Phoenix, Arizona – summer, 1994

Dean rolled over in the unkempt double bed and groaned. The last thing he wanted to do after going to bed after 2am was to wake up 5 hours later, but he had to check on the salt at the door and windows and then call his Dad and report in.

"Rise and shine, Sammy," he called hoarsely as he stumbled, zombie-like, towards the shower. He patted the bed where his little brother's feet usually poked out of the blanket and his hand met nothing but mattress. "Sammy?" he called again, yawning and scratching at his face. He was pleased to notice that he might have to shave again today, his peach fuzz turning ever-more completely into stubble. Wandering over to the bathroom, he knocked on the mostly-closed door. "Hey, you in there short stuff?"

The door swung open with his knock. There was no one inside.

….

Sam grinned widely. The adrenaline was pumping through his system, keeping him awake. He'd actually done it. Run away. He was finally free. No more monsters. No more shooting lessons and weird old books in the library. No more kids calling him a freak of nature.

No more Dad.

He pushed down on the accelerator of the '84 Civic he'd stolen from the motel parking lot and sped north down the I-17. Each passing mile made his smile bigger.

….

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit," Dean chanted under his breath as he tore around the motel. He knew it was a lost cause, but he had to be thorough. Had to check everywhere. The open bathroom window was a flashing neon sign reading, 'Sam has run the fuck away, you dumbass!' but he couldn't admit that to himself. Not yet. Not until he'd checked. Everywhere.

The vending machines and restaurant were completely Sam-less. As were the parking lot and pathetically dirty swimming pool. Almost literally at the point of tearing his hair out, he stormed into the lobby ready to kill his little brother for making him worry like this.

"… call the police! Right now!" a slightly frazzled looking travelling salesman type was demanding at the front desk.

Dean slowed right down and schooled his expression into one of mild interest coupled with an air of having no idea why anyone might need to call police to the motel. He mentally kicked himself for not checking to make sure the guns were all hidden before he'd left the room.

"Calm down, honey," the bored-sounding desk clerk intoned with almost no inflection. She rolled her eyes in Dean's direction before turning back to the guest. "Are you sure that's where you parked it?" She stifled a yawn and then smacked her gum loudly.

"Of course I'm sure!" the now bug-eyed salesman type half shouted, his blood pressure visibly rising. "That's a company car!"

The clerk couldn't hide her snort of derision. "Seriously?" she laughed. "Business must not be going that well if you're driving an eight-year-old Civic."

Sam missing. The bathroom window open. A crappy stolen car. "Shit," Dean whispered again. He threw the clerk a half-grin and rolled his eyes in the universal gesture for 'this guy, am I right?' and wandered casually out of the lobby down the hall to his room. Once he was sure he was out of sight, he burst into a run. "Fuck, Sammy!" he shouted through gritted teeth as he finally wrestled the door open.

Dad was going to kill him.

….

Sam pulled off the I-17 before it crossed the I-40 and left the car in a truck stop parking lot. It was almost out of gas, anyway, and besides he was close to the Lake Mary trailer park. He'd seen billboards advertising it for the last hour and now that the adrenaline buzz was wearing off, he figured he should find a place to crash. Trailer parks were great places to hide. During the day, he could pretend he was a kid who belonged to some family on a cross-country trip. He could hang out and play and be 'normal'… and anonymous.

He looked around the parking lot appraisingly before spotting what he'd suspected would be there: a van with a bike rack on the back. Perfect. He carefully checked to see if anyone was watching before sidling over to the van and taking his lock picks out of his inside jacket pocket. The cheap padlock on the bungee cords was quick work, and soon he was biking out of the lot on his very own "borrowed" ten-speed.

…

Steeling himself with a deep breath, Dean reached for the phone. Each number dialled felt like a nail in his coffin. How was he supposed to tell Dad that Sam… The phone clicked midway through the second ring.

"Hello?" John's gruff voice came through the phone line.

"Dad—" Dean's voice cut off suddenly. He cleared his throat and tried to sound normal. "Hey, Dad. Just checking in."

"Report," John ordered, sounding a bit distracted.

Dean wrestled within himself for a moment before deciding that Sam could still just be joyriding around Phoenix and not actually in trouble… yet.

"Went to the cemetery last night and dug up the old lady," Dean began. Pastor Jim had handled the people in the house, but someone had to do the grunt work. "Salted and burned her, and Pastor Jim says we're all good."

"Good," John said matter-of-factly. It was a simple haunting. He'd expected nothing less from Dean. "How's Sammy doing?" His younger son usually got despondent in the summer months without school to concentrate on.

Dean mentally begged forgiveness from whoever might be listening. "Still asleep, the twerp."

John chuckled into the phone. "Well wake him up. It's already after 8:00. The day's half gone."

"Yessir," Dean nodded, wishing without hope that he himself was sleeping in and this was just some bad dream.

"Look, I've got to go. I'm waiting on word about a curse box."

"Alright. Bye, Dad."

"Stay safe. I'll be back in a few days."

As the dial tone rang in his ear, Dean tried to swallow the bile that crept up in his throat. He had to find Sam.