Disclaimer: Don't own the boys.

A/N: I was watching the Benders ep again and it made me think about what happened another time Sam went missing. So here's my lil take on Flagstaff

Summary: Dean knows he's crosing a line here in Flagstaff's Police department. But it's Sam and he's missing.

Missing

Dean feels sick, his hands tremble, the tapping of the pen against the clipboard driving nails into his brain. The lines of the paper blur together as he takes in a shuddering breath. Dad's going to kill him. No, first he's going to tear him a new one and then kill him. Because, this is it, he's crossing a line. Gut twisting, Dean glances around the police station. The guard at the desk is busy typing away at the computer as other detectives and cops are mulling about in the background.

"How long has your brother been missing?"

"Twelve hours, sir."

"Look, I'm sorry but we can't do much till the twenty-four hours are up. Maybe he just went to a friend's house or out somewhere? Many a kids go out camping this time of the month."

"Sam wouldn't do that. He wouldn't run off without telling me."

"I'm sorry but as of right now all you can do is fill out this form and bring in your dad when he's off from work."

Biting his lip hard Dean tastes cooper. Dad is going to kill him. He can't do this. Not on top of losing Sammy, his only job, his only purpose in his pathetic life. It's going to be like the Shtriga incident all over and—

Dean pushes down on the clipboard, swiping the paper away. By the time the guard looks up from his screen, all that is sitting on the bench is an empty clipboard and pen.

He does another sweep through Flagstaff, going through the blocks in a pattern that would make search parties envious. He checks every building, house, club and bar. Dean doesn't bother with school anymore, calling in sick because god he is sick. Sammy is gone. His brother could be dead for all he knows because isn't that what the cops say, what Dad says. That the first 48 are the most vital ones? He can't remember, can't think straight unless he's out in dark alleyways where shady men leer at him with lustful eyes.

Hugging his jacket close, feeling the familiar weight of his pistol against his back and his pocket knife bumping into his side, Dean trudges forward. If any of these men touched Sammy, he's going to show them a thing or two about dealing with a Winchester. Thankfully though, Sam's not here.

Not back at home neither as Dean drags his feet back to the apartment, dawn breaking through the dust filled sky. Opening the door, he spots the paper mocking him on the table, telling him to fill the form and let the officials take care of it. Because a worthless 16-year old can't do this on his own. It's been over a week and it's highly likely Sammy is dead because Dean decided to take the long way back just for a few minutes of personal time.

He's stupid, so stupid, so careless and stupid. Lost in his inner ranting, his stomach growls having only eaten a slice of bread this morning before he passed out. He doesn't hear the rumbling of a car or the moaning of the front door till he feels a heavy hand on his shoulder.

Jumping Dean spins around, hands raised in fists, eyes wide with shock. John stands before him, his own hands raised in peace, the duffle bag dumped on the ground forgotten. His boots are mud caked, shirt stained with dried blood and there's a bruise blossoming on his lower jaw. "Dean?"

Dean feels his mouth go dry and his mind stutters to a halt. How is he going to explain this to Dad? How is he going to say he came home at 4:00 pm on Monday and Sam was gone? Thankfully, or not, there's another knock on the door and Dean sidesteps his dad to open it. John moves quietly behind him, picking up his bag to walk into his room.

In the doorway stands the cop from the station. The man smiles, gray eyes staring down at him warmly, "Hey there kid. Saw you walking home this morning, just checking in to see if your brother is back yet considering you left the station."

Dean doesn't know how but he cracks a smile, a mask of relief spilling onto his face. "Yeah 'bout that, sorry to have bothered you. He called me at the station, so I went outside to take it. You were right the brat did go out and hang with his buddies near some park. He's actually back there again."

"Well, good to hear that. You take care now." With a nod, the cop walks back out of the tiny parking and hops into his car. Once the car is out of sight, Dean closes the door and waits to hear his dad.

"Dean, what is going?"

There's a dark tension and when Dean turns he sees that his dad had found the paper on the table, eyes darkening. "What was with the cop? What was he saying about Sam?"

"Dad."

John takes a thundering step and Dean feels himself flattening against the door. "Why do you have this form Dean? Where's Sam?"

The more John talks, the more his voice tightens and lowers, restraint clenching his jaw while the eyes blaze with rage.

"Sam...he's gone," whispers Dean. "I came home Monday and he was—"

"I thought I told you to call me if anything happened!"

"I did but you weren't picking up your phone and, and" he chokes, "I looked everywhere, Dad. I only went to the cops after the third day because, because of the whole 48 hours and Dad I can't find him. I can't find Sam." Dean's lost, his voice shaking as all color leaves his face.

John knows it's bad if Dean is in this state and damn it, one of his kids is gone. Theories race through his mind ranging from a ghost to some sick human pervert to the creature that killed Mary. Bile rises and his stomach twists at the thought of that creature having his little boy. Not Sammy, oh god, he can't lose him. His fingers tighten, the crinkling of the paper pulling him back to reality.

Staring at the bold Missing Person Report, John feels his mind flip a switch and he's stalking to Dean, hand lashing out to grip Dean's forearms tightly, the paper pressing into the clammy skin of Dean's upper arm. Dean shrinks even more as if trying to sink into the wood. "You know better Dean. You know what I taught you about not going to the cops!"

"I didn't know what else to do Dad! You were gone!"

"They can take you and Sam away from me! They can separate you two!"

That thought alone makes the false hope of reasoning wash out and Dean deflates before him. Breaking away, he tries not stare at the bruise that's deepening into a dark shade as the paper flutters to the ground. Running a hand through his hair, John takes three deep breathes letting the marine sergeant take control. The scared father in him can't do this, can't find Sam.

Voice cold and void without any emotions, he orders, "Tell me everything."

John and Dean have searched every corner of Flagstaff, every stone left unturned. John throws the duffle bags into the Impala before slamming the trunk hard enough to make the car rock back and forth. They're both tired, bags under their eyes and faces pale and taunt with lack of sleep and very little to eat.

But it's been two weeks and there's nothing more they can do without alerting the cops once more. Sam's dead, that's just facts. Even if Sam was captured by the thing that killed Mary, he wouldn't have lasted this long. Deep down though, John worries that even if Sam survived, nothing of the boy that was his son would be left. He doesn't tell Dean this, keeps his mouth in a tight line, leaving it at 'Sam is dead' and 'it's time to move out'.

And Dean, he watches from the sidelines with vacant eyes. Whenever John passes him, he flinches and curls into himself. There are no beatings yet the treat lingers. John can't trust himself coming near his son, afraid that he might truly snap and take it out on Dean. But that didn't stop the accusations flying out of his mouth, the blame...the disappointment that Dean failed him once more in not watching out for Sam.

Dean soaks it all in quietly, falling mutely into a shadow of his self. His dad scares him because he can see the fissures cracking, sees his father teetering on the edge. It won't take long, just only little gust of wind before he snaps and all Hell breaks loose. It terrifies him because he's never seen his dad this close to the edge.

"Dean!"

The taunt order laced in that trembling anger spurs him forward, flying into the passenger seat. The car roars to life and Dean stares out of the window, watching as the city peters out into the desert. He feels something sharp carve a hole into him, his heart withering till—

The Impala lurches hard to the right, brakes slamming, tires screeching as gravel peppers into the side. Dean flies forward, slamming his face hard into the dashboard. Groaning, he barely hears the driver's door fly open. Through a blurry haze, he watches as John marches out into the sand, letting the blistering heat fills the cage. Pushing himself upwards, eyes darting downwards Dean touches his face, feeling a bruise blossoming above his right eye while blood drizzles down his nose.

Blinking away the tears, he lets the pain wash him away because he deserves this. This he can take, anything but the silent treatment that his dad is giving him. Then he hears it, voices piercing the air like bullets. Staring up from his lap, he takes in the sight of John towering over a dirt streaked Sam.

Sam's arms are flying everywhere, his face flushed red and eyes bright with anger. John's own face is finally breaking and Dean feels for the first time in two weeks. Busting free from the Impala, he shouts out, "Sam!"

Sam glares over at him, picking up his book bag before marching over to him. Dean prays that Sam won't look over his shoulder at John, who's watching his youngest with an expression he only reserves for hunts. As Sam stomps past him, his anger simmering off of him, Dean takes inventory glad to only see that Sam is in poor need of a shower and some food. Blinking once, he glances over at the run down gas station where Sam must have visiting before locking gazes with the slowly approaching John.

It says something their odd family for John to understand what Dean quietl pleads to him. Cool off, Dean says with a mere tighting of his eyes, hitting Sam and yelling at him more will only make it worse. Than with a shrug and a tight smile he adds, he's alive.

John nods once before pivoting, disapparing off to the side of the gas station. Taking a deep breath, Dean feels like the earth is moving once more. He can deal with this; he's not lost anymore, spinning his tires in the mud because Dad had found Sam. Dad found him, not Dean...

Pushing back the failure, Dean turns to see Sam at the rear; his backpack slung over his shoulder, glaring at the distant horizon. Grasping onto his bottled anger, Dean hisses out, "Where the hell were you Sam?"

"I had to get away, Dean!" Sam's voice is tight with rage, shoulders trembling with the need to lash out.

"So you ran away?" God, out of everything, out of all the nightmarish scenarios running through his head. It felt like a stab to the back, like someone ripping his heart out. Sam ran away, ran away on his watch. Was he so bad? Didn't he let Sam do whatever he wanted anyways? Didn't he protect him and tease him? Wasn't he a good enough brother?

Sam sighs, turning slightly, his gaze almost softening as he takes in Dean's ragged form for the first time. His lips move as they start to twitch upwards but than those sharp eyes spot the bruise and blood and that black anger is back. "Did Dad do that you?"

Confusion racks Dean at the cold statement, "What?" Pain tugs his mouth as if to remind him, "What? This? No! I just hit my face in the dash. Impala needs some new break pads."

Sam doesn't buy it, instead falling into himself as his eyes flash over towards the station. Dad's voice rockets over the parking lot. "Samuel Winchester, get in the car now!"

Snarling, Sam throws open the door with too much force before flinging himself in and slamming it shut once more. Dean cringes but he keeps his mouth shut as John stands by the driver's door. His dad is staring at him, lips parted as if to say something. There's a flash of guilt and remorse but that anger is still there in the set of his shoulders.

"We should stop at a diner if one pops up. Sam looks like he could use some food." Dean whispers. John's eyes narrow knowing full well what Dean is doing.

Shoulders twitch once, conflict flashing over his features before John replies softly, "There's a hunt." He spots the slight tightening once more in Dean, but he needs this. Needs to be selfish this time, needs to vent and let all of this out of his system with what Sam did to him...to Dean...to their family. Glancing over the black hood, he waits till Dean looks up at him with eyes accepting the new orders. If anything, John reasons, his son needs this too, this distraction, more so than him. "Werewolf probably."

"But first food." And that does it. There's small flash of light returning. Dean nods and John finds himself grateful that Dean knows him so well, allows him this escape from talking about their feelings and how to deal with Sam's exploit.

Seconds later, the Impala roars out onto the highway. The tension is still there, Sam sulking and seething in the backseat, glaring daggers out the window as if the whole world as turned against him, even Dean. John, he just stares ahead, silent and hard, his own anger boiling underneath. And Dean, he slumps into his seat, hands tucked into his pants pocket where a folded crinkled paper lies with 14 lines of information filled for each day that Sam was gone.

Dean likes to think that he got over it. Finally moved on and could ignore that hollow feeling Sam created when he ran away. He even started to see it as a prep course, a run through in dealing with Sam ditching the family for college. Still Sam's back but this, this is like Flagstaff all over again. And if Sam ran off on him again, after thinking that he was really here to stay this time, Dean wasn't going to come after him. Not anymore.

Still even with this mindset, staring down at the missing person report makes him feel like a pathetic 16 year old again. But he's not that anymore, he's 27 and this time he's going to find Sam. He's not helpless anymore. Glancing up, he hands back the clipboard and paper to Deputy Kathleen Hudak, determination hardening his features. He's going against everything Dad told him about getting the police involved. His arms ache in forgotten remembrance when John gripped him tight and reminded him why they avoid the cops. But he's got to do it this time, has to break Dad's rules and ask for help.

Sammy would be proud.