Summary:  John had taught his sons everything he knew in order to protect them … if only he had realized it wasn’t a demon that would take his youngest from him.
Spoilers: 
A/N:  I know I promised this story earlier, but I was stuck with a serious case of writer’s block … blame it on the finale. I couldn’t get Sammy dying out of my head to write but a paragraph here and there. So, one hard drive crash and one computer frying from lightening later, here I am!
Disclaimer:  Oh yeah, I own em all right … that’s why there’s a season three!!!!

“I hate you!”

The words were the sharpest weapon in the youngest Winchester’s arsenal, the only weapon he could wield at the moment; after all, you can’t very well salt and burn your own father.

“Well, Sammy, sometimes I hate you too.”

The words that John Winchester tossed back to his youngest were no less scathing. Sam paused in his rant, in his latest battle with his father, and stared at the man who was supposed to love him above all else. Finally, his resolve crumbled and he turned and fled down the hall to the room that was currently his. The slam of the door signaled his defeat with such clarity that it made Dean wince from his spot on the couch where he’d been pretending to be invisible. Pretending nothing, they didn’t even realize you existed.

“Go get your brother, Dean; we need to leave within the hour.”

So much for being invisible!

“Dad?”

“What?”

John Winchester sounded exasperated as he paused in his own preparations to leave, the weapons he was packing laying on the kitchen table.

“Don’t you … I mean, weren’t you a little hard on him?”

John turned to stare incredulously at his son; the eldest boy who fell so flawlessly into place; a place that John created, and it had little room for error.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Well, no dad, I mean, his birthday is tomorrow and …”

“And nothing, Dean. Your brother needs to learn to make sacrifices. I’m tired of his selfish behavior! Now go get him out of his brooding and let’s go. This ghost is killing people. I think that takes precedence over a birthday.”

Dean’s birthday had been nearly five months before, and while the Winchester’s never celebrated anything with the same flair most families did, John had made a big show of taking them out. It wasn’t without its perks. Sam had gotten a taste of what normal could have been, even if for just one night. And Dean? Well, he’d gotten the Impala.

Perhaps fourteen wasn’t as grandiose as eighteen, but Sam felt slighted just the same. It wasn’t like he wanted something as cool as a car, but he did want that night. The night of togetherness that made him feel like his family wasn’t as screwed as it really was.

What he got instead was a shouting match with his father. Well, Sammy, sometimes I hate you too. And, despite the fact that his hurtful words had come first, he couldn’t help but feel like his father’s words were true. That John Winchester did hate his youngest son.

“You gonna talk to me, Sammy?”

Sam just stared out the window, saying nothing at all. He was getting quite good at brooding, making Dean wonder just where that little kid with the million dollar smile had gone to.

“I’m talking to you, Sam.”

Nothing, just utter silence as they pulled up to the old mansion where one Barnard Fountain had met his demise nearly fifty years ago, leaving behind one nasty ghost in his wake.

“Dad’s signaling to you.”

Dean glowered at Sam a moment before John Winchester’s obvious distress made itself known. Frowning, he opened the door to go meet his father. Sam, despite his outward indifference, moved to the trunk to gather weapons. He could hear his father and Dean talking in low tones, but frankly he didn’t pay them much mind.

“Sam? Are you listening to me?”

Sam pulled from his thoughts to realize that John and Dean had both approached the car, and by the look on his father’s face, he could guess he’d been speaking to him.

Sam did what anyone would do in that situation … he faked it.

“Yeah, dad, of course.”

“Then what did I just say?”

He blinked, his eyes darting from John to Dean and back. “That you um …… “

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Damn it, Sam, you better not screw up on this hunt!”

Sam trudged along behind Dean, the look his father had given him flashing vividly in his mind.

“Damn … I bet they had some wild parties in this place.”

Sam ignored his brother and just brushed passed him and headed up the stairs. Their father went to search the grounds to find the grave while Sam and Dean searched the house.

“Oh come on Sammy, I’m sure once this hunt is over…”

“There’ll be another one for him to push me aside for.”

“I promise Sam, tomorrow I’ll take you out, we’ll have pizza, go to a movie or something.”

Sam didn’t say anything; he just continued his climb up the stairs then moved down the long hallway.

“Sammy?”

“I just … for once want him to think about me, to think about what I want. I just want to have one night, Dean, one night!”

Dean’s mouth opened to retort that, but closed almost immediately. Despite him wanting to defend his father, Dean knew that Sam was right. John rarely ever put Sammy first.

Silence lingered between the Winchester siblings as they moved through the house, though Sam was never far from Dean’s sights, in fact, he watched his kid brother like a hawk for any signs that his brooding might end soon. It wasn’t fair, Dean knew it wasn’t, but there wasn’t anyway he could figure out how to make it right between his father and his brother.

Scanning the master bedroom, Dean shook his head as nothing registered on the EMF meter… not one blip, not one flash of lights. Moving to the door, he motioned Sam with his hand.

“Come on Sammy, maybe dad already finished off old man Fountain and we’re done.”

Nodding, Sam started after Dean, but paused as something shiny glinted off the beam of the flashlight he held. Stepping from his path to the door, he bent to retrieve what looked to be an old coin.

“Hey Dean, I think I found something … “

Just as he spoke, he glanced up to Dean lingering in the doorway when a blast of cold air suddenly made a chill race up his spine. Frozen, he watched as the door to the room slammed closed with a driving force that sent Dean not only out of the room, but into the adjacent wall with a thud that finally broke Sam’s momentary paralysis.

“DEAN!”

Sam moved but two steps before he was hurtled through the air to slam hard into his own wall with a thud that cracked old plaster. Before he could recover, Sam was lifted into the air only to be flung like a rag doll into an old bookcase. As a shower of books rained down on his fallen form, somewhere in the background he could hear someone calling his name, but it sounded distant and surreal.

Reaching out with one hand, he tried dragging himself from underneath the rubble of books and shelves, some inner voice telling him to move when his body just wanted to lie here, wanted to fall into the blackness that was threatening.

“Dean …?”

His voice was raspy and harsh to his own ears while his head swam and his heart hammered for something he was supposed to remember. Just as he was dragging himself clear of the rubble, a bitter laugh echoed through the room, the noted chill reminding Sam just what it was he was supposed to remember.

“Mine…”

The hiss sounded in his ears as a vice-like hold clamped down on his wrist, jerking him painfully to his feet. But it didn’t stop there, the pull lifted sneakered feet off the ground, causing Sam to kick his legs out to try and gain purchase, but the hold only jerked him harder, causing him to cry out as he felt his shoulder leave its socket.

“Mine…”

The hiss filled the room, darting left and right, circling around as if taunting him by its very presence. The sound was deafening, maddening. He closed his eyes to try and shove it away, but still it echoed around him, hissing venomously in his ears before suddenly, it just stopped.

And Sam fell crashing to the floor.

The thud left no mistake that ribs were broken, or at the very least cracked, and Sam lay unmoving, stunned. His eyes open, he just stared with one cheek pressed to the floor. Unable to move, unable to answer that voice calling his name … it seemed so far away now, fading into the nothingness of his mind.

“Mine…”

The hiss came again along with the vice grip of before, only this time, it wrapped around Sam’s throat as it lifted. His legs kicked wildly, his hands coming up to the invisible force cutting off the air to his lungs. Seconds ticked by, his kicking became feebler, his hand losing its fight against the unseen force holding his throat hostage. And just before he felt like his lungs were going to explode, fire erupted before him and he was falling again to hit the floor with another thud that took all consciousness with it. Dad must have burned the sucker. His last thought before the world faded to black and Sam sunk far away from the pain.

He didn’t hear the door slam open, the ghost’s hold on it now gone. He didn’t hear his brother’s anguished call of his name. Sam Winchester was lost in a world where ghosts and pain no longer existed. A world where fathers celebrate their son’s birthdays, not drag them out to be the plaything of a vengeful spirit. A world where normal was a good thing … a world in which he belonged.

“Family of Samuel Winchester?”

Both John and Dean stood quickly. They’d been at the hospital for what felt like years rather than hours. And since patience was not a Winchester trait (at least in the elder two) sitting there had been like their own personal hell.

For Dean it was far worse than that. When he’d been thrown from the room, a fear gripped him that he couldn’t remember ever feeling, hadn’t honestly felt since Sam was a baby and he’d carried him out of their blazing house. It consumed him so completely that he could feel the tendrils of panic lapping at his flesh, making him shudder as he tried the door over and over again.

“SAM!”

He could still hear the crashes from behind the closed door as if they were still happening, he could still see his brother’s limp body lying on the floor in a heap when the door finally gave way. He could still hear something screaming. Only later … much later … would Dean realize it had been his voice that filled the mansion’s room with terror as his kid brother lay broken on the floor.

“I’m Dr. Joseph Hafer, Sam’s attending physician.”

“How’s Sam?”

His father’s voice snapped Dean out of his daze to look between his father and the doctor. The man was young, or at least the brown hair and lineless face would indicate, but looking closely at deep brown eyes, there was an age within that belied his youthful appearance.

“He’s recovering.”

“What? Where? Can I see him?”

“Mr. Winchester … “

“I need to see Sam.”

“Mr. Winchester, I need you to come with me, there’s some things we need to discuss.”

The doctor glanced to Dean as if to say privately but John just gave him a look. Anything he had to say, he could say in front of his other son. Sighing, Dr. Hafer nodded his acknowledgement and motioned down the hallway.

“This way please.”

The room they were led to held but one table in its small interior. A young blonde woman of perhaps 30 sat at the table, briefcase open on the table, and a notebook in hand. John paused at the doorway, eyeing the woman.

“Have a seat, Mr. Winchester.”

John reluctantly sat, but when Dean, defiant as always, refused, he tugged on his arm until the younger man sat at his side.

“What’s this about? How’s my son.”

“Alive.”

The sarcasm in the woman’s voice nearly dripped from her mouth like venom, causing both John and Dean to turn their heads and eye her with a fair amount of suspicion.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Winchester, Dean, this is Sandra Peterson, she’s a case worker for Child Protective Services, she’ll be handling your son’s case … “

John sat stunned, his gaze drifting from the doctor to the social worker and back again.

“Let me get this straight … you think I … hurt my son?”

Sandra Peterson took out her notebook, her eyes scanning over the information they had on file before looking back to John Winchester.

“Exactly how did Sam get hurt, Mr. Winchester?”

He and Dean had already thought of the fall back plan on their way to the hospital. It was one of the Winchester Prime Directives (behind Look after Sammy, of course) … always have a plan; always have your ass covered.

“He went out with friends. When he didn’t come home on time Dean and I went to look for him. We saw a group of kids run from the old Fountain place, we investigated and found Sam. The best we can guess is he was jumped.”

Sandra Peterson was what you would call an old soul. A still young woman of about 30, her age went well beyond her years. With blonde hair still her own color, and piercing blue eyes that hid behind the glasses perched on her nose, she gazed at Sam’s father with a suspicious look. She had seen this before … too many times to count. What was worse was that most of the men (and women) who were abusers never got caught. Most of them kept their children, who in turn ended up being abusers themselves. She eyed the older son, Dean, and wondered if this was the case with him.

“And what about Asheville, North Carolina?”

John blinked, his mouth opening to retort the injuries Sam had sustained there, but she cut him off.

“And Clarion, Iowa? Was he jumped there, too, Mr. Winchester?”

Suddenly John’s temper riled, his face flashed anger and he started to rise out of his seat. The only thing steadying him was a grip on his shoulder … Dean’s grip that was so damn tight his knuckles were no doubt white from the effort. Seems John wasn’t the only Winchester angered.

“I’ll have you know I have never laid a hand on Sam! Never!”

“Mr. Winchester…”

It was Dr. Hafer that spoke this time, his voice calm and steady despite the circumstances.

“You son has a dislocated shoulder, two fractured ribs, bruising in his abdomen, chest, and back, a concussion, and a broken wrist. But the worst and most damaging evidence is that he was choked. He has a clear and very distinct hand print around his throat that is too large to be made by a child….”

John swallowed, his hands shaking at the very idea that someone could think he would hurt his baby.

“Can I see my boy?”

“Until this matter is cleared, I’m afraid neither you nor Dean will be permitted visitation.”

“What? But he’s my brother!”

Dean, having been the steadying hand of reason throughout this entire ordeal, suddenly sprang to his feet, green eyes going wild with fright … the very real fear that he might not ever get to see Sam closing in on him hard and fast.

”And your brother is now the state’s concern.”

It was perhaps the longest three weeks in the history of the world. Dean was certain that nothing would have taken longer, not even the apocalypse. But, as he and John sat waiting for the judge to come back, he glanced around nervously then looked to his father.

“Why isn’t Sammy here?”

“Maybe he’s still too sick.”

Dean eyed his father with one of those yeah right looks, his stare pinning the elder Winchester down.

“They’ve given you health reports on him, dad, you know he was doing fine.”

John nodded. They had kept him informed of everything and anything having to do with Sam except let him see Sam. It had all but driven him insane. Twice he had tried to sneak in to see his boy, but they had posted guards … guards outside of his son’s door as if John were some sort of criminal or something. The fact that Sam was not here, at the hearing the state had for his custody, worried John more than he was willing to let on to Dean.

Pulled from his thoughts as the judge re-entered, he rose as instructed, then lowered back down beside his eldest.

Judge Matthews looked at the Winchester’s, his gaze steely and hard as he spoke in that gruff voice that said he meant business. He had seen a lot of things in his day, a lot he didn’t care to repeat, and while he couldn’t stop most things from happening … he could do this.

“Mr. Winchester, after reviewing your son’s case thoroughly, I have decided to strip you of all of your parental rights and remand custody of Samuel Winchester over to the state of Illinois.”

John’s face instantly paled, his eyes staring in disbelief at the evil man that had done this.

“You … you can’t!”

Dean sat stunned, too stunned for that moment to even speak.

“I have seen a lot of abuse in my days, Mr. Winchester, a lot of which I could do nothing about. This … I can fix this, and I will. Court’s adjourned.”

As the gavel slammed down on the bench, Dean’s heart shattered into a million pieces. He heard an ear splitting scream without even realizing it was he that was screaming.

“Noooooooooo!!”

To say Sam Winchester was stubborn was like saying a Tyrannosaurus Rex was kind of big, or that a Great White Shark was sort of scary. He had an uncanny ability to connect with almost anyone on any level … at least most of the time. But when things did not go as he felt they should (not necessarily his way, but the way they were supposed to go) then he was this brick wall of obstinacy.

Sandra Peterson learned this well by the time Sam was scheduled to be released.

“Now Samuel, we’re …”

“Sam.”

“Pardon?”

“My name, it’s Sam. S. A. Mmmmm.” The last said with an exaggeration that had her pausing and lifting a well tailored brow.

“Well, Sam … it looks like you are due to be released today.”

“Good, where’s my dad?”

“I’m afraid your dad won’t be picking you up today.”

“Then where’s Dean?”

“Not Dean either.”

His arms folded across his chest and he gave her a look she had never seen in a child before. The look was petulant, yes, but something else was there … something almost dangerous, as if this boy who had been so abused would cause harm to get back to those who had hurt him.

“Then I’m not going anywhere either.”

“I’m afraid it’s not going to work like that, Sam.”

The glare he shot her would have killed her instantaneously had looks actually been able to kill. A cold chill ran up her spine then, though later she would say she was just having a bad day.

Sighing, she laid a bag down on the bed beside him. “Here, I brought you a change of clothes. I’m going to go speak with your doctor, then I’ll be back and we can go.”

The glare of death he gave her was not something she’d soon forget.

If looks could kill, John Winchester would have dropped down dead at the deadpan his eldest son was giving him. It seems both his boys had that death glare down pat.

“So what? We’re just going to allow them to take Sam?”

“We didn’t allow anything, Dean! We went to court, we lost!”

“And since when has being on the losing side ever stopped you before, dad?”

Dean was exasperated. It wasn’t like his dad to surrender, not to anything or anyone … especially when there was so much at stake.

“Since it’s what Sam wants.”

“What Sam wants? Are you crazy? How do you know what Sam wants? Did he tell you?”

“Yes!”

“When? When did he tell you, dad, because I don’t remember you being allowed to even see Sam.”

John turned from the bottle he was currently nursing in the crap hotel they were holed up in to stare at his eldest, a brief smile cracking the façade, it coming to mask the hurt he felt.

“Before.”

“Before? Before what, dad?”

“Before the hunt, Dean, he told me he hated me.”

“There he is!”

Sam was nearly to the elevator when they spotted him. He only glanced back a second before he darted down a hallway and took off running faster than any normal 14 year old should be able to run.

“Stop that kid!”

He dodged a doctor, ducked under an orderly, and slid between the legs of some fat nurse. Dean would have teased him for a month over that one, but Dean wasn’t there … something Sam Winchester was trying to rectify.

Turning several corners, he saw his home stretch in way of the emergency room, and took off down the hallway in a sprint.

“There he goes, get him!”

One security officer came charging from a hallway to his left, causing Sam to duck and roll. A well placed kick to the man’s knee had him crumbling to the ground before Sam was scrambling to his feet once more.

He nearly made it to the door when another security guard grabbed him. He received a punch learned straight from Dean for his efforts, but in doing so it slowed him down. All in all, it took four guards to hold and retain Sam Winchester, and two more to help manhandle him into the backseat of Sandra Peterson’s car.

It was a good thing she had child safety locks, for he tried a mad escape from the moving car on the highway.

He didn’t act like the normal abused child, but frankly that wasn’t her problem. She did her job, she weighed the evidence … and it clearly pointed to the fact that John Winchester was abusing his youngest son.

Dean lowered to the chair next to his father, the urge to throttle the man he idolized growing stronger and stronger by the second. Taking in a deep breath … One … two … three … he let it out languidly before talking slowly. Oh so slowly to keep from blowing up and punching his father just to knock some sense into him.

“You said you hated him too, dad.”

“Yeah, but that was retaliation, he said it first.”

“What are you, seven? Dad, he’s a kid, of course he said it first!”

John turned to look at his eldest, the fear so clearly written on his face … the fear that made it far easier to let them take Sam than to watch Sam walk away of his own volition.

“What if he told them all those awful things? What if he wanted to leave and not come back?”

Dean leaned in and grabbed John by the shirt collar and tugged him close just so he could see the seriousness in his eyes.

“Are you going to sit here and wonder? Or are you going to get off your ass and find out for sure?”

John stared incredulously at his son, wondering when the boy had grown up. He guessed it was the moment he placed his baby brother in his arms.

“The way I see it, dad, we have a hunt to do. If Wendigos and Demons aren’t any match for the Winchester’s, then CPS should be a piece of cake.”

Sam sat on the floor in the small room they had placed him in, his glare on the door, his arms folded across his chest. The bruises he bore now were from guards and attendees wrestling him first from the hospital, then from Sandra Peterson’s car to wherever this was.

He only showed an ounce of life as the lock clicked and the door opened to allow a fat, balding man entrance into a room that was his.

“Good afternoon, Sam.”

He was met with a blank, defiant stare from the fourteen year old, something he would have expected from a runaway, but not from a child that was removed from an abusive home.

“I’d like to introduce you to your foster parents; this is Fred and Maureen Barber.”

Sam glanced behind the man in desperate need of a hair weave to the couple entering. The man wasn’t tall, but he was stocky and packed a lot of weight that seemed to be pure muscle. The woman was petite, red headed, and made Sam instantly ill. He hated them both.

Looking directly at the woman as she offered a small smile, he smirked. “My mother’s dead. Don’t think you can fill those shoes until you plan to join her.”

The man, Fred, gave Sam a look that he should have recognized. The bald man gasped, and then shot Sam a stern look.

“Listen to me Samuel, you are lucky that the Barber’s want you! Most children don’t often get foster parents for …”

“Lucky? Oh, you call snatching me from my family and shoving me with these two is going to get you brownie points, baldy?”

Dean would have been so proud!

“Hey Caleb, it’s John.”

Dean sat, watching his father from his bed in this crap motel. The TV turned down; he flipped through the channels at a rapid pace, something that would have caused Sam to toss a pillow at his head.

Sammy … just the thought of his little brother caused an ache in his chest that no amount of pain killer was going to alleviate.

“Listen Caleb, I need your help. No, it’s not a job … well, not your traditional job.”

Flip.
Flip.
Flip.

“It’s Sam. A hunt went bad and he got hurt…”

Flip.
Flip.

“No, he’s okay, it’s just that … “

Flip.
Flip.
Flip.
Flip.

“Child Protective Services thought I was abusing him and took him away.”

Flip. Flip. Flip.

“Well, of course I tried stealing him back; they had his room guarded like Fort Knox.”

Flip. Flip.

“Yeah, Caleb, I know … you could get in and out of there before I could salt and burn a vengeful spirit.”

FlipFlipFlipFlip.

“So you’ll help?”

Flipflipflip.

“Thanks, Caleb … I owe you big on this one.”

The remote paused as soon as the motel phone rested back in its cradle and Dean looked to John expectantly.

“He’s on his way.”

They drove up to the heart of suburbia in the middle of the night. Sam stared out the window of the nondescript van but said nothing of the plush, well-manicured lawns or the fact that every third house looked the same. It was what he had always wanted, right? So why was his stomach tying in knots with each mile that took him further from the hospital where surely Dean and his father had known where he was?

And just where was dad and Dean anyway?

“Get out of the car.”

He blinked from his thoughts to see Mr. Barber leave the van. His wife was already on her way to the house that, for all the normalness it offered, made Sam ill.

“Now.”

He looked to the man and snorted before doing as told. The tone the man held should have triggered all the warning signs in Sam’s head; he was, after all, a smart boy. But, growing up the way he did, he faced ghosts and demons, not men with attitudes, unless you counted John Winchester’s exasperation at his youngest.

Glancing around, he honestly thought of running, of just taking off, but he didn’t know where he was. Better to get his bearings and then find a phone and make a call to Pastor Jim or Caleb. Maybe Bobby would swing by and pick him up in the middle of the …

“Are you listening to me, Samuel?”

“It’s Sam.”

The sarcasm was plain to hear in his voice, the eye roll he gave almost rattled as he stepped into the house, only to have a hand grip his arm and jerk him around to come face to face with Fred Barber.

“It’s whatever I want it to be, got it, boy?”

There was venom to the man’s voice, but Sam only snorted. Who did this asshole think he was anyway? Sam didn’t listen to the mighty John Winchester, and he was his father, what made him think he was going to listen to him?

“Yeah, whatever…”

No sooner had those two words left his mouth and he was turning despite the grip on his arm when the lights flashed in his head and he staggered. It took him a second, as his head swung and he stumbled back into the wall, to realize he was hit. Bringing a hand to his jaw, he looked at the man who, until that moment, he’d sorely underestimated.

“Are we on the same page now, Samuel?”

Sam stared, the back of his hand pressed against the side of his mouth where a trickle of blood tainted his skin.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear you.”

All the warning signs flashed at that moment. Sam could almost hear Dean’s voice yelling at him, telling him to run as fast as he could. Fred Barber took a step forward and that’s all it took to heed Dean’s inside his head warning. Striking out with a fist, he turned to dart for the door, but no matter how well John trained his boy, he was training him to fight the supernatural … not a man who outweighed him by at least sixty pounds and several inches. He just gripped the doorknob when he was jerked back and tossed across the room to crash into a small table and lamp, his weight staggering the three to the floor in a crash that should have alerted the world what was happening … but no one came. Not Maureen from wherever she had disappeared to. Not the police called from some suspicious neighbor. And not John Winchester, riding in on a black truck flanked by a black impala at the last minute to save the day like the hero he was.

Sam Winchester was all alone … with a man that was far worse than they had claimed his father could ever be.

“I was sort of hoping you’d put up a fight.”

They had thought John Winchester was the devil in disguise. They had thought that young Sam was better off in the care of others. It was for his own good, they had said. He deserved far better than he’d been given thus far, they’d said.

And they handed him over to a monster.

As Sam hit the table and crashed to the floor one thought came to mind. One terrible thought that would haunt him. This was normal. And then a rough hand jerked him to his feet, the blow delivered to his stomach taking whatever breath he’d had left after that collision course with the wall, table, and lamp, and sucked it right out of his lungs, leaving him gasping as he keeled over. The only thing keeping him on his feet was that fist holding tightly the fabric of his shirt.

“Now, we’re going to try this again. What I say around here goes. All I want in response from you is a ‘Yes Sir’, am I clear?”

Sam blinked, trying to clear his head … trying to get his fogged mind to wake up, because this was so not happening. But, the shake he received told him otherwise. This was happening, and unfortunately, it was happening to him.

“Answer me boy!”

He lifted his head, his eyes meeting the very devil himself, and for an instant, fear struck. His mouth opened to say something, to give him what he wanted. I hate you! But then something stopped him. Something far greater and more tangible than the fear he felt. His father. To give this monster that respect, he would be betraying the only man who deserved it.

“Screw. You.”

Anger emanated from Fred Barber so thick, that for an instant it was damn near suffocating. An instant that ended with an explosion of pain as a fist hit his side just under his ribs hard enough to make him nauseous. A second jolt of his fist finished the job and Sam listed to the side and expelled the contents of his stomach.

The sound of his retching brought relief in way of Mrs. Barber. Hustling from the kitchen she eyed the boy on his hands and knees, puking, and her husband, fists clenched, hovering above him, about to deliver another blow. Sam looked up, his eyes begging for something when she tsked at him in pity then turned and walked back into the kitchen.

He stared in disbelief, the man behind him forgotten for that split second before a hand gripped in his hair, jerking his head back before another burst of lights in his head was followed by an explosion of pain.

The last thing Sam remembered was hateful words vowing to teach him a lesson before the blessed darkness claimed him.

“It’s been three weeks Caleb, and you’re telling me there’s nothing?”

“Apparently they felt it was in his best interest to move him out of the county. It seems his father was considered a huge risk to his health.”

John snorted at that then ran a hand over his face, letting out a slow breath that was supposed to be calming. It wasn’t anything of the sort.

“What if he thinks I abandoned him, Caleb?”

The words were so quiet it was a wonder they made voice at all. It was so unlike John Winchester … so much so that Caleb had to lean close to hear him. Not liking the sound of defeat in his friend’s voice, he laid a hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring pat before rising.

“We’ll find him, Johnny, mark my words … we’ll find Sam if it’s the last thing we ever do.”

“Open this door, Sam!”

The pounding on the door did little to break his resolve, though Sam did fear the consequences of his actions. He had been made to fear them! Fred Barber was everything (and more!) that they claimed John Winchester to be. He still had the bruises to prove it. His cheek still bore an ugly greenish mark that was fading though still prominent. Most of what he was subjected to was hidden under his clothing … hidden from view. His ribs ached, his stomach had the black and blue marks of Fred’s fist, and his back had a line of bruises from being shoved into whatever happened to be in his way as Fred tossed him about like a rag doll.

But the worst part was that his wife, Maureen … did nothing. No, she never struck out at Sam, never laid so much as a finger on him … but she did nothing to stop it either. You brought it all on yourself, Sam. He could still hear her deadly betrayal after that first incident with Fred.

And he thought his father’s apathy was bad.

“I’m warning you boy, once I get in this door….”

There was a thud as Fred threw himself into the door, causing it to give just a little under the man’s weight. Sam jerked upright, his gaze swinging from door to window and back. Another thud hit followed immediately by a crack.

That’s all it took to get Sam moving.

With nothing to grab but himself, he darted to the window and tried pushing it up, only to come to the very real (and scary!) conclusion that it wasn’t going to budge. Another thud, another crack and sweat started beading on his brow. If Mr. Barber got into the room now, there was no telling what pain he would inflict.

Moving quickly, he went to the dresser, and with a shove, got it moving until it was in front of the door. It wouldn’t keep the monster out indefinitely, but it would bide his time. Hazel eyes quickly darted around the room until finally deciding on the only thing he could. The chair he grabbed was heaved through the window, making his escape known to the monster that no amount of salt was going to deter from kicking Sam’s ass.

THUD!

“Oh you little bastard!”

THUD!

And the dresser slid just a bit causing panic in the fourteen year old boy who thought monsters only existed in the outside world where his father and brother hunted. Without hesitation, Sam scampered out the window; the shards of glass that bit into his skin did little to halt his escape. The only pause he made was at the ledge, his gaze drifting down to the ground below. The door slamming open broke the reverie.

“Get in here you little bastard!”

His fear of Fred Barber was much stronger than his fear of falling, so Sam relied on the blind faith that something good had to be on his side, if only for just this once. Just as a hand came swiping through the window to make a grab for the boy, Sam jumped, his short plummet landing him on the Barber’s lawn to duck and fall into a roll as his ankle gave under the impact.

“Get your ass back here, Sam!”

The sheer power of that voice had Sam running despite the throb in his ankle. Across the lawn and toward the woods his long legs carried him. He wasn’t fool enough to think anyone was going to help him anymore and he knew, even with his head start, that Freddie boy could just get in the car and chase him if he stuck to the street. So Sam used the sense that John Winchester gave him and headed for the woods. He might not be able to outrun Fred Barber, but he could damn sure outsmart him.

“I found him!”

Both John and Caleb jumped as the hotel door slammed open and Dean strode in looking more alive than he had since this whole fiasco began.

“You did? Where?!”

John was already on his feet and grabbing for his keys before Caleb even rose from the chair.

“Little town called Jerome, two counties over from here.”

Already the three men were moving out the door collectively, Dean, followed by John while Caleb brought up the rear.

“Seems a man named Fred Barber, along with his loving wife Maureen were just dying to add to their family with our Sam.”

John nodded and opened the truck door, but Dean’s hand on his arm paused him halfway into the driver’s seat.

“Sam isn’t the only kid the couple has fostered.”

“Oh?”

“Every time they take in a kid, a boy, he disappears. Runaway they claim, for the Barbers have taken on what they considered troubled kids.”

“But you think there’s more to it than running away?”

Dean nodded. John closed the truck door and started the ignition.

“We have to find Sammy … now.”

Sam had been running for over an hour when his ankle finally gave out on him. Dropping down to the earth below, he leaned back against a tree, his chest heaving. He’d stopped hearing Fred’s angry threats (promises if he was caught) about thirty minutes ago, but had kept on despite exhaustion, despite pain … and the worst of all … despite the fear that was trying to consume him.

Sam Winchester had fought ghosts, demons, werewolves, and poltergeists (not to mention countless other monsters that most claimed did not exist) and even on occasion had a wrestling match with one elder brother (who was a pain in the ass) and the frequent shouting match with one ill tempered father (who was an even bigger pain in the ass) … but never had he faced off with a man who took pleasure in causing him pain. It was enough to make him want to get up and run again … if only his body would cooperate.

In the three weeks he’d been with Fred and Maureen Barber, he’d been shoved, punched, kicked, thrown, and pummeled more than any ghost had ever done. His ribs, back, and stomach took countless abuse, for Fred had, after that first night, laid off his face. Face hits left evidence (not that Sam went anywhere), though the bruising across his stomach and back was enough to make Sam wince when he’d taken a shower that morning.

Apparently Sam ignoring him while reading a book had pissed the man off. But then again, everything pissed him off. Sam learned that the very first minute he walked into the Barber’s house.

Now it was growing dark and he was in the woods, alone, without having a plan. His father had drilled into him since he could walk about having a plan for everything … but here he was, without one … lost.

God he missed his dad. Truth be told, he regretted that fight they had before all this began. He’d give anything to be on a hunt right now … playing backup to Dean. He missed Dean the most. He’d go back to the Barber’s if he thought Dean was going to rescue him. If he thought Dean and his dad were going to come charging in and save the day.

Just where were they anyway?

He’d expected them to come to the hospital, but that woman Sandra Peterson had said he wasn’t safe with them. As if she knew what safe was! She was the bitch that packed him up and shoved him off to Fred Barber! Oh yeah, she knew what safe was all right!

Frowning, Sam looked to the darkening sky and sighed. He had no idea how to find his dad or brother (since they obviously couldn’t find him). Were they even still at that hotel? If so, would his father even want to see him? Part of Sam believed that maybe his dad left him here to the wolves. “I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you.” But then Sam thought of Dean … and he knew better.

With a stubborn set to his Winchester jaw, he pushed up from the ground, his left ankle favored as it throbbed with any amount of weight, and he set off. He might not be able to find his dad and brother, but he certainly knew where Pastor Jim lived.

“What do you mean Sam’s not here?”

John Winchester was not a patient man by any stretch of the imagination, and while he would never win a Father of the Year award, he was even less patient when it came to the safety of his sons.

This man at the door was already passed trying his patience.

“He broke out my window and took off. If you ask me, the kid’s crazy.”

John’s face grew red with anger, his hand coming up to enunciate each word spoken with a hard poke to the other man’s chest when Caleb stepped in.

“Tell me … why did Sam find it necessary to break a window to get out?”

Fred Barber narrowed his eyes at Caleb and then John before he glowered at both men as if they might be as intimidated by him as the children he inflicted fear upon.

“Who in the hell do you think you are, coming in here and demanding anything?”

It was Dean, who had been silent up until then, that pushed his way between his father and Caleb to grab the man by his shirt and slam him into the side of the house.

“Listen, asshole, I don’t have time to play nice, besides, that’s my brother’s job, I just want you to tell me where Sam is, and I’m not going to ask again.”

Fred stared at Dean, his gaze not wavering, not even as the gun was pressed to his abdomen or the click of the safety coming off could be heard. He was a stubborn bastard, and surely would have died that day had Maureen Barber not stepped forward at that moment.

“He was a bad boy! Worse than the others. I tried to tell him that he was bad, Fred tried to show him, but he didn’t listen. He ran … into the woods. Broke our window. What a bad, bad boy!”

“Oh you sonofabitch, what did you do to my brother?!”

Dean slammed the man into the wall hard enough to make his head rattle, and was actually fingering the trigger when Caleb pulled him off him.

“Later Ace, we’ll have time for that later. Right now we need to find Sam.”

Dean turned to see his father already racing for the woods, his voice echoing the one word that has been plaguing him since this whole thing began.

“Sam!”

“Yeah, I’d like to make a collect call.”

Sam had cut left a path left to make his way from the woods to a road, landing himself less than a quarter mile from a gas station. He actually grinned, and would have run if his ankle wasn’t throbbing. But Sam had forced himself onward with a stubborn set to his Winchester jaw, and plunged forward until he found himself at the payphone just outside.

“Number please.”

“Five five five, eight nine six, zero three one nine.”

“Who is calling?”

“Sam Winchester.”

“One moment please.”

Ring.

Come on, come on, Pastor Jim, please answer!

Ring.

Please, God, if I’ve never asked you for anything, please let him be home.

Ring.

Oh God, he’s not there, he’s …

Ring.

“Hi…”

“Pastor Jim, it’s Sam, I need … “

“… you have reached the home of Jim Murphy, I’m sorry I can’t…”

“We got an answering machine. Hello? Hello?”

Sam’s chest deflated and he just dropped the receiver in his hand to lean against the phone booth and suck in a deep breath.

Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry!

But even through his command, Sam could feel his breath hitch, feel his eyes start to burn and the dampness start to fill them.

“Hey kid, you ok?”

Sam’s head jerked to the man speaking, and his eyes narrowed … after Fred Barber, he wasn’t liking anyone around him, especially someone he didn’t know.

So Sam Winchester gave his best glare of death.

The man held up his hands in surrender and grinned.

“Hey kid, it’s ok, you just look like you been ten rounds with something, thought maybe I could help.”

Every instinct inside Sam told him to just keep silent, to keep his game face on and glare for all he was worth.

“I just … “

But he was hurt, tired, scared, and most of all lonely. Sam wanted, more than anything else in the world, to find comfort and safety, even if that came in way of a stranger offering to help.

“I just … need to get back to my dad.”

“Yeah?”

Sam nodded, but offered no more explanation than that. What was he supposed to say anyway? They were hunting a ghost, he got hurt, and as a result CPS thought his father abused him, so they, being the good organization that they were, sent him to live with a monster? Oh no, that just wouldn’t go over well.

“Yeah … “

”Where is your dad?”

Sam bit his lip. Maybe he was telling too much, maybe he’d told too much already. Maybe he should wait right here and John Winchester would come riding up to save the day like he always had.

“Blue Earth, Minnesota.”

“That’s a pretty long ways off.”

Sam sighed dejectedly and nodded, “I know.”

The man paused, seeming to look thoughtful for a moment then nodded.

“I’m not going the whole way, but I can certainly get you closer.”

Sam actually pushed further back into the booth as if it would offer some sort of protection. As if it had a salt line against the boogey men of the world.

“If you’d rather stay here …”

Sam still paused, his gaze on the man but he stood unmoving.

“Okay then.” And he looked to the sky for a moment, as if considering, then nodded as he started away. “Just hope it doesn’t rain.”

Sam looked to the man’s back, panic starting to set in as he said but one word. One damning word.

“Wait … “

There was a blankness to the man’s face for just a moment before it came … that lecherous grin that lit a dangerous spark to his eyes. But it was all gone before he turned to Sam and offered a warming smile.

“Great. I’m Jeff, by the way.”

“Sam.”

“Well, Sam, it looks like we’re going to be traveling companions for a bit…”

Sam nodded and stepped forward to follow Jeff to his car … a black SUV that’s best quality was that it was getting Sam out of this hell.

Settling inside the car, Sam leaned back against the seat, curled between it and the door as if getting as far away from Jeff as he could.

Jeff, for his part, said nothing, just started the vehicle and headed onto the road. After about thirty minutes, Sam began to relax, and an hour into the trip, his eyes were closing and he was nearly asleep when he heard Jeff once more.

“I noticed you don’t have any bags.”

“Huh?”

Sam looked over, with a sleepy expression that said he wasn’t quite his astute self just yet.

“Bags. You don’t have any bags.”

“Yeah, I kind of left in a hurry.”

“Uh huh … “

Silence loomed for several minutes before Jeff spoke again.

“Seems to me, a boy out traveling at night with no bags … no one’s going to come looking for him … are they, Sam?”