t you?”
Dean shook his head.
“Alright, then I’m going to call him. He’ll probably be here soon.” She said it like it was supposed to be reassuring.
It wasn’t.

***
The hallway was silent except for the soft beeping from monitors and the low hum of fluorescent lights. Sam had been moved to a room in the pediatric ward. Dean stood in the far corner, arms crossed tightly, jaw locked. He hadn’t really moved since they brought Sam in.
Then came the footsteps — fast, heavy.
“Where are they?”
Mary appeared at the doorway first, stepping gently into John’s path to catch his attention.
“Tyler’s stable,” she said quietly. “But the doctor wants to keep him overnight for observation—just to be safe.”
She paused, then added, a little softer, “Technically, only one guardian or approved adult is supposed to stay overnight with pediatric patients, but… David wouldn’t leave him anyway. So he might as well stay here.”
John’s breath hitched audibly. “Jesus,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. He stood there for a second, like the words were stuck in his throat. Then, quieter — almost hoarse — “Thank you.”
Then he stepped inside.
His eyes went straight to Sam, who now lay in the hospital bed, pale and still against the white sheets. A bandage was taped just above his temple. An IV snaked from his arm, and a thin monitor blinked quietly at his side.
John’s chest tightened. “You okay, kiddo?” he asked, voice trying for steady.
Sam’s eyes fluttered open at the sound. “Yeah,” he murmured faintly.
Then John’s gaze flicked to Dean, who had moved to the edge of the bed, a hand curled protectively around Sam’s wrist. He looked tense and braced, like he was holding himself together with sheer willpower. His sleeve was still stained with blood. And he wouldn’t look up.
“You okay, too?” John asked, gentler now, unsure.
Dean gave the barest nod, his eyes still fixed on Sam. Still avoiding John’s.
John’s mouth opened, closed. He took a tentative step forward. “You—you did good, getting him here.”
Nothing.
“You’re not in trouble,” he added, softer. “You know that, right?”
That made Dean blink once. Slowly.
“I didn’t think I was,” he said flatly, still not looking up.
John felt that like a gut punch. Not defiant. Not afraid. Just cold distance. He stared at the kid, uncertain of how to reach him — how to undo that wall he just put up again.
John exhaled roughly. “Okay. Just making sure.”
Still nothing.
Then Sam stirred slightly, and Dean moved at once. He leaned in close, whispered something low into Sam’s hair, his hand tightening around his brother’s wrist.
John watched the scene — the protectiveness, the weight the older boy carried like it was second nature.
He should’ve said more. Should’ve said thank you. Should’ve put a hand on Dean’s shoulder and told him he’d done exactly what a big brother was supposed to do.
But all he could do was stand there, awkward and out of place.
“You want me to bring anything for tonight?” John asked at last. “Toothbrush? Clean clothes?”
Dean didn’t answer right away. Just kept his eyes on Sam.
Then — a small shake of the head. “We’re fine.”
No glance his way.
John swallowed, the rejection sharper than he wanted to admit. “Alright, then,” he said.
He stepped closer but didn’t try to touch either of them. “Get some rest. Both of you. I’ll pick you up as soon as Tyler’s cleared.”
Dean didn’t answer. Sam murmured a weak, “Okay.”
John hovered a beat longer. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Try to get some rest tonight, boys.”
He waited, just in case.
But nothing came.
With a sigh, he turned and stepped out.

Mary was waiting just outside, arms loosely folded, eyes watching him closely.
“You still on shift?” he asked, voice taut despite the casual attempt.
She nodded, expression softening.
“You’ll keep an eye on them, then?”
Her smile was gentle, touched with something sad. “’Course I will.”
John nodded, part of him relieved, part of him aching. “Call me if anything changes. Or when it’s time to pick them up.”
“I will.”
He stood a moment longer, as if something else hovered on the tip of his tongue. But instead, he gave a faint nod and turned, his boots echoing against the linoleum as he disappeared down the hallway.
Mary watched until he was gone. Then she turned, exhaling quietly, and walked back toward the nurses’ station. There were still other patients to check on — a toddler with a mild fever and a teenager with a sprained wrist waiting on discharge papers. She moved efficiently, answering questions, adjusting a blanket, offering soft reassurances and chart updates. But part of her mind stayed with the boys, her thoughts circling like a low hum beneath every task.
When things had settled enough, she gathered what she could: a clean, folded towel, a travel toothbrush still in its packaging, and a bottle of water. She balanced it all on top of a paper cup with a few packets of saltine crackers tucked inside. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
As she reached the boys’ room, she slowed.
The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of silver light cutting across the floor. She nudged it open silently with her shoulder.
Dean was curled beside his brother on the narrow hospital bed, his long legs hanging slightly off the edge. One arm was carefully wrapped around Sam’s shoulders, the other cradling his head with a gentleness that took her breath away. Not quite touching the cut — just fingertips resting in his brother’s hair, steady and familiar. Reassuring. Comforting.
And he was singing.
“Hey Jude, don’t make it bad…”
The words came soft, almost inaudible, barely a whisper. The kind of song you don’t have to think about to remember. The kind of song buried so deep it only comes out when you’re too tired to guard your heart.
Mary froze in the doorway.
Her chest constricted. It wasn’t just the sound of it — it was the memory it pulled from somewhere primal, something unguarded and pure. She hadn’t heard that song in a decade. Not since—
Not since she used to sing it herself.
To a baby with wild lashes and soft hair. A baby who used to hum with her even before he could speak. A toddler who’d climb into her lap without asking, who’d press his warm forehead to hers and say, “Again, Mama. Again.”
The moonlight slipped just past the curtain, falling across Dean’s face — and she saw it.
Truly saw him.
How could she not have noticed it earlier?
The angle of his jaw. The long lashes. The faint, familiar sprinkle of freckles that scattered across his nose and cheeks. Eyes shut, brows furrowed with worry, but the edges of him so painfully, intimately known.
A shockwave rolled through her, like something inside her breaking and clicking into place all at once.
She suddenly had flashbacks of holding her little boy in the quiet hours of the night. Of running her fingers through thick, dark hair — always a little unruly, yet perfectly his own. It was darker now, richer, but still carried that same wild energy beneath the surface. She remembered tracing his freckles with the tip of her finger just to count them, to memorize them.
His eyes had always been that same sharp green, impossibly clear, like spring leaves after rain.
He used to sleep with one tiny fist curled into her shirt and wake up with a grin that crinkled the corners of those eyes. He’d laugh so hard he’d hiccup, clinging to her neck like he’d never let go.
Mary’s hand shook, and the towel nearly slipped from her grasp.
He was older now, taller, so much older — but the curve of his cheek was the same. The way he curled protectively around his brother. The song.
The song.
Oh God, she whispered.
Her voice caught in her throat, a sound barely audible even to herself.
She stared at him — at both of them — and it hit her, not as a thought but a knowing, deep and unshakeable.
They’re mine.
Not just in blood or theory. Not as some strange twist of fate. But in every fiber of their being. These boys — this sweet boy, singing in the dark, still holding pieces of her memory without knowing — he was hers.

How could she not have seen it?

Chapter Text

John unlocked the apartment door with a grunt, still thinking about the way the kid had refused to look at him. That closed-off posture. The tight set of his jaw. How he hadn’t said a single word.
Something heavy pressed into his chest. Guilt, maybe. Or Worry. Fear. Or all — tangled up into one unrelenting ache.

He stepped inside and flicked on the light. The apartment was dim, the air stale, like no one had really lived in it that day. His boots thudded against the worn hardwood as he crossed the small living room.
He was halfway to the bathroom when he saw them.
The bags.
Two of them. Sam’s little backpack and Dean’s duffel, half-zipped and braced like they’d been dropped mid-movement. A jacket tossed over the top.
John stopped cold.
His heart stuttered — an ugly, lurching jolt in his chest.

They’d packed.
They’d packed. Fully packed. Not just the haphazard mess of kids being messy — this was deliberate. Thought-out.
Had they tried to leave?
His mind reeled, a million half-finished thoughts chasing each other.
Had they planned to run? To run from him? Was that why Dean wouldn’t look at him? Why he’d barely spoken?

He stepped closer, kneeling beside the duffel. The zipper resisted slightly, snagging on a crumpled shirt, but he pulled it open anyway.
Everything was there —their clothes, some toiletries, few snacks, a flashlight, a roll of bills tucked inside a sock.
A plan.
A goddamn plan.

John’s throat went dry. His hands clenched, then released — like his body didn’t know what to do with itself.
He sank down onto the floor, slowly. Back thudding softly against the wall. The bags stared back at him.
So ordinary.
Small and battered, filled with nothing — and yet everything.
Jesus, kid. You were gonna take your brother and just go?
He could barely breathe past it. The idea of Dean making the decision. Of quietly packing the bags. Of leaving without a goodbye.
Elbows on his knees, hands slack between them, he didn’t move for a long time.

He'd missed something. Or maybe he’d missed everything. And now it was here, silent and devastating, in the shape of two bags by the door.
Packed by a fifteen-year-old who didn’t trust that he’d be protected. Who thought leaving was safer than staying.
Dean had been ready to leave.
He ran both hands down his face. Something inside him cracked wide open, low and deep.

He had failed.
Again.

***

Mary lingered outside the room longer than she meant to. Her heartbeat had taken up all the space in her chest — too loud, too wild, shaking her ribs with every thud. The towel and toothbrush felt heavier now. Her fingers curled tighter around them.

She had made a decision.

She took a deep breath, knocked once and stepped inside.

Dean looked up. Not startled — just aware. His eyes met hers for a moment, unreadable. Sam was asleep again, his head resting against his brother’s shoulder.

Mary walked in, careful, quiet.

She hesitated by the bed, then held out the towel and toothbrush. “Brought you these,” she said. Her voice was steadier than she expected.

She looked at him — just a beat too long. Long enough to take in the lines on his face that didn’t belong to a fifteen-year-old. The darker hair, the guarded mouth. And those green eyes — older than they should be, hollowed with things a kid shouldn't know.

Long enough for it to hurt.

She blinked and looked down, pretending to adjust the fold in the towel. “Figured you’d want to clean up a little,” she added — casual, like her heart hadn’t just twisted.

Dean didn’t move at first. Then a small nod, barely perceptible. He took the towel without a word, then the toothbrush. His fingers brushed hers in the handoff, warm and dry.

She stood a second too long, then cleared her throat. “I just need to do a quick swab, then you and your brother can rest,” she said. “Cheeks. Routine.”

His brow furrowed, faint. But he didn’t protest.
Trusted her enough to open his mouth and let her swipe the inside of his cheek gently with the sterile cotton tip.

She moved on to Sam, who stirred under her hand, but didn’t wake. Mumbled something she didn’t catch.

“Shh, sweetheart,” she murmured, brushing his hair back. She took the second swab and stepped away, the small vials now tucked into her coat pocket.

And just like that it was done.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet. Then she looked at Dean — again — a second too long.

He was watching her, too.

Something wary in his face. Guarded. Chin tilted ever so slightly like he was bracing for something — but underneath it, there was something softer.

Mary’s heart ached.

And then — quietly, almost like he didn’t mean to — Dean spoke.
“You look like an angel,” he said. A whisper. No sarcasm. No grin.

Just a simple sentence that sounded like something remembered, not said.

Mary froze.

He didn’t look away.

Maybe he knew.

God, maybe he didn’t know how he knew, but some part of him — the part that sang lullabies to his brother — knew.

Or maybe he didn’t.
Maybe it was his way of saying goodbye.

Mary swallowed hard. Her throat burned, something stinging at the corners of her eyes.

The urge to touch him was suddenly so overwhelming — to touch his face, to brush the worry from his forehead the way she had once for her little boy, to held him close and never let go.
But she didn’t.
“Thank you,” she said softly. Her voice caught. “Get some rest, okay?”

Dean nodded once and turned away, shifting just enough to hold Sam closer. He didn’t say another word.

She lingered a moment longer — just one. And in her pocket, the two vials clinked gently against each other as she stepped out into the hallway.

***

She walked quickly, too quickly, through the dim halls of the hospital.
Her heart pumped so hard, she thought it would jump out of her chest any second.
She leaned against the wall and let the breath leave her body like she’d been holding it for ten years.

The envelope in her hands felt too light for what it carried.
Names written in her own rushed handwriting — David and Tyler Miller.

She pushed forward.

The forensics corridor was quiet, fluorescent lights humming overhead. Her footsteps echoed like they didn’t quite belong. Yet, the halls were too quiet for how loud her thoughts were. Her breath was steady, but her grip was iron.

At the end of the hall, she spotted Lena.
Lab coat, goggles propped on her head, typing rapidly at a terminal. Clipboard jammed under one arm, looking like she hadn’t sat down all day.

Lena turned — and paused.
Her expression softened the moment she saw her friend’s face. “You okay?”

“Lena,” Mary said breathless. Her voice sounded foreign in her throat.
She held out the envelope. “I need a DNA match. Fast.”

Lena’s brows knit as she reached for the envelope, her touch light against Mary’s.
Mary’s fingers clung to the edge a moment too long before she let go.

“I need it prioritized,” she added, quieter now. “Please.”

Lena studied her, just for a second.
Then her hand came up and settled briefly on Mary’s. Grounding. Warm.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll put it through myself.”

Mary nodded tightly. She looked away — jaw clenched too hard, eyes burning.

Lena glanced down at the envelope again.
David and Tyler Miller.

She looked back up.

“Isn’t that the kid you took care of? The one with the freckles and the attitude?”, she asked softly.
Mary swallowed. Nodded.

“He looks just like you,” Lena said quietly. Not a question. A statement. Not with judgment—just understanding.

And that undid something.

Her breath hitched. She turned her head away and blinked hard.

“Yeah,” she managed. “I know.”

Lena didn’t press. She just squeezed Mary’s hand again. “I’ll call you the second it comes through. I promise.”

Mary nodded again, one breath from falling apart.

The rest of her shift passed in a blur.
She tried to work, tried to breathe, but nothing felt real. Her hands moved on autopilot — adjusting drips, logging vitals, nodding when people spoke. Her phone stayed on the desk, face-up, volume on high. Every buzz made her jump, even though it was too soon.

At 11:03 p.m., her double shift ended.
But instead of heading for the exit, she turned left, toward the administrative wing. She needed to know. Needed to make sense of it all.

She passed the window of the peds ward — lights low, machines blinking softly. Somewhere in there were the boys.

Her boys?

He had sung. And her heart hadn’t stopped pounding since.

***

Inside the office, the light above the filing shelf flickered slightly. She flipped through the cabinet tabs until she found what she needed.
Miller, David and Tyler.
No birth certificates. No family photos. Just manila folders, redacted copies, notes written in tight, clinical handwriting. It felt wrong, touching them.
She slid the first file open with shaking fingers.
________________________________________
Name: David Miller
Assigned by intake worker. No birth certificate or identifying records provided.
Date of Birth (Estimated): January 1, 1979
Note: Placeholder date. Child did not know his exact birthday.
CPS Intake: November 5, 1983 — Estimated age at intake: 4 years, 10 months
Assigned Caseworker: Amanda Harris
Accompanied by: Tyler Miller (infant), estimated age: 5–7 months
Parental Information: Unknown. No legal guardian identified.
________________________________________
Jesus, Mary thought. All the dates… It all matched.
Why didn’t she look into this earlier? How had she missed this? The files? The names? The way she felt drawn to the boy from the very beginning?
Her eyes drifted to the notes beneath.
“Didn’t speak for first nine months. Request for joint placement whenever possible. Refuses separate placement and exhibits extreme distress when separated from sibling. Very protective of sibling.”
She swallowed, heart aching.
Dean. Sammy.
She turned the page.
________________________________________
Medical History Highlights:
• Minor concussions (x3), various dates
• Malnutrition noted at age 7 — improved by age 8
• Broken wrist (age 9), reportedly from fall — inconsistencies in caregiver statements
• Appendectomy (age 12)
• Most recent: contusions, fractured ribs, broken arms, minor head injury (see ED report)
________________________________________
Placement History:
– Initial placement: November 10, 1983 — emergency foster home (Fayetteville, AR)
– Subsequent placements: eight total across three counties
– Longest placement: 2 years, 4 months — placement disrupted due to alleged neglect
– Most recent: Family Thompson — both minors absconded from placement approximately two months prior to hospitalization
________________________________________
The next file held hand-scrawled addendums — notes added over the years in different pens, different hands.
Behavioral Observations:
– Initial intake: “Doesn’t speak. Withdrawn. Extremely protective of younger brother.”
– Age 6: Reported sleep disturbances. Frequently checked on younger sibling at night; requested to share room whenever possible.
– Age 7: Declined individual therapy.
– Age 10: Attempted to follow younger sibling after transfer to separate placement. Located two days later near prior foster home — both children together.
– Age 12: Confrontation with foster parent after brother was allegedly hit. Incident escalated. Placement dissolved.
– Ongoing: Extremely protective. Refuses to be placed separately. Distrustful of adults. Hypervigilant. Escalates quickly when sibling is perceived to be in danger. Disruptive in classroom settings. Frequently disciplined at school for physical altercations or defiance. Defensive posture with authority figures.
________________________________________
She closed the folder too hard.
These weren’t just case files.
They were evidence of survival.
Paper scars.

These weren’t just facts.
These were pieces of her son, her boys.
How had she not seen it sooner?
How could she not have known?

And suddenly, she was just sitting there — alone in the office, crying. Quiet, shaking sobs under the dim fluorescent light.

There were only feet away, down the hall.
The whole time… they’d been so close.
And she hadn’t known.

Suffering. Alone. Abandoned.
She went home in the early morning.
Sleep didn’t even try to follow.

Chapter Text

Sam was curled beneath the thin hospital blanket, a faint bruise blooming under his bangs. He was quietly reading The Boxcar Children — a worn paperback given to him by one of the night nurses, who’d said it reminded her of “kids who always look out for each other”.
Sam was already halfway through.
Dean sat hunched in the chair beside him, legs folded up, chin resting on his knees, sleeves pulled over his hands. He hadn’t really slept — not last night, not the one before.
The TV was on, muted, flickering silently in the corner.
Dean didn’t watch it. He just watched his brother.

A soft knock broke the stillness.

Erin stood in the doorway, her voice low and gentle as always.
“Morning, you two. Results are in—you’re cleared to go.”

Dean lifted his head, slow and wary. “So… he’s okay? Really okay?”

Erin stepped in, clipboard hugged to her chest. “Absolutely. Slept through the night, no nausea, no confusion. Neurology signed off not even ten minutes ago. He just needs rest. Then he’ll be back to bossing you around in no time.”

Dean’s shoulders sagged, barely, but it was enough.

Sam smiled. “So we’re going home?”

Erin leaned over to smooth his blanket. “You are. Doctor’s orders.”

Sam grinned faintly. “Cool.”

Dean looked at Erin again. “Thanks. For watching out for him.”

Erin smiled. “It was no bother.”
Dean hesitated. “Could you… could you tell Mary ‘thank you’, too? For everything?”
Her expression softened. “I will. I know she really wanted to be here this morning, but it’s her first morning off in four shifts.”
Then Erin sighed, mock dramatic. “That said, I think we’ve hit our quota on hospital visits, boys. Next time you miss us, just drop by and say hello like normal people.”
Dean huffed a soft, real laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”

Sam shrugged, beaming. “Deal.”
Behind her, the sound of boots echoed from the hall. John filled the doorway a second later — he looked tired, but alert.
His eyes went straight to Sam. Then shifted to Dean. His gaze lingered there a beat too long, like he was trying to read something buried under the silence.
Dean didn’t look up at first. Then he did — briefly. Their eyes met. Just for a second. Then Dean dropped his gaze again and stood up.
John’s chest tightened. Something was off. No — not just off. Wrong. The silence wasn’t just exhaustion anymore. It was distance.
“You guys ready?” John asked, voice even.
Sam smiled, nodded.
Dean didn’t answer. Just moved to get Sam’s jacket and his own, quietly efficient. Like John hadn’t spoken at all.
John looked over at Erin, who was already offering him the clipboard. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes met his — soft, understanding, maybe even a little tired for him.
John signed the discharge papers while Erin fetched their things — a half-drunk juice box, Dean’s balled-up sweatshirt, the battered paperback.
Dean helped Sam sit up, sliding his sneakers on for him like it was muscle memory.
“You good to go?” he asked, voice low.
Sam nodded. “Yeah.”
Dean’s hand hovered at his back as they stepped out into the hall. Sam leaned into the touch.
John held the door open. No one spoke.
They walked into the cool morning, pale sunlight washing everything in that gray-blue of early day.
Dean took the front seat, tugging his hood up, arms crossed, gaze fixed straight ahead. Sam slid into the back, pulling his book against his chest.
John started the engine, glanced once at Dean, opening his mouth as if to speak, then closing it. The silence between them had thickened over the past days and he just didn’t know how to cross it.

The hospital faded behind them, white brick and flickering lights shrinking in the mirror.

The silence stretched.

***
Mary had just stepped out of the shower when she heard it — the sharp, insistent buzz of her phone.

She froze.

Water still clung to her skin, dripping down her spine in rivulets, towel clutched around her shoulders. The world outside the fogged glass of the mirror narrowed to that one sound.

Her breath caught.

She grabbed the phone like it might disappear — thumb slippery against the screen — and saw it:
LENA.

Her heart stuttered. This is it.

It had been almost 24 hours since she’d handed Lena the samples. Mary had told herself she’d be patient. Had tried to stay busy — sorting boxes, making tea she never drank, folding laundry that didn’t need folding. But none of it stuck. None of it filled the unbearable silence.
And now — now, finally — the wait was over.

She answered on the first ring.

“Hey,” came Lena’s voice. Low. Measured. Gentle.

Mary’s mouth opened but no sound came.

There was a pause — not awkward, not uncomfortable, just heavy. As though the whole world had stopped turning to listen in.

“It’s ready,” Lena said quietly. “I printed it out for you. You can come pick it up.”

The silence that followed was anything but empty.
It thundered in Mary’s ears — the rush of blood, the ragged edge of hope, the terrified pulse of a mother who'd lost everything once and might, impossibly, be about to find it again.
She pressed her palm flat against her chest, trying to anchor her heart in place.
It didn’t work.

She was out the door before she’d fully dried off, hair still damp, keys in hand, her breath tight in her throat. The roads blurred beneath her. Every stoplight felt like a personal offense. Every second stretched like molasses.
She had never been faster at the hospital.

Lena didn’t say much. She didn’t have to.

The envelope she handed over was thick and official — plain manila, but in Mary’s hands, it felt sacred. Too heavy. Too charged. Like a lifetime she’d lost.

She didn’t open it in the lab. Didn’t make eye contact. Just whispered a breathless, “Thank you,” and turned away.

She made it as far as the parking lot before her legs started to shake.

Sitting behind the wheel, she placed the envelope in her lap. Just stared at it.
It was only paper.
Ink on a page.

Her hands hovered above the seal, trembling.

And then — finally — she tore it open.

The paper inside crackled as she unfolded it. She couldn’t breathe.

Her eyes scanned the top line — name, date, case number — and kept going. Down past the statistical data, the percentages, the alleles — until she saw it.

Biological Relationship: Parent–Child.
Positive match.

A sound escaped her. It was almost a laugh. Almost a sob. Something in between. Something broken and joyful and stunned beyond repair.

Her fingers clenched the edge of the paper so tight it crinkled.
And still, she just stared.

Because for years — she had hoped. Had wondered. Had dreamed, even against reason.
She had imagined it in the quiet, when the lights were off and her heart was louder than her thoughts: What if they’d survived? What if we had a second chance?

When she first heard Dean hum under his breath — the lullaby she used to sing when the world was still whole — she’d felt it. Like something shifted in her bones. A flicker of knowing. A tug of intuition so fierce it almost hurt. He’s mine, some deep, ancient part of her had whispered.
But that had only been a feeling. A hope. A thread of possibility too fragile to say aloud.

Now—
Now it was ink on paper.
Now it was truth.

No more dreams. No more ifs. No more guessing.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “They’re ours.”

Her vision blurred. Her body rocked.

Her boys.
Alive.
Real.

The boys she thought she’d lost forever.

Her fingers flew to her phone.
She opened a message, heart pounding.

Need to talk to you ASAP. Call me. —M

She hit send.
To John.

Then she clutched the paper to her chest and let herself break — finally, completely — with joy and grief tangled together.

***

The apartment was too quiet.

Tension hung in the air like humidity before a storm, thick and pressing.
John helped Sam onto the couch, wincing as the boy sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Hang on, kid,” John mumbled and grabbed a throw pillow, tucking it gently behind Sam’s back. His eyes flicked to the bruising at Sam’s temple.
“I’ll get you some ice,” he muttered.

He disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of the freezer drawer yanking open punctuating the silence like gunfire. He returned with a towel-wrapped bag of ice, placing it carefully in Sam’s hand. The boy flinched slightly at the touch, but nodded in thanks.

John’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Once. Twice. He ignored it.

Then he turned to Dean. “Why don’t you sit down, too?”

Dean didn’t move. He stood near the door, arms crossed, jaw locked, like a guard waiting for a fight.

John sighed. “Or not.” His voice was edged with sarcasm, but mostly exhaustion.

“What happened here yesterday morning?” he asked, leveling his gaze at the boy. “How did Tyler fall?” John’s voice was low, steady — but there was something coiled behind it. Tiredness, maybe. Or suspicion. The way he looked at Dean, not with anger, but with that kind of quiet pressure that made it impossible to hide.

For a second, Dean didn’t move. His jaw tightened. His hands stayed shoved deep into his pockets like he could anchor himself there, like if he just held on tight enough, the question might blow past him.

“He slipped,” Dean said. Too fast. Too flat.
He didn’t look up. Didn’t blink.

John didn’t speak right away. Just watched him. And Dean knew — he knew — that John wasn’t buying it.
And still, John didn’t raise his voice. Just said, quieter this time, “He slipped?”
John then glanced at Sam, who sat rigid on the couch, eyes wide, wound freshly iced. “That true, Tyler?” he asked, the disbelief clear in his voice.

There was a beat of silence — and then Sam nodded.
“Yes,” he said simply. “I fell.”
He was covering.
The way he said it — too quick, too eager — and the way he looked at Dean right after, like he was checking he’d done it right…

Something was off.

Something was very off.

His phone buzzed again, but John just kept going. He turned back to Dean, narrowing his eyes.

“And any reason why you had your bags packed before Tyler fell?”

The room froze.

Dean’s eyes widened, just a fraction—but enough. His mouth opened. Closed. He went pale.
Sam looked to his brother, unsure. Quietly afraid.

“What bags?” Dean asked, but his voice was too airy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” John’s voice dropped, heavy with disbelief. “Because you looked pretty damn ready to take off.”

Dean didn’t answer. He just stared at the floor like it might swallow him whole.

John’s heart sank. So he really had been trying to run.

“Something’s off,” he said slowly. “I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it. Is this about the new foster family? Is that it? Are you scared? You don’t like them? You don’t have to go. Either of you. I can work things out with CPS. If this is what you want…”

“No,” Dean breathed. It came out hollow. He still wouldn’t look at John.

The doorbell rang.

John flinched. “Jesus.”

He opened the door—and there she was.

Mary. Her coat soaked from the light drizzle outside. In her arms, she cradled an envelope like it was something sacred.

“Mary,” John said, rubbing his hand down his face. “Now really isn’t a good time—”
But she swept past him, her boots wet on the hardwood floor, heading straight for the living room.

“We need to talk,” she said, her voice urgent. Rough. Full of emotion. “It’s important.”

She turned the corner—and her eyes met Dean’s.

Dean flinched. His shoulders drew up, defensively, instinctively. Mary’s gaze didn’t break. She looked into his eyes like she was seeing something only she could recognize. Something she knew.
And he knew it, too.

Dean glanced down at the envelope. Then at Mary. She looked right into him, past every layer, every lie, every scar. His very soul.

“Alright,” Dean said flatly. “We are done here. Tyler, come on. We’re out.”

“What? What’s going on?” Sam asked, confused. “I don’t want to go. You’ve been acting so weird since the day before yesterday. What’s going on?”

John stepped forward. “What do you mean you’re leaving? Where are you even going?”

Dean didn’t answer. He turned, grabbed the nearest bag without checking its contents, slung it over his shoulder. No jacket. No plan. Just the urgent need to go. To flee.

Mary’s voice cut through the room. “Please—stop. Just stop. Sit down. Let us talk.”

He brushed past her, jaw clenched. “I’m done. I don’t need this.”

His back was turned to them. He reached for the door handle – body tense, breathing hard – but Mary’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Dean.”

Just his name.
So much in that one single word.

Mary’s voice had been soft—but it had carried so much. Love. Hope. Desperation. Grief.

Everything stilled.

Dean’s hand froze on the doorknob. His shoulders stiffened. The silence that followed was suffocating.

John stared.
Sam gasped.

And Dean—Dean stood there like a boy who’d been caught in the dark.

Sam looked between them. “Dean?” he whispered, scared.

Mary stepped forward, her voice gentle, yet trembling with the weight of what she’s about to reveal. “You knew,” she whispered. “Oh my God. You knew.”

Dean turned slowly.

His face was red now, painfully flushed. His lips trembled like he wanted to form words but couldn’t. The rawness of the moment was too much for him to process. He looked from Mary to John to Sam, like he was trying to disappear right there on the spot.

“Mary?” John asked, his voice small.

Mary didn’t look at him. Her eyes were on Dean.

“You knew, didn’t you?” she whispered. “You figured it out. Who you are.”

Dean’s fists clenched, trembling.
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“Stop,” he said. Barely audible. Guarded, like he couldn’t handle hearing it, seeing it.
The truth.
Like the world is closing in on him.

But Mary stepped forward again, eyes still brimming with love.

“You sang our song,” she said softly.
“Yesterday. You were lying in that hospital bed,” she said, eyes locked on his. “Your brother tucked against your side, and your arm around him like you were the only thing standing between him and the world.”

She paused, breath catching.

“And you were singing. Soft and slow. Our lullaby. Oh, I used to hum it so many times when you were little.”

Her voice broke just a little.

“That’s when I knew. “

“I don’t want to be here. I want to go. Please. Let’s just go.”
He looked at his little brother, pleading, tears in his eyes.

Mary placed the envelope gently on the coffee table, moving as if she hadn’t heard his plea.

“It’s a match,” she said, almost reverently. “It’s real. I still can’t believe it.”

She looked between the two boys, then settled on John.

Her voice shaking, yet so happy, so relieved. “We got our boys back, John. Our sweet, brave Dean, our sweet little Sammy.”

The words hit like a thunderclap.

John’s world spun. He didn’t know what to say, what to think. The room felt like it was closing in on him.

Sam got pale. “What?”, he rasped.

Dean flinched. His head snapped up, he was backing away. “No. No, this isn’t real,” he stammered. “You’re just—this is crazy. You’re all crazy.”

His voice cracked. Didn’t have any weight. The room tilted around him.

Mary didn’t stop. “I thought I lost you. I thought you were gone forever. And now you’re here. You’re right here.”

She reached for him.

Dean backed away even further.

“God, you have no idea how much I missed you. Every. Single. Day. There hasn’t been a single day I didn’t ache for you.”

Dean’s chest heaved and then – he just broke.

The sob tore out of him like it had been waiting for years, clawing its way up from somewhere deep and ancient. He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for anyone. Just stood there, shaking—hands limp at his sides, tears running unchecked down his face.

Mary crossed the room in two strides and pulled him into her arms before he could protest, before he could vanish into himself. She held him so tightly it seemed she might never let go, her embrace fierce with everything she’d carried for years—grief, guilt, hope, love.

He was almost as tall as her now, but in that moment, he was just a boy needing his mama. He didn’t reach for her—he just let himself be held, face buried in her neck, trembling.

And Mary held him through it all. Through the loss. Through the grief for what was and what would never be. Through the pain, the damage, the pieces of him no one had seen until now.

Then, finally, he grabbed fistfuls of her shirt, clutching at her like a lifeline, desperately as if holding on to her might hold him together.

The tears came in violent waves, raw and messy, his entire body wracked with the force of it.

Mary felt the heat of them soak through her shirt.

Her own tears slid silently into his damp, sweat-matted hair.

She just held him, whispering through the trembling in her voice, a voice so full of love:
“I’ve got you,” she murmured. “I’ve got you now. You’re safe. You’re home.”

John stood frozen, watching the boy—his boy—fall apart in Mary’s arms. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. The pain in his chest was crushing, a silent scream lodged in his throat.

Sam sat motionless on the couch – eyes wide, wet – the melting ice pack forgotten, dripping into his lap. He watched Dean like he was seeing him for the very first time.

Pain filled the room, the kind that couldn’t be solved with words, the kind that only time could try to heal.

No one spoke. They didn’t have to.

Chapter Text

Dean was still crying. Shaking. The kind of crying that came from somewhere deep, a wound too deep for words.

Mary held him even tighter, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other smoothing down his back in slow, gentle lines. Her chin rested lightly against his hair.

“You’re safe,” she whispered, over and over, like a prayer. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
She could feel him fighting to calm down — sharp little inhales against her collarbone, a breath held too long, a shudder that cracked through when he couldn’t hold it anymore.

She didn’t rush him. Just stayed, arms wrapped around him like shelter.

She pressed a kiss to the crown of his head and finally glanced up.

John hadn’t moved.

He stood a few feet away, rigid and pale, like his entire body had locked into place. His eyes were fixed on Dean. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Next to him, still sunk into the couch, Sam looked just as lost. Small, still, flicking his gaze between Dean, Mary, and John. Unsure where to go. Unsure what to do.

Mary’s heart twisted. She kept one arm around Dean — and lifted the other.

Wordless. Just a gesture. A quiet invitation.

Sam stared at her for a moment, as if unsure he’d understood. Then, slowly, he rose and stepped forward, hesitating for only a second before folding himself into her side.

She pulled him close, fitting him against her shoulder, and for a moment — impossibly — she held them both. Dean, trembling but slowly settling. Sam, softening into her warmth.

Mary closed her eyes. She hadn’t dreamed this moment in years — hadn’t dared.
But here it was. Her boys, in her arms.
Safe. Breathing. Real.

She kissed Dean’s head again. Then Sam’s hair. Soft and slow and reverent.

They stayed like that for quite some time, wrapped in silence, in breath, in the fragile peace of now. Eventually, Sam shifted, and Mary loosened her arm around him. Sam took a small step back, their eyes meeting — a small smile passed between them, quiet and understanding.
John, who had just stood nearby until now—motionless and frozen, quietly watching the scene before him—suddenly shifted, as if a weight had been lifted from his chest, one he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying for ten years.

He began to look like a man just starting to believe they hadn’t lost everything—realizing that maybe, just maybe, they had another chance.
He had pictured this moment—the moment he would finally be reunited with his boys—more times than he could count, imagining it in fragments like a patchwork of desperate dreams sewn together with hope.

In the first months, when the house was still full of echoes—Sam’s baby giggles, Dean’s chatter—John would lie awake, fists curled tight in the sheets, imagining the doorbell ringing.

A police officer on the other side, serious but kind. “We found them.”
He’d rush out past them, sprinting to the car.
And there they’d be.

Dean, five years old, leaping into his arms, sobbing into his jacket. Sam, tiny and bundled, reaching out with chubby hands and sleepy eyes. Home.

Other nights, Dean grew older in his mind.
Eight. Then ten. Then twelve.
Always a little tougher, always with that same stubborn jaw, that glint in his eyes.
Still his. Always his.

Sometimes, the dream flipped. Dean would find him.

Walk up to the porch one day with Sam behind him and simply say, “Long time.”

John had imagined grocery stores, gas stations, street corners—anywhere. Dean’s voice calling out: Dad?
He’d turn. There’d be silence for half a second, and then he’d drop everything and pull his boys into his arms and would never let them go.

Other times, the dreams were darker.

He found them starving. Hurt. Silent and shaking. John would fall to his knees, promising them to fix it all.

That’s what had kept him from falling apart.
That flicker of something just short of impossible.

Even when the police gave up. Even when the case grew cold.
Even when Mary stopped saying “maybe” out loud.

He never let go of those moments in his mind. Of that one day.

And now—

Now here they were.

His sons.
Suddenly, he crossed the space between them in two long strides, chest tight — every part of him aching with memory and disbelief.

His eyes found Sam’s, and when he spoke, his voice came rough, low. “C’mere, kiddo.”

John pulled him in without hesitation, arms wrapping tightly around him, his chin settling on Sam’s head.

“So glad we got you back, Sammy,” he murmured into his son’s hair. “So glad.”

Sam didn’t answer — just leaned into the hug, quiet and trusting, the same way he had with Mary.
Then, after a second, small arms came up around John’s back, holding on.

John closed his eyes and pressed a kiss to the top of Sam’s head, letting it linger longer than he meant to.

Finally, he eased his hold, gave Sam’s shoulder a soft pat, and stepped back — slow, steady, reluctant.

Then he turned.
Dean was no longer in Mary’s arms. His breathing had calmed, his expression unreadable.
John took a step toward him — and suddenly, it felt like the air had been pulled from his lungs: ten years of aching, all rising at once.

Mary met his eyes across the space, her cheeks wet, her smile soft and sad.

“Hey, ace,” John’s voice cracked.

Dean didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t reach for him.

He just stood there — pale, silent, tear tracks drying on his cheeks, body tense.

And he looked at John.
Not afraid. Not angry.
Just cautious. Guarded.

John’s breath caught. He opened his arms, a little uncertain, trembling slightly, his heart pounding loud enough to fill the silence.
He waited.

Waited for Dean to rush in, to fold into his embrace like he always did in the dreams.

But Dean didn’t come.

So John crossed the distance — slowly, gently — and pulled him in.
Tight. Fierce. Desperate.
Like he could make up for a decade in a single hold.

Ten years. Ten goddamn years.

“I missed you,” he choked, tears blurring his vision. “God, Dean. I missed you so, so much.”

One hand cradled the back of Dean’s head; the other pressed flat between his shoulder blades.

“You did good,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You did so good.”

But Dean –
Dean didn’t hug him back.
Didn’t collapse into him. Didn’t say his name.
Didn’t say anything.
His arms hung limp at his sides. His body stayed stiff.

John felt the difference almost immediately — the stillness, the hesitation, the lack of warmth.
His smile faltered.

This wasn’t the moment he’d pictured. Not the reunion he’d played through a thousand times in his head.

So John let go — slowly, gently, unwillingly.

He stepped back just enough to see Dean’s face.

Dean was still watching him. But the boy John remembered wasn’t looking back.

“I just…” he said, his voice barely audible, almost like an apology, “I just needed to hold you. I hope – I hope that was okay.”

Mary seemed to notice the tension too; she saw the stiffness in Dean’s shoulders and the way John had finally let go — confused and aching — his hands falling away as if unsure what to do with them anymore.

Quietly, she moved behind Dean and brushed her fingers along his back, grounding him. It was the only thing he responded to, a faint tilt of his head toward her touch.
John suddenly felt a chill settle over him.

“Why don’t we all sit down?” Mary said softly, her voice steady. “I’ll make some cocoa.”

Neither Dean nor John responded, but Sam gave her a small nod, which Mary took as a quiet yes. Without waiting for anything more, she turned toward the kitchen.

She didn’t rush — letting the familiar sound of the kettle fill the space, something normal and warm: the cocoa mixing, the soft clink of mugs. A rhythm that helped steady them all.

Behind her, she heard slow, hesitant movement. The couch creaked as Sam settled in first, curling up on one end with his legs tucked beneath him. After a long pause, Dean sat down beside him— stiff and straight, hands folded tightly in his lap.

Mary carried over the tray and set it gently on the coffee table.
“Here,” she said, handing Dean a mug first.

Dean stared at the mug for a moment before finally taking it, his fingers wrapping around the warmth — but he didn’t drink.

Mary then handed Sam his mug, followed by John’s.

She finally settled onto the floor and patted the spot beside her, a quiet invitation for John to join her.

For a long moment, they simply sat together.

Steam curling from the mugs. Silence pressing in.

Mary took a slow sip of her cocoa, cradling the mug as if it could anchor her amidst the storm of questions swirling inside her. Though her own thoughts raced, she set them aside, turning her full attention to the boys.

“This has to be a lot to take in,” she said softly. “You must have so many questions.”

Sam nodded. “You really are our parents? Like, for real?”

“For really real,” Mary smiled warmly.

“So we won’t go to the Bakers now? Will we stay… with you?” He glanced first at Mary, then John, and finally at Dean, who still stared down at his hands.

Mary gave a reassuring nod. “We’ll have to contact CPS to sort out the details, but I promise, kiddo, we’re not letting you go again.”

Sam looked thoughtful, silent for a moment.

John broke the quiet with a soft, half-joking question, “That okay?”

Sam grinned, breaking the tension. “Any chance we might get a dog, too?”

John and Mary exchanged soft smiles.

Then Sam’s tone shifted, more serious. “So… what happened? How did we get lost?”

John sighed deeply – this question was for him – and gathered himself, before he began to tell the same story he’d told a hundred times to police, reporters, search parties — but this time, the words stuck in his throat because this time, he was telling it to his sons.

“On November 2nd, 1983,” he said, voice low and rough, “we went on a picnic—you, your brother, and me. Your mom wasn’t feeling well, so she stayed home. I left you two on the blanket for maybe a minute or two. When I came back… you were gone. Just the blanket, Dean’s shoes, your rattle—that’s all that was left. The police were called right away. I called your mom—”
John glanced at Mary. She quickly looked away, pain flickering across her face—still too raw to bear.

“They searched for days, weeks… everywhere. It was on the news. Your mom and I put up posters everywhere. But you were just… gone. The case went cold fast—no clues, no witnesses, no sign of what happened.”

Dean’s face flickered with something for a moment before shutting down again.

Mary looked at him gently. “I was wondering – hoping maybe you could help fill in some blanks. Do you remember anything from when you went missing, sweetheart?”

Dean’s fingers tensed around his mug. “No,” he said quickly—too quickly.

John leaned forward slightly. “Nothing at all?” His voice was low, careful, rough around the edges.

Dean still wouldn’t meet their eyes. “I said no.”

“But you remembered your names—”

Dean’s mug began to tremble in his hands.

Sam glanced between Mary and John, then back at his brother.

The silence that followed wasn’t just awkward—it felt off, like something important was hiding in it.

“That’s okay,” Mary said quickly, her tone gentle. “We don’t have to talk about it tonight.”

Dean gave a small, stiff nod—barely more than a twitch—and leaned back into the couch.

The silence that followed was softer this time. Not quite comfortable, but no longer sharp-edged.

“How about I make some sandwiches?” Mary offered. “Bet you boys are hungry. I love my job, but the food at the hospital is just awful, isn’t it?”

Dean remained silent.

“That sounds good, thank you,” Sam said, speaking for both of them.

Mary stood and started toward the kitchen, then paused and turned to John. “Actually, can you help me in the kitchen for a sec? It’ll be faster if I don’t have to go through all your cupboards.”

John looked a little confused. “There’s just one, actually.”

She shot him a look and he understood—she wanted to give the boys some space. Some break.

He stood up. “You know what? I’ll help. Just lead the way.”

In the kitchen, John ran a hand through his hair.

Mary spoke up, her voice trembling. “How is this all possible? That day—when they disappeared—I thought…” Her voice cracked. “I thought they were dead. The cops said there was no way they could survive that long. Not with Sammy being just a baby.”

“I know,” John said softly, the weight of the words settling between them.

“Ten years,” he whispered, more to himself than to her.

“What do we do now?”

John slowly turned to her. There was no answer, no plan. Just the truth—heavy and surreal—sitting in the middle living room.

He didn’t know what to say—not after everything that had happened, everything he was still trying to process.

Finally, he said, “We will figure it out.”

And with that, they silently set about making far too many sandwiches.

By the time Mary returned to the living room, Dean was asleep, curled stiffly at one end of the couch. His arms were crossed, his body tense even in rest. Sam sat beside him, quiet and watchful.
She moved toward the boys carefully, balancing a plate of sandwiches she’d known— even while making them—weren’t going to be eaten. She didn’t say anything. Just lowered the plate onto the table, picked up the throw blanket, and gently draped it over Dean’s shoulders.

A moment later, John joined her, his footsteps slower than usual.

Sam shifted on the edge of the couch, hands clasped between his knees.

“You okay?” Mary asked softly. “You hungry, sweetheart? I made sandwiches with ham, salami, cheese…”

Sam looked up at her, then over at John. He hesitated. Then, without really answering her question, he said quietly, “Dean doesn’t like to talk about any of this. But I know… at least a little. I know about our names.”

Mary and John froze.

“It was after our third or fourth placement, I think,” Sam went on, his eyes drifting toward the blanket covering Dean. “I was four. It’s one of my first memories.”

John slowly sat down, saying nothing.

“There was this one house…” Sam’s voice tightened. “Not the worst, but cold. Nothing we did was ever right. The foster dad kept saying we were trash kids—that nobody wanted us. That’s why we were there.”

Mary flinched. John’s jaw tensed.

“One night, I asked Dean if we ever had real parents. If there was someone before all of that.”

Sam swallowed hard. “He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the ceiling forever. Then finally, he said, ‘Can you keep a secret?’”

Mary nodded slowly, eyes glassy.

“Like I said, he never liked talking about it. He always said he didn’t remember much. But that day he told me that we had a family once. That our mom looked like an angel and always smelled like strawberries. That our dad drove the coolest car in the world. And that our names weren’t really David and Tyler – they were Sam and Dean. We just got those because Dean didn’t talk for almost a year, and they had to call us something.”

Sam’s voice dropped to a hush.

“He said no one could ever know. That it was just ours.”
He looked down at his hands.

“It was the one thing no one could take from us. That even if people hit us, or lied to us, or made us pretend— they couldn’t touch who we really were. Because we remembered. Because we knew.”
Silence settled around them, heavy and full.

Sam’s voice cracked, just a little. “He made me promise not to tell any grown-ups. Ever. Because he had once. And they said he was lying. Said he was just making it up for attention. They even punished him… I didn’t understand everything then,” Sam murmured. “But I knew to trust Dean. So I kept the promise. And later… I understood.”

There was a short pause. Then Mary broke the silence.

“Thank you, Sam,” Mary said softly. “Thank you for telling us.”

Sam gave a small nod, then yawned.

Mary smiled. “How about an early bedtime tonight, huh? I think that’s enough excitement for one day.”

“Yeah… okay,” Sam said, rubbing his eyes a little. He stood up and started toward the bathroom, but paused in the doorway. He looked back at them, hesitating for a second.

“It’s really nice to finally meet you. To know they weren’t right, that there is someone who wants us. Really wants us.”

He glanced at Mary, a little shy. “And you do look like an angel.”
Then at John. “And your car really is cool.”

John had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Alright, tiger. Bed.”

As soon as Sam was out of earshot, John turned to Mary.

“You probably want to crash here tonight?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Mary said, her voice steady and sure.

John nodded, offering a tired smile. “Yeah… figured as much. Alright then—I’ll get Mr. Comatose here to bed, and I’ll take the couch. You can have my room.”

He leaned down and slid his arms under Dean’s back and knees. He lifted him slowly, barely breathing, afraid to jostle him. His big, strong, stubborn boy—now breakable in a way John had never seen.

Dean let out a breath but didn’t stir.

“You used to do that all the time,” Mary said, her voice drifting into memory. “Do you remember? He’d insist he was a big boy, stay up late… then pass out on the couch, just like now.”

John smiled softly. “Yeah. Back then, I could still toss him in the air. He weighs a little more now.” He said it fondly.

He carried Dean into the boys’ room and laid him down gently, adjusting the throw blanket and tucking it around his shoulders the way he used to when Dean was small.

A few minutes later, Sam padded in and climbed into the bed beside his brother. As soon as he did, Dean’s breathing eased, his body finally relaxing in sleep.
John pulled a blanket up over Sam as well.

“Sleep well, boys,” he whispered.

He stood there for a long moment, just watching them—his sons. Overwhelmed with love, with grief, with guilt, and awe.

Then he stepped out and closed the door quietly behind him.

The rest of the evening, he and Mary sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by stacks of paperwork— copies of hospital files, police records — and tried to piece together a plan. It all blurred into lists and legal jargon while the unthinkable truth slept just down the hall, side by side, in the quiet.

Chapter Text

Amanda Harris was halfway through her first coffee when the phone rang — sharp and shrill in the otherwise quiet office. She glanced at the caller ID box beside the receiver. Just a string of digits. But she recognized the number.

John Winchester.

She paused, her hand hovering over the receiver.

She’d been expecting this call.

Not because he’d been difficult — if anything, he had been the opposite.

Remarkably restrained. Cooperative. Respectful. Quiet. A rare trifecta in her line of work.

She liked him.

His apartment was small — barely enough space for the three of them — but clean and lived-in. The boys had beds, even if they had to share a room. Something was always simmering on the stove when she visited, and the sink was rarely full. Every call was answered on the first ring. Every form was signed without complaint.

He really did seem to care about the boys in his care.

She had immediately noticed how he’d gone quiet when she had told him the boys would be placed soon. The way his voice dipped. He hadn’t argued. Just said he’d tell the boys, and hung up.

Amanda had been doing this job for nearly ten years. The words had landed right where he’d expected them to — and still managed to bruise. She knew exactly what grief sounded like, even when it came wrapped in calm. And John Winchester had been grieving something.

So she figured he’d call eventually. Maybe to ask for more time. Maybe just to try.

She braced herself, then eventually picked up the phone.

“Hello, Mr. Winchester,” she said gently. “I was wondering if I might hear from you. You’re probably calling about David and Tyler’s new placement, am I right? Listen — like I told you the other day, you’ve been wonderful with the boys, but—”

“Could we meet today? Please. It’s urgent,” he cut in.

Amanda froze.

It wasn’t the words that made her pulse quicken — it was his tone. It didn’t carry the strained edge of someone clinging to a placement. It wasn’t frustration. It wasn’t pleading.

It was something else entirely. Low. Measured. Heavy.

“Is everyone alright?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah, they’re safe,” he said. “But we really need to talk. Please.”

Amanda had been doing this job for nearly ten years. She’d heard just about every version of a crisis there was. She knew how to spot panic, how to hear desperation buried under defensiveness. She knew when someone was hiding something — and when someone had something to say they didn’t quite know how to carry. A truth too heavy to carry alone.

She didn’t press. Not over the phone. “I can be there around two.”

“Thank you so much,” he said, audibly relieved, and hung up.

She lowered the phone slowly, her thoughts already racing.

***

He opened the door before Amanda even rang the bell.

He looked tired — not just the kind that clung under the eyes, but bone-deep weariness.

A woman stood just behind him, poised and calm, but there was tension in the set of her shoulders.

Amanda recognized her immediately.

From the hospital.

“The boys are at school?” Amanda asked, glancing over John’s shoulder.

“They just wanted a quick run to the library,” he said, sounding a bit unsure. “I let them stay home today — with the concussion and everything else, they haven’t been sleeping much. I couldn’t send one and keep the other. We figured this way we could talk in private first. I hope that’s alright with you.”

Amanda nodded, her expression calm and understanding. “Of course.”

John exhaled a little, then stepped aside and gestured toward the apartment. “Alright. Come in, please. And thank you for coming so quickly.”

Amanda nodded and stepped inside, sliding her bag under her arm.

Her eyes landed on the woman standing just behind John. “I think I saw you at the hospital,” she said. “I’m Amanda Harris — David and Tyler’s case worker.”

“You’re right,” the woman replied, offering her hand with a faint smile. “Mary Campbell. I was one of their nurses.”

Amanda shook her hand, still uncertain. She followed John into the kitchen, where he gestured toward the table.

No one made small talk.

Mary sat beside John, her posture composed but visibly tense. Amanda set her bag down and opened her folder, pen poised.

John cleared his throat. “There’s something we need to tell you,” he began, voice low, steady — but far from casual.

Amanda looked between them. John’s jaw was clenched; Mary’s hands were folded tightly in her lap. Something heavy was coming.

“Alright,” she said cautiously, settling into the chair.

John hesitated for only a moment before pressing on, his voice quiet but steady. “It’s about the boys. When the placement happened... we didn’t know. We didn’t recognize them.”

Amanda froze, a faint furrow forming between her brows.

“They’re ours,” John said, the words slipping out fast and raw. “Biologically. We’re their parents.”

Amanda blinked, caught off guard. “I… I’m sorry — what?”

Mary stepped in gently. “It sounds unbelievable, we know.”

She paused shortly, then went on. “We were separated when they were little. They were listed as missing, then presumed dead. We had no idea they were alive, let alone in the system under different names.”

Amanda stared at them, stunned.

Mary continued gently, “We didn’t recognize them. Not right away. But while I was caring for Sam in the hospital… I heard Dean humming a lullaby to calm his brother down — the same one I used to sing to him when he was little. It was just a moment, and I just… knew then. I ran a DNA test to be sure. It was a match.”

Amanda repeated the names slowly, her brow furrowing. “Dean? Sam?” There was confusion in her voice — like the pieces didn’t quite fit yet, like she was still waiting for the punchline. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand…”

John continued. “The boys’ names aren’t David and Tyler. Their names are Dean and Sam Winchester.”

And just like that, it hit her. A dark corner of memory lit up.

Amanda stared at them for a long moment before her voice finally returned.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Dean and Sam Winchester. That case. That was everywhere. The posters, the TV reports, the search teams—” Her voice faltered. “It’s been what, almost ten years?”

“Yeah,” John said quietly, his eyes lowered.

She took a moment, steadying herself. “Do the boys know?”

“Yes,” Mary said softly. “Dean figured it out first… and as soon as I had the results, I told John and Sam.”

Amanda’s voice was quieter now, almost reverent. “Where have they been all this time?”

“We don’t know everything yet,” Mary admitted. “Dean says he doesn’t remember. We haven’t pushed.”

Amanda reached for her pen again, her professional instincts kicking back in even as her hands trembled slightly. “And the DNA test confirmed it?”

Mary nodded. “Yes. A full match.”

Amanda sat back, processing. “Jesus… this changes everything. Okay. Alright. We’ll immediately freeze the current settlement plan. Given the test results, and the fact that John already has emergency custody, we can begin the process of transferring legal custody back to you. That typically requires a court hearing, but when biological parents are alive and stable, there’s rarely resistance. Then we’ll file to reinstate their legal identities. Their names, their records — all of that has to be legally restored.”

She paused, looking up. “Have you contacted law enforcement yet? The courts?”

“No,” John said. “We wanted to speak to you first. We only found about everything yesterday.”

“That’s okay,” Amanda said. “We’ll handle it today. We’ll get this moving.”

John leaned forward, voice low. “What does that mean, for us?”

Amanda folded her hands. “You’ll need a court hearing. Custody doesn’t just revert, not after a decade. But—” she gave a small smile, “—given the circumstances, and the fact you already have temporary custody, I don’t expect much pushback. You’ve been cooperative, your home is stable, your background checks are clean. If this is what the boys want, the court will likely agree.”

She glanced between them, then resting her eyes on John. “After David’s – I mean Dean’s accident, you filed for custody alone — so, you two are separated?”
Mary answered carefully, “We’re divorced. But we’ve talked — all night, actually. About everything. We’ve agreed to make this work. Together. For the boys. For us.”

John met Amanda’s gaze, his eyes steady, silently backing up what Mary had just said.

Amanda watched them. She’d heard that line before, of course — but not always with this kind of resolve.

“Where will the boys live?”

Mary straightened. “I still live in our old house... My childhood home. Everyone told me to sell it, to move on. Said it would be healthier — a fresh start. But I couldn’t. I just... I couldn't. That house was the last place I saw them. I couldn’t stand the idea of another family living there, erasing the little signs they ever existed. It’s full of memories. Where they laughed, where they grew. Letting go of that house would’ve felt like letting go of them.”

She glanced first at Amanda, then back at John. “We haven’t told the boys yet. But we want to decide together—whether to stay here or start somewhere new. As a family.”

Amanda nodded slowly, then smiled. “I see. It sounds like you’ve really thought this through.”

“Thank you,” Mary said, voice thick with emotion.

And then, for the first time, Amanda didn’t just see a file or a case number. She didn’t see paperwork or legal complications. She saw two people shattered by loss—who would do anything, even burn the world down, to protect their boys.

Amanda was still jotting down notes when, several minutes later, the doorbell rang again.

John opened the door, and Dean and Sam stepped inside, bringing with them a cool breeze and a quiet tension that settled over the room.

“Hey,” John said softly. “Find anything useful out there?”

Sam grinned and glanced at Dean, who had a heavy bag slung over one shoulder. Dean just rolled his eyes.

John smiled. “Good. That’s good. Come on in and put those down. Amanda’s here—she wants to talk with us all for a bit.”

Sam hesitated, scanning the room, then took a seat at the table. He looked nervous — not scared, exactly, but unsure. John reached out and rested a steady hand on his shoulder, a small anchor.

Dean, meanwhile, gave a nod of greeting toward Amanda — distant, polite — and then just walked past them. He dropped the bag by the couch and turned on the TV.

“Dean?” John’s tone grew firmer.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t answer.

He just flicked the channel without looking up.

Pretending not to hear, he gave no sign of acknowledgment.

He just kept staring into the muted screen.

Mary shifted in her seat, trying to ease the tension. “It’s a lot to take in,” she offered gently. “First Sam’s accident, now all of this... It’s been a lot.”

Amanda softened her tone, “It’s alright, no worries”

The she looked at Sam, “Speaking of which. How’s your head feeling? That concussion must have been rough.”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, forcing a small smile. “Yeah, it’s better than before. Still get headaches sometimes, but... I’m managing.”

Amanda nodded. “Good to hear. Just take it easy — no need to push yourself too hard.”

The tension broke, just a little. Enough to breathe.

“So,” John asked, clearing his throat, “what are our next steps again?”

Amanda straightened slightly. “I’ll contact the police and let them know where things stand. They’ll probably want to speak to the boys, and we’ll also need to schedule a court hearing. The judge might request to speak with David — Dean — directly.”

She glanced toward Dean, whose expression didn’t change.

“It’s standard,” she said. “Nothing aggressive — just making sure he’s not being pushed into anything. Given his age, his opinion matters. It’s mostly paperwork and a brief hearing. The judge will ask a few questions. I’ll be there with a report.”

She flipped her notebook shut with a quiet snap. “I’ll fast-track the paperwork, but... it’ll still take time.”

“How long?” John asked, voice tight.

Amanda exhaled slowly. “Could be weeks. Maybe more.”

Seeing the disappointment on Mary’s and John’s faces, she added gently, “They’re home now — we just have to make it official.”

Then she added. “Before I go, would it be alright if I spoke to each of the boys separately? Just for a few minutes.”

John nodded. “Of course.”

Dean looked up, wary but unsurprised.

Mary gestured toward the kitchen. “We’ll outside.”

Amanda offered a quiet thank you, already pulling a fresh page from her folder.

She spoke with Sam first.

He was eager to talk. He leaned forward as he talked, hands moving animatedly. There was a quiet excitement in his voice as he spoke about the past few weeks, the past few days — the routines, the meals, the way Mary had made pancakes that morning even though she looked like she hadn’t slept. He mentioned how John always asked if he wanted seconds, how both asked them how they were. That it felt different this time. Like someone actually wanted them. Wanted. That was the word he used. His answers came easily, without hesitation, and he seemed sure of what he wanted: to stay.

Amanda wrote no signs of distress or coercion. Child appears bonded and secure.

Dean was next. He came in quieter, slower, hands in his jacket pockets. He was more careful. He sat straight, his hands folded in front of him. His eyes stayed on hers — steady, guarded. His answers were measured. Not dismissive — just quiet. He said things were fine. When she asked how he felt, he paused for a moment — then said things were okay. Amanda noted that he didn’t offer much beyond what was asked, but when she did press gently, he admitted he didn’t mind being here. That it wasn’t bad. For Dean, that said a lot.

Amanda marked: Child is reserved but present. No visible signs of distress. Trust issues likely, but no red flags. Will benefit from consistent, gentle reassurance.

Once the interviews were done, Amanda stepped out into the hallway and leaned against the wall for a breath. Just one. It was enough.

Then she returned to John and Mary.

“They’re good,” she said, and smiled.

And she meant it.

Chapter Text

Amanda had barely closed the door behind her when Mary let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her shoulders easing just slightly. The conversation had gone better than expected—tense, yes, and heavy—but Amanda had listened. She’d believed them. She seemed to think they could do this, the two of them, and maybe the judge would too. That counted as something.

Mary turned toward the boys, ready to say something gentle, something encouraging—

Then she heard John.

“What the hell was that?” His voice snapped across the room, already too sharp.

Mary stilled.

So much for the exhale.

The tension dropped back in like a storm cloud.
She knew that tone. It wasn’t really anger.

It was fear.

Fear of losing them – again.

And for John, fear had always worn the mask of anger. Dean’s defiance wasn’t just reckless to him. It felt like a threat. A threat to the fragile second chance he was desperate not to lose. So John lashed out because he didn’t know how else to hold on.

Dean didn’t flinch, just shifted his weight and folded his arms across his chest. He stood near Sam, his posture loose, almost casual—but his jaw was tight, set in silent defiance.

Sam, by contrast, had gone stiff.

His eyes flicked between them, wide and watchful. His hand drifted up, hovering for a breath before landing softly on Dean’s arm. Not to guide or restrain—just to be there. A quiet point of contact. Like he knew Dean’s fuse was short, and that touch might keep him grounded. Might keep things from blowing up.

“We have company,” John said, stepping closer, his voice tight. “You don’t just switch on the TV and ignore me like that.”

“Says who?” Dean’s eyes flicked up, sharp and guarded.

Beside him, Sam’s hand tightened slightly where it rested on Dean’s arm—just a subtle press, firmer now, like he was trying to anchor him, to keep him from escalating.

John’s jaw clenched. “You think this is some kind of joke?”

Dean’s mouth twitched into a humorless smile. “Funny. I was about to ask you the same thing.” His voice dropped, steady and taut. “What do you think I am? A dog? Sit when you say, heel when you snap your fingers?”

“Don’t start with me, Dean,” John said, his voice low, jaw tight, like he was holding back more than just temper.

“Enough,” Mary cut in, stepping between them before the heat could rise further. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to. Her tone wasn’t loud, but it landed.

She placed herself square in the middle, one hand slightly raised — a gentle barrier, not quite touching either of them.

John’s mouth opened to argue, but she turned her head and added, “Both of you.”

Her gaze shifted to Dean. It wasn’t angry — not really — but firm. Disappointed.

His shoulders tightened under it, jaw ticking once before he dropped his eyes. The shrug he gave was careless on the surface, but something about it fell flat. Like the wind had gone out of him.

“Whatever,” he muttered, the word brittle, almost quiet. Not defiant, not anymore. Just a cracked edge of something heavier — an attempt to retreat, to save face. A peace offering sealed in barbed wire.

Mary didn’t push for more. She saw the shift and gave a small nod, almost imperceptible.

Then she turned her gaze to John.

“Well?” she said, quiet and pointed.

John shifted his weight, looked at Dean, then away again. “Yeah. Alright.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Mary let out a slow breath and gave another small nod, like that would have to do for now.

Her eyes then drifting to John before settling back on the boys.

“I know this is a lot and we’re all tired,” she said quietly, voice softer now. “But we’re trying—all of us.” Mary glanced between them. “So, let’s come back to what matters. We have quite a few things to talk about.”

Dean finally looked up, his brows drawn, guarded. Not defiant anymore—just unsure.

Sam shifted closer to him, no longer stiff with anxiety. His arms stayed folded, but his shoulders eased slightly.

Mary waited a beat, giving them the space to take that in, then went on.

“John and I talked. We agreed we both want to be there. For you. As much as we can. We want to take care of you—together.”

She paused again – just for a moment – before she went on, steady. “John’s apartment isn’t big enough for all of us. We could look for something new. Or…”

She hesitated again, uncertain how the boys—especially Dean—would take the idea.

“We could move into my place. It’s the house I grew up in. It’s where you both lived… before.”

Dean’s jaw immediately clenched.

“I know it’s a lot,” Mary said quickly. “But we could just go take a look. If it doesn’t feel right, we’ll keep looking—together. A fresh start.”

Sam perked up. “Do you have a yard?”

Mary smiled. “Big one.”

“No dog,” John said right away, though a small, amused snort betrayed him.

Dean didn’t smile.

Mary’s hand brushed his—light, gentle. “Would that be okay with you?” she asked, watching his face. “To see how it feels?”

Dean didn’t answer right away. He looked at Sam, saw the excitement in his brother’s face.

Finally, he said, “It’s just a house.”

His voice was flat, but there was something in the way he said it—like he was trying to convince himself.

Mary gave him a quiet, encouraging smile. “We won’t do anything you’re uncomfortable with. I promise.”

Dean nodded, barely.

“Yeah. Okay.”

It took less than ten minutes before they were ready to leave. No one said much. John slipped into the bedroom and stayed longer than necessary, the door left half-shut behind him. Mary suspected he needed a moment to collect himself—he hadn’t set foot in that house for nine years. The weight of it all, plus the tension with Dean, settled heavily on his shoulders when he finally came out. Sam made a quick stop at the bathroom, while Dean didn’t move at all—he just stood by the front door, arms folded, his stance closed off like he was already halfway gone. He didn’t look at anyone. Meanwhile, Mary quietly packed a small bag with water bottles and a few snacks—nothing major, just enough to keep the peace if tempers flared. From her experience, hunger and long silences didn’t mix well.

Then the Impala rolled onto the road, the late afternoon light softening the sky.

The drive was quiet at first, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Before long, Sam, curled up in the back seat and began to fill the silence with his small but bright voice—asking questions the way only he could.
“So… you lived there all by yourself?”
“Is it big?”
“Did you change a lot?”
“What about our rooms?”
“Can you tell me more about the garden?”

Mary answered each one patiently, her tone warm and even, never rushed. Sam was excited.

When he asked if they’d each have their own room, she nodded, and he grinned, already imagining what his might look like. He chattered on, keen to help with the garden, tossing out plans for a treehouse or vegetable garden, wondering aloud if the neighbors had kids, if they could get a dog, if maybe they could paint their walls any color they wanted. Mary responded to each with gentle humor and easy reassurance.

Dean didn’t say a word. He sat stiffly, his shoulder against the door, eyes fixed on the blur of houses rolling past. He didn’t react to Sam’s nudges or Mary’s quiet, “You okay?” from the front seat. But when Sam mentioned building a fort in the garden, Dean’s mouth twitched into a faint, involuntary smile—there and gone in a second. Mary saw it in the mirror.

John drove in silence, too. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, jaw set tight. He didn’t speak, didn’t look back. Just kept his eyes on the road.

Mary, after a pause, offered lightly, “The way to school would be a bit longer though.”

Sam just shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Then he launched into the next ten questions that popped into his head—were the neighbors nice, what color were their rooms, did she think strawberries would grow in the garden? Did the house have an attic or a basement—because he didn’t really like basements. Did it have a bathtub, and would they be allowed to use it? Could he have a desk for his homework? Were there trees big enough to climb? Could they put up posters on the walls?

“Dean,” he added with a big grin, “you could have Metallica posters!”

Mary listened to Sam’s voice tumble forward in that bright, unfiltered way he had. And even as John stayed silent beside her, eyes on the road, she felt the fullness of it: the car, the voices, the boys. After everything, they were here.

And God, she was grateful.
For the sound of Sam’s voice.

For the flicker of Dean’s almost-smile.

For the weight of them, here, now—hers again.

The car finally slowed, tires crunching softly over the gravel, and then stopped.

The house sat tucked behind a fence with chipping paint and a mailbox that leaned ever so slightly to the left. Its pale green siding looked gentle in the late afternoon sun. Flower beds bordered the porch—half-wild with forget-me-nots, tulips, and the stubborn return of weeds.

Sam was out of the car before it fully stopped, bounding up the steps and spinning in a half-circle on the porch.

“It’s so big!” he exclaimed, turning to grin at the others.

Mary followed with a soft laugh, her hand resting briefly on the rail as she climbed the porch steps. John came behind her, shoulders taut. Dean was the last to approach. He moved slowly, his steps careful on the wooden boards, like each one might give under his weight.

At the door, he paused. His eyes swept over the frame, the worn handle, the faded strip of sun-bleached paint where a welcome sign used to hang. He just stood there, a fraction too still, shoulders squared.

Mary turned back slightly, noticing. The way he hesitated. The quiet stiffness in his shoulders. The look that flickered across his face—almost recognition, but more than that too. Like something was shifting inside him, fast and unsteady.
She didn’t push.

Instead, she stepped ahead and opened the door.

Dean didn’t move right away. Then, after a beat, he followed, slow and deliberate, as if every step demanded more effort than the last. The moment he crossed inside, something shifted—subtle, almost invisible, but heavy all the same. His shoulders stiffened even more, posture tightening as if bracing against an invisible weight. His eyes flicked to the banister, lingering longer than necessary, tracing the worn wood like it held some unspoken memory. His jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin, hard line.

This was hard.

Too hard.

Inside, the house smelled faintly of something floral. It was clean and bright—lived-in, but with a quiet neatness.

Sam’s voice rose as he turned in a circle, eyes wide.

“It’s so nice! It smells so good! And it’s sooo huge! This is so cool!”

Mary smiled. “Do you want me to show you around?”

Sam’s eyes lit up. “Can we? Yes, please.”

Mary nodded, warmth in her voice. “Alright then, let’s start downstairs.”

The living room had soft, warm lighting. Cream-colored walls. New furniture. A pale blue rug that brightened the floorboards. Sam marveled at everything, running his fingers along the edge of the armrest, commenting on the amount of windows and how much light came in.

Dean hung back near the wall, quiet and still. His eyes found the glass cabinet in the corner, and he stepped toward it. Inside were a few framed photos—a baby Sam nestled in Mary’s arms, looking wide-eyed and curious. A younger Mary, proud and smiling, holding Dean and Baby Sam close. Dean as a toddler perched on John’s shoulders, grinning with wind-tousled hair. Another photo showed Dean carefully holding baby Sammy, his small hands steady and protective.

Dean’s eyes lingered. But his face gave nothing away.

Mary led them through the kitchen next—a bright, open space with light blue walls and white cabinets that gave it a calm, airy feel. The counters gleamed, and a small vase of fresh flowers sat near the sink. In the center stood a wooden table set for four, simple but sturdy, with soft cushions tied to the chairs and a bowl of fresh fruit in the middle like a welcome.

Sam’s eyes lit up. “It looks so cozy,” he said.

Mary smiled, “You think so?”

“Yeah,” he said, running his fingers along the table’s edge. “It’s just awesome.”

Dean didn’t say anything. He just glanced around once, hands still in his pockets.

Mary finished showing them the last corner downstairs, smiling as Sam took it all in—wide-eyed, questions still tumbling out between breaths. Before she could say another word, he’d already turned toward the stairs, bouncing up two steps at a time, his excitement carrying him ahead.

“I want to start with my old room first. Which one was mine?” Sam called back.

Dean, still lost in thought, didn’t even realize he’d answered until the words were out. “It’s the one on the right,” he said quietly, pointing. “Next to theirs. Mine was across the hall.”

John, who hadn’t said a word until now, let out a short, humorless breath. “Quite a lot of memory for a guy who doesn’t remember anything else.”

The words hit hard. Landed like a slap.

Dean froze immediately. His shoulders stiffened. His hands dropped to his sides. His chin dipped slightly, eyes cast down. He shut down completely.

Sam paused mid-step, then turned slightly to glance back at them. His bright eyes dimmed for a moment, the excitement draining away.

Mary turned slowly, eyes flashing sharply at John—a clear warning in their gaze. Without breaking her stare, she reached out and placed a gentle hand on Dean’s arm, a quiet gesture of comfort. “Why don’t you show Sammy his room, sweetheart? I’ll be up in a minute.”

Dean didn’t look at her. “Come on, munchkin, I can show you,” he said quietly, voice flat. Detached.

He started up the stairs, steps slow, almost dragging.

Mary waited until they’d disappeared before she lay into John.

“That was uncalled for,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “Why can’t you cut him some slack for once? All day, you’ve been biting his head off.”

“I—” John started.

“No,” she cut in, her voice ice-cold. “So what if he remembers more than he lets on, John? Maybe he has a good reason for keeping it to himself. Maybe he doesn’t trust us yet. And with the way you’re talking to him—can you blame him?”

She stepped closer, her eyes fierce. “All you’re doing is pushing him further away. You are the adult, John. The parent. So act like it.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She just turned on her heel and followed the boys.

John stood alone for a long moment, the sound of her footsteps fading. Mary’s words hung in the air—full of disappointment.

He exhaled slowly, the breath tight in his chest, and dragged a hand down his face. That hadn’t been how he meant it to come out.

From upstairs, he could hear Sam already exploring, declaring his room “the best ever,” and asking to see Dean’s next.

With a quiet sigh, John walked upstairs ad turned toward the room across the hall—Dean’s old one—his steps slow and heavy.

It hadn’t changed much really. The race car bed was still pushed against the far wall. One corner of the room held a low shelf packed with picture books about engines and monster trucks, and a whole row of toy cars lined up in no particular order—some chipped, some dusty, but clearly once well-loved. On the desk sat a framed drawing—a stick-figure family with Dean’s name spelled backward in bright, crooked letters. And on the far wall, still faintly visible, was a crayon drawing, the color faded but still clinging to the wall like it belonged there.

“Whoa, Dean, your room is awesome! There are cars everywhere!” Sam said, grinning from ear to ear as he darted from one corner to the next.

He lingered one beat longer, eyes bright with curiosity, but his attention was already drifting—too much to see, too much to imagine.

Then he reached out and gave Mary’s sleeve a gentle tug. “Can we go back to mine for a second?” he asked. Mary glanced over at Dean, her eyes searching his until he met her gaze and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

She smiled softly. “Alright, let’s go,” she said quietly.

They headed down the hall, Sam’s cheerful questions already echoing behind them.
“If we stayed… how many colors would I be allowed to paint it? I want blue! Or maybe green! Do you think yellow would be a good choice?”

Dean stood near the window, hands buried deep in his pockets, his shoulders still stiff when John stepped in quietly. He pretended to look outside, but his eyes didn’t settle on anything.

John crossed the room and gently placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean didn’t move, but he didn’t pull away either. They just stood like that for a moment before John slowly withdrew his hand and quietly began to speak.

“Still meeting your expectations, that bed?” John asked, nodding toward the small wooden race car bed. His voice was careful, trying to keep things light.

Dean didn’t answer; his face remained unreadable.

John kept talking as if he hadn’t noticed. “I remember you insisting on having a big boy bed after Sammy was born,” he said after a pause, voice low with a hint of a chuckle. “You said you were a big brother now—you couldn’t sleep in some kiddy bed.”

His tone softened even further. “You helped me build it. And everything that could go wrong, did. The heat was brutal, the A/C was busted. The saw broke, I sliced my hand open, we lost half the bolts. Took us hours and hours. But you were so damn happy to be there, helping. Wouldn’t let me quit. Kept saying, ‘We can do it, Daddy. We do it.’” John’s voice cracked. “You just enjoyed spending some time with your dad…”

Dean didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, “Huh.”

A beat passed. Then John exhaled, his gaze dropping. His voice came quieter, rougher now—no more sidestepping.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he said. “I shouldn’t’ve snapped at you like that.”

Dean’s voice stayed quiet, his eyes avoiding John’s. “Which time do you mean?”

John winced. “Both,” he admitted. “You didn’t deserve that. And I don’t expect you to just... forget it.” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “I just wanted you to know I’m sorry. And I’m gonna try to do better.”

A breath.

“I want this to feel like home for you, Dean. I want you to feel safe here.”

At that word—safe—Dean flinched, just slightly. Not visibly, not dramatically. Just a subtle drop of the shoulders, a barely-there shift in his breath. But John saw it.

Dean didn’t speak. Just nodded.

John let the quiet settle around them.

After a moment—John hadn’t really expected anything—Dean glanced sideways at the race car bed. “Might be a little snug,” he muttered. “Guess I wasn’t planning on hitting six feet.”
John blinked, caught off guard—but a smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it.

Dean didn’t smile back. Not really. But his posture eased. Just a little.

And that was enough.