Ahh, sorry it was a little late. School's started again (sob) so I lied when I said once a week. I will do my very best to meet that, but my teachers seem to think that teenagers live to do homework, so I won't have as much time to write as they keep burying me in it.

Sam kicked me out of the bed for the last chapter. Apparently he thought the shower part was a bit much, and I had to explain to him that that was just the tiny beginning of the abuse, and I had to threaten him before he grudgingly let me back in. Sam is my rainbow unicorn pillow pet, for anyone wondering. And yes, I do have a rainbow unicorn pillow pet named Sam Winchester and yes, I realize I have a problem that most likely should be addressed with therapy.

Thanks to everyone who favorited and reviewed! You all are such wonderful people!

Disclaimer: YES I own them. That's obviously why I sleep with a unicorn instead of the real thing.

Warning: Language, some violence, and possibly gory imagery? I don't really know what counts so I'll say it to be safe.

Three days. Three days of frantic worrying, of endless pacing that had him surprised there wasn't a track worn in the motel carpet. Three days of sleepless nights, long hours dragging by, his senses acutely aware that there was no warm body lying next to him on the bed. Three days since Sam had disappeared, and for Dean, they had been three days straight from hell.

He had lost track of the number of times he had called Sam's phone, only for it to go straight to voicemail. Lost track of the number of leads they had tracked down, only for each one to dead-end. The amount of coffee he had drunk those three days was verging on sickening.

That first night, when Sam hadn't come home, hadn't raised any undue alarm. Dean was concerned, yes, and he hadn't noticed Sam being any moodier than usual, but the kid was an expert at hiding his feelings if he really wanted to. Dean had chalked up his absence to a lingering resentment towards John from the fight the night before. It wasn't the first time he had stayed out late, brooding. Both Dean and John had called him of course, but concluded that he was just blowing them off. Needless to say, John had been furious at his son's recalcitrance.

Even so, Dean couldn't shake the uneasy suspicion that it was something more than spite on Sam's part. This had only worsened throughout the night, finally confirmed when he woke up the next morning to find Sam's side of the bed cold and conspicuously vacant. The fear Dean had felt then, staring at the distinctly unrumpled sheets, had lodged deep in his bones and hadn't left since. Even now, it lurked quietly in the back of his mind, waiting for him to drop his guard so it could overwhelm him like the first moment he realized Sam was missing.

It would happen when he least expected it. One minute he would be thanking Sam's teacher for his assistance- which was useless as always. Apparently Sam had disappeared after school let out- and the next he would be doubled over, clutching the desk for support as waves of terror crashed over him, his heart stuttering in his chest and his breaths coming in short, painful gasps.

When the episode finally passed, he would be left coated in a thin sheen of clammy sweat while his hands trembled uncontrollably.

If he seemed to be losing his mind, by contrast John had slipped into "super-powered hunter" mode. The intensity with which he threw himself into their search almost frightened Dean. He had talked to so many people, checked so many leads it was a miracle he hadn't passed out from sheer exhaustion.

His tempter had also shortened dramatically, probably due to a combination of sleep deprivation, anxiety, and the copious amounts of liquor he was now consuming. Much as Dean pretended otherwise, it was hard to ignore the staggering amount John was drinking daily. The beer cans and whiskey bottles he had gone through was reaching heights that made Dean seriously concerned for the man's liver.

Even more surprising was the fact that John wasn't a drunken mess. On the contrary, Dean didn't think John had ever been more focused. The closest Dean had seen his father like this, were those half-remembered days in the weeks after the fire that killed Mary. Dean had a sneaking feeling that if they didn't find Sam soon it would kill them both.

Dean ran his hands through his short hair and glanced again at the clock hanging on the wall. He had just gotten back to the motel after searching Sam's school from top to bottom for any signs of demon, ghost, shapeshifter, or otherwise supernatural activity, and had come up with a steaming pile of squat. He was sitting on his bed, waiting for John to get back from the police station, with nothing to distract him from his thoughts. And they were anything but pleasant.

Since the morning Sam vanished, he had been unable to stop the persistent stream of scenarios that sprang up at any mention of his absent brother. That he had run away Dean discarded almost immediately. The fight with John hadn't been too upsetting by their standards. It wouldn't drive him to leave. They had been through worse hundreds of times, and Sam always returned by nightfall, no matter how violent the argument. But if he hadn't left willingly, the alternatives were far worse.

The number of things that could have taken Sam was daunting, and none of them good. The image of a cloud of ebony smoke cramming itself down Sam's throat flashed in front of his eyes. Sam's mouth was stretched wide in a scream, and when the last of the smoke vanished inside him, he smiled wickedly, opening eyes black as- No! Angrily, Dean shoved the horrifying picture out of his mind. That would not happen to his little brother, not while he was around. He would die before he let anything happen to Sam, and he was getting him back alive, no matter what.

The tinny sound of Deep Purple echoed through the otherwise soundless room. Morbid thoughts discarded, Dean dove across the bed to where his jacket was lying, crumpled on the sheets where he had tossed it. There were a couple moments of inelegant scrambling, until he finally managed to extricate his phone, hope bursting inside him. But it wasn't Sam's name flashing up at him. His disappointment was tangible as he opened it and put it to his ear. "Did the police have anything?"

"No," came John's curt response. Dean's heart sank. "But I might have found someone who does."

Dean sat bolt upright. "Are you sure? What happened?"

"Just get over to the police station. I'll explain when you get here."

A click and a droning buzz ended the conversation before Dean could answer. He stared at the phone, and for the first time he understood how Sam felt. As much as he admired John, the way he treated his son's, demanding unquestioning obedience, was something that had never bothered him before. He knew it was necessary, that in their line of work there was no time for explanations, when every second of hesitation could signal death, but now? When it was his little brother in danger and John might know what had happened?

The unfamiliar rebellion confused Dean. He was the good son, and he wasn't sure he liked the new feelings provoked within him. But, as he told himself, brooding was Sam's style, not his.

So with the ease born of practice, he swept his misgivings aside, snatched up his jacket, and hurried out the door. After all, he had a pain-in-the-ass little brother to save.

John snapped the phone shut and turned to face the short blond woman standing patiently by the front desk of the police station.

"Ms. Lewis?" he called, bringing her attention around to focus on him. "I told my partner to come over. Do you think you could wait until he gets here before you tell me the full story?"

She smiled at him, dimples standing out on her cheeks. "Of course Agent Thompson. Anything I can do to help."

"Thank you. I apologise for the inconvenience," John said gruffly, effortlessly transitioning into his government demeanor.

She winked at him, and he could have sworn that her gaze travelled down his body before lowering herself into one of the hard backed chairs lining the reception area. Was I just... Checked out? John thought, flustered. He hadn't partaken of that certain activity in years, since Mary died. Ms. Lewis was certainly pretty, but just considering it brought back the painful memories of his wife, effectively killing any attraction he held towards the woman. Even the brief thought of Mary was like pouring salt on an already festering wound. So he chose to brush off the suggestive glances she sent him, and leaned up against the wall, listening for the unmistakable growl of the Impala.

It was an incredible stroke of luck that he had stumbled across the petite woman. He had gone to the police station, doubtful that they could help but desperate enough to try. As he'd suspected, the venture had been fruitless, but Ms. Lewis, who had come down to report a case of arson near her house, had overheard him describing Sam and interjected, remembering a similar boy passing by her store the day he vanished. When John showed her a picture kept in his wallet, of his two boys grinning idiotically at the camera, lounging on the hood of the Impala, she confirmed that it had indeed been Sam.

Bursting with excitement at their first solid lead, John had restrained himself from interrogating her there and then, well aware that Dean would tear him a new one if he investigated without him. It took more self-control than he would have guessed he had to call Dean and force himself to be patient.

By the time the Impala swung, gleaming and black, into the parking space next to John's massive truck, he was ready to tear his hair out from the mixture of pent-up stress at the delay, and discomfort owing to the dewy eyes Ms. Lewis kept directing at him.

Dean leapt out of the car, wind whipping desiccating twigs and leaves into his face. He took the steps up to the station three at a time and wrenched the door open, wind swirling around the room until he shut it firmly behind him.

"Agent Morris," John said quickly, motioning for Dean to join him. "This is Jennifer Lewis. She recalls seeing Sam the day he disappeared." John pretended not to notice the way Dean flinched. By unspoken agreement, both Winchesters had avoided using words like "death", "kidnapped", or others similar, as though voicing them would make it real, as cliché as that was.

Dean recovered hastily and held out his hand for the woman to shake. She took it, eyebrows furrowed.

"Aren't you a little young for the FBI?" she asked curiously.

"Ah, thank you for the compliment," he answered, deftly sidestepping the question.

"Ms. Lewis," John stepped in, cutting her off as she opened her mouth to inquire further. "Could you tell us when and where you saw Sam?"

"Well, it couldn't have been later than four o'clock," she began, crossing her legs, her skirt somehow hitching up a couple of inches with the action, revealing a swathe of creamy thigh. She peeked up at John through her lashes, checking his response, and combed fingers through her thick hair suggestively.

"I was just going over some paperwork when I heard arguing from outside. That boy and another man were discussing something- I don't know what. But I didn't get much past that. I had to grab something from the other room, and by the time I came back both of them were gone."

"Do you remember what the other man looked like?" John asked sharply.

She shifted, the skirt losing yet more length, and smiled at him with dazzling white teeth. "I'm sorry, I don't. But I have something better," she almost purred. "We keep camera's around the shop, in case of a robbery. We aren't situated in a very nice part of town, and it's not uncommon. But I'm sure I could give you a copy of our tapes."

"That'd be great!" Dean exclaimed, face lighting up. She deigned him with a dismissive look before addressing John in a provocative voice.

"You could come over to my office so I could give them to you. It's really not far..."

John had no doubt that the last thing on her mind was giving him the surveillance tapes. "Umm, actually we have other business we need to attend to," he lied promptly, wishing she would stop undressing him with her eyes in such an aggressive manner. And where had the woman's skirt gone? 'Cause there was no way in hell that miniscule strip of fabric across her hips classified as a belt let alone a full-on piece of clothing.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Maybe it would just be easier for you to email them to us?"

She pushed her lips out in a pout. "Are you sure? We can make it quick."

"Yes, I'm sorry, but we really should get going," John rushed, doing his best to ignore Dean's expression. He handed her his card with him email scrawled on the back. Her fingers lingered on his hand longer than necessary as she accepted it.

"Well if you ever need my statement or something," she took a piece of paper from her purse and wrote down a number before standing on tiptoe to tuck it into his shirt pocket. "Feel free to call me. I'd love to help in any way I can." John had a feeling the help she was offering didn't have much to do with the case.

"Ah, right. I'll do that," he said, backpedaling hastily to make her hand drop from where it was resting on his chest. She gave him one last seductive look and sashayed out the door, not even bothering to acknowledge Dean as she left.

"Excuse me while I burn my eyes out," Dean gagged as soon as she was gone.

"Watch your tongue boy!" John barked, trying to hide his reddening face.

Dean merely snorted. "Come on Rhett. Lets get you out of here before Miss Scarlett comes back and tries to rip your clothes off again."

"Well that was fast," John commented, clicking on the email.

"Whoa, wait!" Dean cried in a mock serious tone. "Make sure those are from the surveillance camera's. 'Cause if those are a naughty little gift from her to you, I'd rather not be in the room when you watch 'em." John shot him a glare that was met by an cheeky grin. Fortunately for Dean, his father had more pressing matters than drilling some discipline into his son's smart mouth.

He turned back to the email, and Dean crowded close in behind to see, all joking forgotten.

The old computer was slow to load. Dean cursed the small bar at the bottom of the screen, where the numbers 27% loaded quivered tauntingly. He looked away, breathing harder than necessary, and fidgeting restlessly from foot to foot. He could imagine that damned saying "a watched pot never boils" laughing its ass off at him. He kept his gaze away from the screen for an excruciating couple of seconds until he couldn't stand it any longer and checked the display.

32% loaded.

It took a disproportionate amount of effort not to put his fist through the peeling wallpaper.

An apprehensive stillness settled over the room. John was staring unblinkingly at the screen, his expression unreadable. Dean was finding it hard just to breathe. Now that the moment was so close, he suddenly found he wasn't sure if he wanted to know what was on the video. What if Sam was dead, or worse?

His imagination jumped into overdrive, and he found himself looking on, tormented by the sight of a werewolf slashing a claw across Sam's stomach, easily shredding the skin and muscle, spilling glistening entrails all over the-

"Dean," A hand waved in front of his face. "You alright?"

Dean blinked, the macabre image slow to fade. "Huh?"

"Are you alright?" John repeated, a look of concern creeping into his eyes.

"Wha- yeah, I'm fine!" Dean dismissed the question impatiently. No way was he gonna break down in front of his father. To his gratification, the computer let out a shrill beep, cutting short the disbelieving look John sent him.

Both men leaned closer to the screen as a picture formed. It was a simple shot of the sidewalk fronting the store, canted slightly to the left so that a wedge of street was visible, cutting diagonally across the top edge of the image. At the far left was a sliver of what appeared to be an alley running along the side of the building. The time at the bottom right read "8:15 a.m."

"She said it was just before four." Dean's voice came out raspy, and harsher than he intended. John tapped the fast forward button, and an agonizing minute passed while people scurried jerkily back and forth across the screen.

At "3:42 p.m." John pressed play, and without intending to, Dean held his breath. A car rumbled by on the slice of road, the engine a quiet, high-pitched whine on the video. Seconds ticked by, the shopfront remaining empty, and Dean was about ready to throw the computer across the room from the damn suspense, when a figure with long, brown hair stepped into view from the right side of the screen. Dean stiffened, and gripped the back of John's chair, drinking in the sight of his little brother.

Sam's head was down, bangs flopping into his eyes as usual, and his hands were hooked onto the straps of his backpack. Another man entered the shot, walking in the opposite direction. Dean studied him carefully, taking in the short, dirty blond hair, and arm sizes that boasted of far too many nights spent alone in the gym.

As Sam and the man passed, their shoulders knocked together hard, causing them both to stagger sideways to regain their balance. Dean's eyes narrowed. Something about the action seemed staged. The wannabe Schwarzenegger whirled on Sam and yelled at him to watch where he was going. At least, Dean assumed that's what he said. The cheap camera was too far away to pick up the fast-growing argument.

Sam shrugged apologetically, moth moving soundlessly, and turned away. But Schwarzenegger was only getting started. He grabbed ahold of Sam's arm, spinning the boy back to face him. A hard look came into Sam's eyes, one that clearly said "get-your-hand-off-me-right-now-or-I'll-break-it-off".

What Sam obviously failed to notice was a third man that materialized suddenly from the shadows of the alley. Dean could faintly make out an earring glittering from under a mess of dark hair.

Schwarzenegger shouted something angrily into Sam's face, keeping his attention firmly away from the guy now strolling with forced disinterest towards their little spat. Sam's back was towards Earring, so he missed the small nod he gave to Schwarzenegger before raising his arm and plunging a needle into Sam's neck.

With reflexes Dean was proud of, Sam whipped around, tearing the needle out of Earring grasp. His hand jumped to the spot and yanked it out reflexively, but Dean could tell it was already too late. His legs had started to wobble, and as he tried to stumble away they gave out completely, sending him crashing to hands and knees.

Schwarzenegger darted forward and swiftly hoisted Sam to his feet, slinging an arm around his slim waist to support the boy as he sagged bonelessly against him. Sam pushed at him woozily, but the strength had drained from his movements. Earring produced another needle from his pocket, and within seconds of receiving the second injection, Sam's eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped unconscious into Schwarzenegger's arms.

In one swift motion, he was tossed over the man's broad shoulder and all three of them vanished into the gloom of the alley. It was pulled off so quickly that the entire thing had taken less than two minutes.

Dean's hands were clenched so tightly on the back of John's chair that pins shot through his bloodless fingers as he forced them to uncurl. A roaring filled his ears, blocking out all other sounds. A red mist had settled over the room. He didn't know who had taken his little brother, or why, but when he tracked them down he was going to make them appreciate the word suffering on a whole new level. The look of terror on Sam's face just before he passed out was seared into his brain.

He stole a look at John, and the set of his face made Dean think that if the older man found them first, the kidnappers wouldn't survive long enough for Dean to get his turn.

Oh you Winchesters... Now is the part where I lecture you about reviewing. I'll even let you guys in on a secret; reviews make people write faster. Ya. Crazy right? 'Cause in our minds this is how it works: Reviews= people like story, people like story= good writing, good writing= want to continue writing to please people. Moral of the story? Review. Cause I can tell you, I know how many people have looked at my story, and you people don't review! Freeloading vultures! I bet you people kick puppies too... Alright, alright I'm done ranting.