Sam had been expecting a quiet evening. Perhaps a book or two, maybe some Netflix before bed. He'd be lulled asleep by the gentle, steady rainfall outside.

Just him. No one else.

He jumped when a dull thud-thud tore through the silent, empty house.

Dean wasn't due back for a few days. And he certainly never knocked.

So who was at the door?

Knocking at a speed that conveyed urgency, but done so quietly and timidly that whoever it was almost didn't want to disturb Sam at all.

He set his drink aside and made his way to the front door.

Upon opening it, he let out an involuntary gasp. "Jack?"

His unofficial-official kid was hunched over in the doorway, arms wrapped around his torso. He barely looked up to acknowledge Sam opening the door.

"What are you doing here?" Sam grabbed Jack's upper arms, pulling the kid inside out of the rain. His clothes were damp, and cold enough to send shoots of pain through Sam's hands.

Jack didn't answer. His head was bowed, but now that he was closer, Sam could see streaks of blood on his nose and lips.

"Oh g—" A chill ran through him, one that had nothing to do with the cold seeping through his hands from Jack's clothes. "Jack, what happened?" Sam knelt in front of him, trying to meet his uncooperative eyes.

Jack stood still, eyes downcast and head hanging limp. His breaths were loud and shaky in the quiet.

"Who did this?" Sam demanded again when Jack remained silent.

The kid's voice was rough and low when he spoke, hardly above a whisper. "I—I didn't...he just…"

"Who's 'he'?" A pit of dread blossomed in Sam's stomach. "Jack, was it…was it your father?"

Trembling, and still without lifting his gaze, Jack nodded.

Sam felt his lips press together in anger. He knew it. He'd known something like this was bound to happen. Ever since Jack had been taken away by…him.

"You're freezing." Sam grabbed a blanket off the couch and wrapped it around Jack's shoulders.

"I'll get it wet," Jack protested, but Sam ignored him, swathing him in the blanket. Jack only hesitated for a second longer before embracing the cover with a shiver of gratitude.

The macabre sight of blood painting Jack's face was enough to cause a wave of nausea to wash over Sam. "Come in here." He guided Jack into the kitchen, where the lights were bright enough for him to get a good look at his face.

Sam lifted the kid onto the kitchen counter, bringing them eye to eye. Despite last year's growth spurt, Jack remained considerably smaller than him.

Jack hissed in pain as Sam gripped his torso, causing Sam to immediately adjust his grip. He perched on the counter, looking very small. His shoulders were drawn tight in a tense, unhappy posture.

He was so despairingly different, Sam observed. Before they'd taken Jack away, less than half a year ago, he'd been…happy. Carefree. Optimistic and open. He'd smiled all the time, finding joy in the smallest of things.

Now, though, he seemed to have closed himself off. He was shut-down. Fearful. Tight-lipped. Like he was trying to be invisible.

Sam reached for Jack's face, intending to lift his head and examine his bloody nose. But Jack, sensing the movement, flinched away, eyes squeezing shut with dread.

The unexpected reaction confused Sam for a moment, then the realization flooded him. His heart sank into his knees.

This was a learned reaction. Recently developed. Jack had come to anticipate violence when someone reached for him.

Sam withdrew his hand. "It's okay," he said softly. "Can I look at your nose?"

Slowly, timidly, Jack nodded. He lifted his chin so the light glinted off the blood. He kept his eyes closed, still avoiding Sam's gaze.

Sam surveyed the damage, trying to touch Jack as little as possible. "How much does it hurt?"

"Not much anymore," Jack whispered. His voice wavered. Sam could tell he was trying not to cry. "It did at first, but…I think it's okay now."

Sam wet a rag with warm water. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

Jack shook his head. The movement was small but fierce.

"Okay. I won't push you." Sam pressed the rag to Jack's face, wiping the blood away with gentle hands. He knew if he didn't pester Jack with questions, the kid would open up when he was ready.

For now, he could focus on other things, like tending to Jack's physical hurt. "Where are you hurt? Where all did he…?"

Jack was silent for a moment. "Nose," he mumbled. "Neck. He…scratched me. He had a knife."

Sam's eyes bulged in a panic. A knife. There had been a knife. He pulled Jack's jacket collar away from his neck, revealing a thin, bright red line a few inches long.

It wasn't deep, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief for that. But just knowing that a blade had been anywhere near Jack's throat burned Sam's insides with rage—a helpless, fruitless rage.

Jack's father, the man entrusted with this precious life, whom the courts had deemed fit to care for this shy, emotional teenage boy, had held a knife to his neck. Hard enough to scratch his throat.

Sam breathed, deep. Slow. Steadying. "Okay. I don't think your nose is broken. The bleeding's mostly stopped, that's good. And I think your neck is fine." He brushed his fingers over the little wound, wishing he could heal it with a swipe of his finger.

Remembering Jack's pained reaction to pressure on his ribs, Sam tugged the blanket from Jack's upper body with gentle hands. "Can I see your chest?"

Jack's head shot up, panicked. His expression was one of…fright. He was afraid to let Sam see.

"It's okay." Sam offered a strained smile of encouragement. "You're okay, Jack. I promise. I just want to see if you're hurt."

Jack's delicate features puckered as though he were about to cry. Biting his lip, he nodded, unable to meet Sam's gaze.

With Sam's help, he maneuvered out of his jacket and t-shirt.

Sam felt his face harden into stone. Jack's pale, slender torso was peppered with bruises. Some were purple and fresh, others yellowed and healing.

Jack wrapped his arms around his bare midsection, hiding—or trying to hide—the discolored splotches. He kept his head ducked, still not looking at Sam.

It was like he was ashamed.

Sam surveyed the damage. His stomach roiled with fury, thinking of how many different times fists had to strike Jack to create this tapestry of violence—and based on the healing patterns, spread out over a period of days, weeks.

Jack's ribs were more prominent, too, Sam noticed. He'd lost weight since he'd moved out. Was it stress? Malnourishment? A deliberate move on Jack's part?

"Jack…" Sam's voice broke. He cleared his throat. Reminded himself he had to stay strong. Had to be the caretaker. The grownup. Usually it wasn't this hard—he'd never had to see Jack suffer so much before. "Why didn't you tell anyone this was going on?"

Jack's eyes stayed stubbornly fixed on his clasped hands. "He…" A shaky almost-sob ripped through his body. "He d… He said it was my fault. Every time he…" His voice trailed off into a rough whisper. "It was always my fault."

Sam felt sick. He wanted to seize Jack in his arms and just hold him, forever. But since that would cause him more pain than comfort right now, Sam settled for placing his hands on either side of Jack's face. His palms caught the damp streaks of tears across the boy's cheeks.

He bowed his head, mirroring Jack's downward gaze, when something caught his eye. A small red dot was visible on Jack's torso, just above his stomach.

"Jack, what did that?" Sam's fingers brushed the small, perplexing wound.

Jack's reply was faint, almost unintelligible. "A nail."

Sam spasmed violently, losing his composure for a brief moment.

"It only bled a little," Jack hastily tried to reassure him.

Sam passed a hand over his eyes. Whatever happened, he couldn't let Jack see him freak out. He had always been Jack's calm. Jack depended on him for that. That couldn't stop now. "He…stabbed you with a nail?"

"No. I did."

"What?"

"He said it was my fault she's dead. And it would be better if I…" He let the sentence hang, unwilling to say the final words aloud.

Emotion flooded through Sam. Jack, the kid he'd looked after since he was a toddler, the kid he cared for more than his own life, was hurting himself. "Jack, you know that's not true."

He'd never felt guilt for his mother's death before, not like this. What kind of monstrous things had his father said to him?

"Yes it is. He's right; I deserve it."

After just a few months living with his biological father, Jack's self-worth had drained away. He blamed himself for something that wasn't even his fault. He felt guilty enough to press a nail through his skin and make himself bleed. His father had made him believe he deserved that.

Sam swallowed hugely past the lump in his throat, struggling to keep his voice steady and determined. "No, you don't. C'mere." He wrapped his arms around Jack, drawing him close. One hand held the side of Jack's head to his chest. Right against his heart.

Jack didn't hug him back, but Sam felt the tension drain from his body. He relaxed against Sam, and Sam wondered how long it had been since he could loosen up like that.

Jack sniffled, then shivered. As the convulsion rippled through his body, Sam pulled back, reminded that Jack had come here in the rain, arriving damp and freezing. "Hey. How about a shower? Get you warm. Then after we'll get you bandaged up."

Jack nodded listlessly. As Sam helped him hop down from the kitchen counter, he winced in pain, a low cry escaping his lips.

Sam gasped. "Sorry."

Jack pressed his lips together in a futile attempt to stifle another whimper. "It hurts."

"I know." Sam hated how helpless this made him feel. Jack was always a brave kid, but he'd never had to deal with such immediate trauma—so much active hurt.

"He hated that." Jack's whisper carried shame and self-reproach. "When I said it hurt. And if he saw me cry, he would…"

"Hey." Sam gripped his chin, gentle but insistent, and tilted Jack's head up to meet his eyes. "Look at me. That doesn't fly. You know that, right? You know he's wrong."

Jack nodded. Slow. Tentative. "He just…he made it really hard. I was scared. All the time, I was afraid he would…"

The more Jack revealed about his time away, the more Sam wanted to lock the doors and never let him leave the house again.

Afraid. Sam had spent so many years helping Jack to not be afraid. And now this man, his father, this person Sam had barely met, had ripped all of Jack's progress to shreds. Jack was terrified. A wreck.

No one should have to live like that. "He's sick, okay? He's not good. He's not good for you."

"Sam." Jack's voice cracked. His fingers snaked around Sam's wrist with sudden urgency. "I don't want to go back there."

"I know. You won't. I won't let you."

Moisture sparkled in Jack's eyes as he looked up at Sam, the skin under them ringed with shadowy gray. "Really?" His expression was heartbreakingly trusting.

Sam met his pleading gaze and nodded with as much resolve as he could muster. "Really. I promise."

Jack's face screwed up pitifully, and tears finally began to spill from his eyes.

Sam brought his arms around Jack, holding his head against his broad shoulder. He could feel tears seeping through his shirt, could feel Jack's body shaking with sobs. Jack's arms looped under Sam's, his hands knotting together at the back of Sam's neck. He clung to Sam with the same ferocity as he had ten years ago, four years old and traumatized.

Sam never wanted to let him go.

But he did, able to feel the chill still emanating from Jack's bare skin. "Okay. Go take a shower. Use up all the hot water, okay? I'll lay out some clothes for you."

…

As soon as Jack disappeared into the bathroom, Sam's shoulders slumped and he doubled over, resting his hands on his knees. He took deep breaths, closing his eyes to regain his composure.

Ever since Jack had been taken away, Sam's life had seemed all kinds of wrong. Now this? Him coming back in this fashion? It was enough to make Sam sick.

What was he going to do?

Sam's hands moved without conscious thought. He was on autopilot as he dug out a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt for Jack, put his wet clothes in the wash, and made up Jack's bed with clean sheets.

His mind was flying backwards, remembering how Jack had come into his life in the first place. Ten years ago, when Sam and his brother had been catapulted into parenthood with little to no warning…

Sam, as a paralegal, had been working in conjunction with a social services office. He'd come across Kline case: an ailing mother raising a little boy while battling a possessive father who swung between absentee, addict, and abuser.

When their assigned social worker had left the agency, he'd notified Sam of Kelly Kline's deteriorating condition. It wouldn't be long before her sweet, sensitive son ended up in the system—or with his father.

Sam had kept up with them, calling Kelly frequently to check in and visiting at least once a week. Jack had hidden from Sam at first, intimidated by the big man in the suit, but he'd come around to him. They'd played together.

Then, one night, while out with Dean, Sam had called Kelly and gotten no answer.

A terrible intuition had settled over him, and he'd persuaded Dean to drive to the Kline home.

They'd burst into that house and found Kelly's body deceptively peaceful on her bed, her child's muffled sobs echoing from the other room.

Sam had found Jack curled in a ball, huddled in a corner of his bedroom. He'd scooped his tiny body up, murmuring reassurances. The kid had clung to him fiercely, desperation in his slender limbs. For weeks afterward, he wouldn't let anyone near him except Sam. Even the sight of Dean sent Jack into a fit of hysterical crying.

There was no one for Jack—no extended family, no distant relatives. So he stayed.

Sam and Dean's lives had changed overnight. Sam had had to put law school plans on hold. Dean had struggled to convert his lifestyle into a more kid-friendly one—as his two professions involved guns and booze, he'd chafed a bit.

But he had done it, because no matter how loudly he grumbled, he'd come to care about Jack, too. The kid's destroyed innocence, being left alone in the world at a far-too-tender age, was something both Winchesters could identify with.

Even they had had each other. Jack didn't have anyone.

For the first few years, Jack had been…difficult. He was hypersensitive, the smallest things driving him to hysterics. Sometimes to the point of violence.

He'd suffered awful night terrors, waking nearly every night paralyzed and sobbing. It had gotten to the point that Sam and Dean had arranged shifts to sit with him through the night.

Gradually, he'd gotten better. Allowed more people near him than just Sam. First Dean, then an exceptionally patient therapist. Doctors. Social workers. Even kids his own age.

By the time he turned six, Jack was well-adjusted and happy—if still a bit wary of strangers and change.

He didn't speak about his old life. He cried often about his mother, but he never said anything about his home with her. Sam asked him sometimes if he remembered his father. It took Jack years to finally, hesitantly, admit that yes, he did remember, vaguely. And what he remembered wasn't good.

Sam had homeschooled Jack through his elementary years. Most days Sam was able to work from the house, and Dean, when he wasn't traveling to sell guns or buy beer for his bar, had a fairly flexible schedule. Between them, Jack never had to be alone. He thrived that way.

Last year, they'd finally enrolled him in public school when he started eighth grade. He'd been unsure at first, but he'd adapted just fine, attracting friends with his atypical situation of being raised by two brothers—neither of whom bore any relation to him.

He'd been doing well. Sam and Dean were hopeful for his future.

Then his father had reappeared.

Stories of rehabilitation, promises of change and good intentions had won over the courts. With no proof against the man, and with no biological claim to Jack, there had been nothing Sam or Dean could do.

Sam didn't know what had been worse, having to tell Jack the verdict, or receiving the follow-up news that they wouldn't be allowed contact with him after he moved.

Jack hadn't wanted to go. His departure had been tearful and messy, to say the least. Sam still cringed at the memory, handing his kid—his, because after so long there was no other way Sam could think of him—over to the man with the oily smile and calculating eyes. All while Jack begged to be allowed to stay, reaching out for Sam with both hands.

It hadn't even lasted four months.

Sam shuddered as he imagined the type of ordeal those months had been for Jack. He and Dean hadn't always had the best of homes, growing up in the foster system, but they had always had each other to protect, shield, cover for. Jack had had to suffer all alone.

And it wasn't over. Jack had come to Sam for safety, but he hadn't yet explained how he'd escaped his new home. His father wasn't likely to just let him go. And the Winchesters' would probably be the first place he looked.

Technically, Sam was breaking the law by keeping Jack here, going against the court's rulings.

No, this wasn't over. In fact, it had become more complicated than ever.

Sam picked up his phone and made a call.

…

Jack emerged from the bathroom some minutes later with damp hair, dressed in the sweats Sam had laid out for him.

He sat quiet and uncomplaining while Sam applied antiseptics and bandages to his neck and chest. He didn't even flinch when Sam examined his nose once more, making sure it wasn't broken.

He only asked one question after Sam was finished. "Where's Dean?"

"Out on a sale. Somewhere up north. Omaha, maybe?"

They ended up side by side on the couch, Sam's arm around Jack. Jack's head rested against Sam's shoulder. Sam rubbed his back in a gentle, comforting motion. He could sense the exhausted weight, could tell how tired Jack was.

"D'you want something to eat?"

He shook his head, the weight lolling heavily on Sam. "No. I just…want to go to bed."

Sam nodded. "Okay. I made yours up for you. Clean sheets."

Jack lifted his head, looking at Sam with bleary, disbelieving eyes. "You…kept my bed?"

A small, genuine chuckle escaped Sam's lips. "'Course. We wouldn't just forget about you."

Deep down, he vowed not to tell Jack that his room was exactly as he'd left it because they hadn't been able to accept that he wasn't coming back. Denial had played a huge role in their lives these past few months.

Sam lowered his head to press his lips to Jack's hair. "C'mon. I'll tuck you in, just like old times."

"I'm not five," Jack protested, but hearing even a soft giggle pass his lips filled Sam with the most exquisite joy.

…

It was past midnight when Dean returned. Sam was still on the couch when he opened the front door, shivering in the chill of the rainfall. "Hey."

Sam smiled at the pleasant surprise. "Hey, you're early. Shh," he added, casting a glance downward at the boy sleeping with his head in Sam's lap.

Jack had tried to sleep in his own bed, he really had. But it had been uncomfortable for him, he'd admitted. Both physically and psychologically, Sam assumed. He'd let Jack curl up on his lap, and with Sam's comforting arms surrounding him, he'd dozed off easily. Sam had intended to carry him back to bed at some point, but he hadn't yet been able to bring himself to disturb his peaceful sleep.

Dean took in the unexpected scene, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Wh…what is he doing here?"

"It, uh…" Sam struggled to find a succinct explanation. "It didn't work out."

Dean's eyes moved up and down Jack's body, shrouded in a blanket. He zeroed in on the bandage visible on Jack's neck "Is he…okay?"

"Not even a little. He was hurting him. He's got bruises, and there was a knife…"

Before he could get any further, Dean spun around in a circle, his hands coming up to grip his hair. "I'm gonna kill that son of a—" He cut himself off, casting another glance at Jack, who'd shifted in his sleep at Dean's exclamation.

Sam nodded ruefully. "Yeah. Me too."

Dean shook his head and ran one hand over his face. "What do we do?"

"I called up to the office. Tomorrow they're going to send a counselor, go over what happened. Take some pictures, build a case." Sam stared into the other room, fuming with regret. He knew that would be hard on Jack, but it had to be done if they wanted to reverse the custody ruling.

Dean made his way over to Sam, placing one hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I know all this has been…really hard on you."

Sam nodded his thanks. "Yeah. At least this way, we know." This way, Jack would never have to go back to his father. He could stay with Sam. Stay safe. "It won't happen again. I'm gonna make sure of that."

Sam and Dean looked down in unison at their kid, sleeping peacefully on Sam's lap. And Sam knew then that things would work out.

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