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.