A/N: special thanks to RedBessRackham and finaljoy who were lovely betas, and also to my besties olivebirks and browncoats-and-floral-bonnets for encouraging me and helping shape this story.

Also, I don't own the Winchesters. Still.

xxxx

Bobby gets to Fergus Falls in record time, grateful that the boys were in the same neck of the woods as South Dakota when they got in trouble for once. He's had enough of getting desperate phone calls and trying to help from a distance, thank you very much.

Minnesota is colder than belly-blue hell in the winter and by the time Bobby gets there, there's already close to a foot of snow on the ground with more of it coming down. He doesn't know where in the hell Dean got himself, but he prays it's not outdoors.

The Winchesters are staying in some crappy little motel that looks like it should be shut down. (Like father, like sons, Bobby thinks; he spent most of the boys' formative years wondering how the hell John took them to the dumps they slept in.) Sam has the door open even before Bobby gets out of his truck, towering in the doorway with a pinched look on his face, hair tousled as if he's been running his hands through it. He's the picture of stress.

"Bobby," Sam says, crossing next to the truck and reaching for a hug as soon as Bobby climbs out. "Thanks for coming."

"Aw hell Sam," Bobby says, patting at the younger man's broad back. "Of course I came, you idjit."

"Come inside," Sam says. "I'll tell you what I know."

"I brought dinner," Bobby says, following Sam into the motel room. "Figured you probably haven't been taking care of yourself too well."

Sam has the good grace to blush and then runs a hand through his hair, tousling it even further. Bobby wonders if he realizes how young it makes him seem.

"I've got some solid leads," Sam says, sitting down at a flimsy table in the room and shuffling through some papers. Bobby sets a chicken salad down in front of him. He doesn't know where the youngest Winchester got his eating habits, but sure as hell not from him or John. Definitely not from Dean.

"Let me look through 'em while you eat," Bobby says, extending a hand. Sam blinks but doesn't move.

"But Bobby-"

"You can explain in a minute. You need to eat and I can read," Bobby says. "It ain't a request."

Sam nods and swallows then shuffles the papers he has together and hands them to Bobby. Bobby scans them quickly; Sam has carefully listed the bar where Dean was last seen and approximate times he could have been taken, as well as descriptions of the two men that could be responsible. Bobby's stomach sinks and he swears quietly under his breath when he sees a bullet point labeled "roofied?"underlined so many times the paper's worn through.

He looks up at Sam and shakes his head. No wonder the kid looks worn down. He's picking listlessly at his salad, face tight. It looks like he's eaten maybe four pieces of lettuce.

"Hey," Bobby says. "You're supposed to eat it, not play with it." Sam doesn't even bother trying to smile.

"I'm just not very hungry," he murmurs.

"I know, Sam, but you've gotta eat. Now, I could give you some speech you've heard a million times about how you ain't gonna do your brother any good if you collapse, or you could eat your damn salad."

"Fine," Sam says, shoving a huge forkful into his mouth that makes his cheeks bulge and reminds Bobby sharply of his brother. Bobby shakes his head before turning back to Sam's notes, reading them for detail this time. The descriptions of the men who took Dean sound vaguely familiar and he closes his eyes and starts going through his mental catalogue of hunters.

"Bobby?" Sam says, voice high. "What is it?"

"Just give me a second to think," Bobby answers. Sam quiets and eats another wad of lettuce.

"They sound like they could be James Thompson's boys," Bobby says after a minute. "Last time I saw 'em they were still pretty small, but I could tell they were going to grow up big. They're from down in Alabama."

"Okay," Sam says. "That's a good start. Any idea why they might have gone after Dean?"

Bobby scratches at his beard and sighs. "Your father and James Thompson weren't exactly on the best of terms, Sam."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," Sam says, shaking his head. "Was there anyone he was on good terms with?"

"He was a stubborn ass at the best of times," Bobby says, but he suspects Sam can hear the fondness that laces the words despite his best efforts.

Sam snorts. "Tell me something I don't know," he says. "So what was his problem with James?"

"A few years back your dad was hunting a Black Dog down in Mississippi. Turned out James was hunting the same dog. Neither of them knew that the other would be there and James got in your dad's way."

"What, did Dad shoot him?" Sam asks, tone somewhere between incredulous and disbelieving.

"Just about," Bobby says. "Shot the dog on top of him, heavy bastard. James ended up with a broken back. Paralyzed him from the mid-chest down."

"Shit," Sam murmurs.

"It gets worse. He killed himself a few months ago."

Sam swipes a hand across his mouth and leans back in his chair. "And you think his sons are out for some kind of revenge?"

"Maybe," Bobby says.

"But Dad's dead," Sam says. "Are they so bitter they're willing to take Dean out even though they've never even met him?"

"It's possible," Bobby says. "Or they don't realize your dad's dead and are hoping to get to him."

"It's been six months," Sam says, frowning. "You really think they wouldn't know that?"

Bobby shrugs. "James wasn't the sharpest crayon in the box," he says, "and apples don't fall far from the tree."

Sam gives a lopsided grin and shakes his head. "That was a lot of idioms for one sentence, even for you."

"I don't know, Sam, but your dad and the Thompson boys… I mean, this is the first I've heard of 'em in years. We just weren't in the same circles. It's possible they haven't heard hide nor hair of you Winchesters in just as long."

Sam scrubs at his hair again and groans. "But they were still smart enough to drug Dean and kidnap him."

"Yeah," Bobby agrees, because he can't really disagree, can he? "But they won't be smart enough to get away from us."

Sam looks up and smiles, his look so predatory it startles Bobby. Sometimes it's easy to believe Sam's carefully crafted façade, the smart, diet-conscious college student who got dragged into hunting kicking and screaming. Sometimes, though, his wall cracks just enough that the Winchester ferocity pokes out and Bobby remembers that the kid's got a temper to match his daddy's.

"No," he says. "They won't."

xxxx

Dean is spending as much time on his hands and knees now as he is on his feet; it seems like he can't take more than two steps without stumbling and falling. It's annoying as hell. On the plus side, he's pretty sure he's made it to a road and is at least stumbling with direction. Of course, that's assuming this isn't just a patch of road in the middle of nowhere, miles and miles from the nearest town.

He's pretty sure he's in the middle of nowhere.

It's boring, walking in the snow. Just white, white, white all around, big lumps of white and small lumps of white. Everything kind of narrows after a while and becomes just steps, just taking one step and then another and then a third. After he stumbles it becomes pushing himself to his knees and then to his feet, swaying until he can regain something resembling balance and then it all starts over again.

It's like a pattern. He can do patterns. He's good at patterns, always has been. Sammy's always been better at English and history, would write persuasive essays so damn moving his teachers would cry. Dean was shit at writing. But patterns, numbers, those were things he could sink his teeth into. He loves maps, too, plotting out places where attacks happen and then finding the common thread between them.

He can do this pattern. Step, step, stumble, step. Just keep moving. Just keep moving.

If Dad could see him he would tell him to suck it up. Maybe Mom would be nicer. Dean's forgotten what her voice sounded like, whether it was high and sweet or low and smoky, but he can still remember her tone, how her voice rose when she said his name, how it dipped when she tucked him in at night and pulled the blankets up to his chin.

"Hey baby," she would say if she were here. Her face would be so soft and she'd put her hand on his cheek and then run it through his hair. "Come on, Dean. You can do this. I know it hurts, but you have to keep going. You can do that, right? I'm right here. I'm right here, baby. I'm not going anywhere. Just keep moving, Dean. I love you, baby. Just keep moving."

The snow that brushes past his face feels like her fingers, warm and gentle.

Dean's lungs seize up for a second, though with emotion or the cold he can't tell. He lets out a coughing sob and tumbles to his knees again, curls over at the waist and tries to just breathe, but it hurts and he's alone. The damn wind and snow are like ghosts, swirling around him, chilling him to the bone, haunting him with memories of his parents. He just wants everything to shut the fuck up.

He lets out something that might be a roar or a sob or a scream and slams his good arm into the snow, chest heaving.

He's so tired.

Get up, baby.

Just keep moving, Dean.

He can almost hear their voices. He can almost see their faces.

Dean closes his eyes.

xxxx

After an hour of phone calls, a friend of a friend of Bobby's is able to confirm that the Thompson boys left for Fergus Falls a few days ago and even gives them a description of their car. It's not a lot to go on, but it's all they can find out.

The snow has started coming down in earnest now, coating everything liberally. If it keeps up for much longer, they won't be able to get out of town at all.

"What do you think, Sam?" Bobby asks.

Sam doesn't know where to start. He's feeling overwhelmed and dangerously close to panic. He swallows thickly and looks at Bobby, not bothering to try and hide his emotions.

"I-I don't know," he whispers. He can't read Bobby's face, isn't sure if the older hunter is disappointed in him or shares his feelings. Maybe both.

"I could try to-to find the car," Sam says after a minute. "Maybe they never left town."

"As good a place to start as any," Bobby says. "We'll be methodical about it. We can start asking at motels too. You feeling like Homeland Security or FBI today?"

Sam takes a deep breath and nods. "FBI," he says, then frowns. "How the hell did they know we would be here?"

Bobby shrugs. "I got my contacts," he says, "and other hunters have theirs."

Sam runs a hand through his hair. Dad never really talked about other hunters and while he and Dean knew, of course, that there were more out there, he's starting to realize that the hunting network is even bigger than he'd realized. They'd been naïve to assume that no one else knew or cared about them.

"Right. Let's go find those bastards' car," Sam says.

He's only been driving for fifteen minutes when Bobby calls.

"Got 'em," Bobby says.

Sam goes as fast as he can in the snowy conditions, grateful that there aren't many cars on the road thanks to the storm. He's even more grateful that the Thompsons are dumb sons of bitches.

Bobby's waiting for him across the street from the motel, face grim. He climbs out of his truck with a shotgun in one hand. Sam tucks his Taurus into his waistband and palms a Beretta. He isn't taking any chances.

"Don't kill 'em," Bobby says, his voice a low growl.

"Not yet," Sam answers, then heads to the door.