Warning: Implied child abuse and trauma. Bad!John.

Sam woke with a jolt at the loud bang. Next to him, Dean bolted upright in bed, eyes wide and terrified.

"Move, Sammy. Now." He ordered, pushing Sam off the bed. "Get under it. Don't come out until I say it's safe."

Sam dropped and rolled underneath. He could see Dean pick up the sawed-off Dad had left with them and he clapped a hand over his mouth. Dean would be angry if he wasn't quiet.

The bedroom door banged open and Sam jumped. All he could see were two pairs of heavy boots, neither belonging to Dad, and Dean's small bare-feet.

"Get out," Dean yelled and Sam heard the gun cock.

"Little boys shouldn't play with toys," a sickeningly sweet voice taunted. There was a scuffle and the gun dropped to the floor as Dean's feet disappeared.

"Stop it! Let me go, you bastard! Put me down!"

"Where's the other one?"

"Where's your brother, kid?"

"Fuck you! My dad's gonna kill you. He'll kill you if you touch me."

"Let's just go. Daddy probably took the little one with him. Left big brother all alone."

Sam bit down hard on his hand, beginning to shake. His cheeks were wet and he could taste salt against his skin.

The door closed, cutting off Dean's continued screams of obscenities. Sam waited. Dean said not to move until Dean said it was safe, so he didn't. He stayed where he was.

Slowly, the sun rose, bathing the bedroom in light. Sam inched his way from beneath the bed. He peered out of the bedroom, but there was no one there. He grabbed quarters off the table and ran for the pay phone.

He called Uncle Bobby, sobbing into the phone as he counted the rings.

"Singer Salvage."

Sam couldn't talk, just cried.

"Dean? Sam?"

"Un'le Bobby," Sam managed, gasping around his tears, "They took Dean!"

It's been eleven years, nine months, and fourteen days since Dean was taken. Sam remembers it like it was yesterday. Most of his nightmares revolve around Dean screaming and the heavy slam of the door tearing them apart forever.

Bobby had broken land speed records to get from South Dakota to Louisiana, where he found Sam huddled in a ball under the bed. Bobby had taken the shaking, sobbing boy back to his house and did his best to find John. It had taken two weeks before John had shown up, not at all concerned until he gruffly asked for Dean. Sam had burst into tears and while Bobby drug John outside.

Sam had still been able to hear Bobby yelling. You did those boys a disservice, John Winchester. And now one of them is gone. Time to be a daddy to the one you got left.

John had taken off within hours, swearing again and again to Sam that he was going to find Dean and bring him home. Sam hadn't spoken to his father since he was thirteen, when he realized it was John's fault Dean was missing in the first place. If John had been a good father to them, if he hadn't left two scared kids alone in a dingy apartment in Louisiana while he took off to God knows where, then those men wouldn't have been able to take Dean away.

Bobby, though. Bobby's awesome. He had set up a room for Sam, enrolled him in school, and turned out to be a better father than John Winchester could ever have dreamed of being. It still isn't home, because Sam can't have a home with his brother out there somewhere, but it's as close to one as he'll ever get until he finds Dean.

And he's going to find Dean. One day, he will.

Sam's senior year had let out just yesterday and Sam has a plan. He's going to go down to Louisiana and he's going to find his brother. One way or another. It didn't matter that the trail was a decade cold because Sam was going to find a way, damnit.

Bobby insists on going with him, which Sam would complain about if he wasn't so scared shitless. He's heading back to the place all of his nightmares spawn from. He's just a bit wigged out. So, Bobby goes with.

Sam drives the Impala. Dean always loved it and John had always said it'd be Dean's one day. But, when Sam turned sixteen, he woke up to the car parked in the driveway and a note that said "happy birthday". He takes immaculate care of it, telling himself Dean'll kick his ass if it's in shit condition when they find him again.

They pull up to an apartment that is scarily familiar, even after nearly a dozen years. Sam is shaking so hard, he can't get out of the car. Bobby tells him they can still go home, but, no. Sam has to do this. Sam has to find Dean.

Mrs. Morris had owned the apartments when Sam and Dean had stayed there, but she'd been a little old lady then and was long dead now. Her son has taken over and it's a long shot, but Sam is going to ask questions anyway.

"You looking for a room?" the guy's eyes sweep between Sam and Bobby and he smirks, "King or two queens?"

"Not looking for a room," Sam doesn't really have time to dork around, so he doesn't bother, "My name's Sam and I stayed here about eleven years ago with my brother."

"Why the hell should I care," Mrs. Morris' son sneers.

"My brother got kidnapped out of apartment 16," Sam says flatly.

"I don't know nothin' about it. So screw off unless you're getting a room."

Sam doesn't punch the dude in the face, but it's a close call. Bobby had reported Dean missing all those years ago, but they never got a call. Sam figures the next place to look is the morgue. He's pretty much dreading it.

He and Bobby spend two hours at the morgue. Sam gives all the information he can about Dean: dark blonde hair, green eyes, freckles, a scar on his knee (from the time he tore it open climbing over a fence). They go year by year, looking for John Does that would have been about Dean's age. They get nothing and Sam's relieved.

Bobby suggests getting food and rest, but Sam wants to check out the police station first.

The officer that sees to them looks weary and tired. His expression grows even grimmer as he gives them all he can, "A lot of kids went missing that year. We finally caught the two men responsible around New Orleans, about four years ago. They had about a dozen kids locked away in this old house. This one kid, Luke Grayson, was about nineteen at the time. He'll know how to find the others."

Bobby insists on staying the night at some dive, but Sam wakes him up at first light, they eat quickly at a diner, and then drive about two hours to Luke Grayson's house. Sam is nervous as hell when he knocks on the front door and jumps about two foot when the door swings open.

Luke is shorter than Sam, which isn't really saying much as Sam is quite frankly a giant. He's got the light mocha skin of someone with interracial parents and deep brown eyes. His expression is guarded and carefully closed off; he's clearly seen too much in his short lifetime. He's probably only about five or six years older than Sam, but he seems much, much older.

"Can I help you?"

"My… my name is Sam Winchester. I was hoping you could help me find my brother."

Something dark flickers across Luke's face. "He get taken, huh?"

"The police in Augusta said you could help."

"What's his name?" Luke sounds tired.

"Dean."

"Don't know a Dean, sorry."

Sam's face crumples because, really. He thought this was it. He thought this was the lead he needed. "Please...We...The door banged open and it woke us up. Dean told me to get under the bed...These two guys came in." Sam swallows. "I haven't seen in in eleven years. Eleven years, nine months, and nineteen days."

Something that may have been compassion softened Luke's eyes, "We didn't all have names. Some were too little to know them and some just… wouldn't talk. Too scared shitless to talk."

"He would have been ten."

Luke frowned for a moment. "Come on in. It's probably Quinton."

Sam's heart thunders as he steps inside. "Quinton."

"I've never heard him talk. He barely made a sound; I thought he was mute. I named him Quinton because it was so close to quiet."

Sam can't imagine that, can't imagine his smart-mouthed Dean ever being silent for eleven goddamn years.

"Hey, Quint! C'mere for a minute." Luke calls up the stairs.

The young man that approaches is completely silent. The floorboards don't even creak under his boots. He's broad-shouldered and a little stocky, green eyes and short, spiky hair. He's dressed in faded jeans and a leather jacket over a t-shirt and he's so clearly Dean.

"Dean," Sam gasps, stumbling forward.

Dean freezes, mouth dropping open, halfway down the stairs. His mouth moves frantically, but no words come out. Sam remembers Dean screaming obscenities and wonders how the fuck those assholes shut him up. He doesn't really want to know.

"Dean, it's. It's Sammy."

Dean falls forward, but Sam's suddenly there to catch him. He sinks to the floor, arms wrapped tight around Dean, and holds on. He might never let go again.

It's later. Much, much later. Dean's passed out on the couch, fingers curled tight around Sam's wrist and head in his lap. Sam's got a finger curled around one of his belt loops.

"You better not hurt him," Luke suddenly says, voice a menacing growl as he watches from the doorway. Sam looks at him.

"I would never hurt Dean."

"His name is Quinton."

"His name is Dean," Sam snarls. "He's my brother."

"You don't know jack shit, Winchester. The brother you knew doesn't exist anymore."

Dean shifts, pressing his face into Sam's stomach. His fingers tighten on Sam's wrist and Sam's free hand immediately goes to his hair.

"Shhh, Dean," he whispers, gently stroking his scalp, "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

Dean sighs and relaxes again and Sam can't help the quirking smile. He's got Dean. Everything's gonna be okay.

Luke's expression shutters dark again. "I've known that boy since he was ten, and not once have I gotten him to relax."

Sam doesn't look up, just keeps up with the gentle stroking. "When Dean was four, our mother died. I was just six months old. Can't remember a thing about her. But, there was this fire. Dad put me in Dean's arms, told him to take me outside. Dean carried me out of a burning building, just four years old. Our dad… he was real torn up after Mom died. Dean had to take care of me. He's the one that tucked me in at night and patched up my skinned knees. He was the closest thing I had to a dad and he was just a kid himself. Dad was always tellin' him, watch out for Sammy, take care of Sammy. And he did. He let them take him, didn't breathe a word about me. I imagine he's been scared shitless, just like I've been. He's been wanting to make sure I was alright."

"Where's your dad? Why didn't he ever come after him?"

Sam's hand fumbles for a moment. He thinks for a moment and decides not to answer. "I should probably get him into a bed or something. I guess he's got a bedroom?"

"Upstairs, second door on the left."

"Thanks."

"Need help?"

"I got it," Sam says tightly, a little defensively. He might not have been there before, but he is now. And he doesn't need any help with his brother.

Sam takes a moment to slip out from beneath Dean. Even though he's still asleep, Dean whines when Sam lets him go. He quickly picks him up, one arm secure beneath his knees and the other around Dean's shoulders. Dean settles again, his head falling onto Sam's shoulder. He presses his nose into Sam's neck and sighs.

Sam kinda wants to send a smug look Luke's way. Wants to say, see. I'm all he needs. He doesn't, but it's a close call.

Bobby finds him later. He doesn't have to look long. Sam's stretched out next to Dean, propped up on an elbow, just watching his brother sleep. When he was little, he used to wake up sometimes to Dean watching him, keeping him safe as he slept. He wants Dean to know that he's safe, that Sam's watching over him.

"You want me to call your daddy?"

"If he was really looking… If he was really looking, Dad would have found him years ago. He's not looking, Bobby. He never was."

Bobby sighs. "John never thought Dean was still alive. He thought, right from the beginning, that he was gone. I suspect he came down here and looked around. I don't doubt he did, but… When he couldn't find him, he went back to looking for that demon of his."

"He gave up," Sam says flatly. He had never truly hated his father until this very moment. "He fucking gave up."

Dean whimpers and Sam twists quickly, looking back down at his brother. Dean's wide awake, eyes looking suspiciously wet. Sam's feels like he's been soccer punched. Dean never cried.

"Dean."

Dean's mouth works, but he still never says a word.

"I'm sorry," Sam breathes, dropping until he's lying flat and pulls Dean to him. "You weren't supposed to hear that."

"Hi, there, Dean." Bobby says, solemnly. Dean shakes, eyes wide. His mouth moves, forming words that never leave his throat, but Bobby can read them on his lips plain as day. Uncle Bobby.

Bobby was as hard as they came. He'd buried his wife after putting a bullet through her head himself, and plenty of people he'd consider friends since. He'd seen things most people woke screaming from. Seeing Dean, who'd been like a son to him, so helpless and hurt, though. It tore at him and he blinked back tears.

Dean curls both of his hands into Sam's shirt, presses his face into his shoulder, and shakes. Sam can feel the way his shirt goes wet and his eyes sting with his own tears. He pulls Dean impossibly closer and whispers into his ear.

"It's okay, Dean. I've got you and I'm never letting anything happen to you, not ever again. I promise. You're safe."

He kept talking, losing track of what he was even saying, until Dean went limp in his arms. He still didn't let his brother go, though. Never again, he swore.