Year One

Hotch stood in his home office and poured himself two fingers of scotch. He loosened his tie and kicked off his shoes. He hung his suit coat on the back of his chair before sitting down at his desk.

Dean's case files sat open on his desktop and, though he pretty much had them memorized, he read and reread them, hoping to find some connection he'd missed. There wasn't one. There was no doubt from the markings on the body that their Unsub was a member of the Cult of Seals. Whether he was attempting to break the seals or not still remained to be seen and, without finding Dean, they wouldn't know for sure.

There were at least two Unsubs. The post and antemortem wounds found on Estevez's body were clearly the work of two different people. Judging by their efficiency, the four men who'd taken Dean were probably hired specifically for the job, though they could be affiliated with the cult as well. From what Sam had told him, there were hundreds—possibly as many as a thousand—members scattered all over the United States. It was a very wide canvas for them to search.

It was the anniversary of Dean's disappearance. After the first three days, Hotch had steeled himself to the thought that Dean could have been anywhere in the US. After a week, he could have been anywhere in the world. After six months, Hotch couldn't help but think the man was dead. He knew that the chances of Dean surviving past even the first week was unlikely. He would have survived longer than the set twenty-four hours if only because they wanted something from him. If Sam was right and the Unsubs wanted Dean to break the first seal, they would have killed him as soon as he did what they wanted. From the state they'd found Estevez's body, he couldn't have lasted long. Either Dean gave in and they killed him, or he didn't give in and they tortured him to death. There weren't really any other options he could think of.

Hotch was surprised to find his glass empty, not remembering even taking a drink, let alone finishing the liquor. He quickly poured himself another before turning his attention back to the case files.

Robert Singer was nowhere to be found. Dean hadn't been joking when he said the man could go off the grid. He'd gone off and he'd stayed off. He'd even gone as far as flying out to Sioux Falls, South Dakota to knock on the man's door and… nothing. There wasn't a trace of the man and, if the state of the place from the window was any clue, he hadn't been home in a while. Hotch would have wondered if the man even existed. If it weren't for the research Garcia had done trying to track the man down, he would have been content to believe it. That lead had gone cold before it could have even been called a lead.

Two days after Dean had been taken, there had been a tip called in to the hotline. A woman brought her daughter into the station for an interview. The fifth grader claimed seeing two men dump Estevez's body the day before Hotch and his team arrived. She couldn't tell them much about their Unsubs except that they'd driven a van just like the one Dean had been taken in. The timeframe matched that of the ME's report and they hadn't seen any signs that the girl was lying so they'd taken everything they could from her testimony to add to their profile.

All of the houses of worship checked out. The interviews cleared everybody and the ones who didn't have an alibi all had various reasons that made it impossible for them to be involved in the Estevez's murder and eight other kidnappings.

Hotch closed the files and tucked them away in the desk drawer he kept for open cases.

Dean Winchester was officially dead. The bureau even went as far as to hang his picture up on the wall of agents who died in the field. He'd wanted to protest, but in all likelihood, Dean was dead; and who was he to protest the man's commemoration? Morgan and Prentiss had been angry, but mostly it was a relief to know that they weren't the only ones who thought Dean was gone. If anything, Hotch hoped he was dead. He'd been on the job too long. He knew what happened to people who survived things like this. If he was still alive, Hotch wasn't naive enough to think that Dean even wanted to live at this point. It had been a year. A lot of bad could be done in a much shorter amount of time.

Hotch's glass was empty again, but instead of refilling it, he took it to the kitchen kink and rinsed it out. He only poured a third drink when he wanted to drink himself under the table. He wanted nothing more than to forget everything for a little while, but he couldn't. Not only did he have work in the morning, but he also wanted to be able to talk to Jack before bedtime and he wouldn't call his son on the phone while he was slobbering drunk. He knew that story all too well and he'd be damned if he was going to do that to his own kid.

Hotch trudged upstairs and changed out of his suit. Belatedly, he thought about giving Sam a call. He discounted the idea immediately though. This was a bad day for the entire team. Hotch couldn't imaging just how bad it was for Sam. It was too personal for Hotch to involve himself so he let the idea pass through his head and then make a prompt exit, thanks for coming out. Instead, he dialed Haley's number so he could speak to his son. Jack was probably the only person in the world right now who could make today just a little brighter.

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Sergio climbed onto the couch next to Prentiss and stretched out his lithe frame, claiming the two unoccupied cushions as his own. Prentiss didn't even notice. Her attention was focused on the TV screen which displayed the ever favorite Godzilla versus Mothra. She and Dean used to argue about which Godzilla movie was the best. She was a fan of the original, but Dean liked the whole 'ass-kicking bug goes up against the king of all monsters' plotline.

Just as Godzilla and Battra were about to be swallowed up by the crack in the ocean floor, Sergio decided that enough was enough and that he needed some attention. The cat climbed his way into her lap and rubbed himself against her until her hand came up to stroke his fur. Normally, she liked that Sergio was such an affectionate cat; it was nice to feel needed and loved. But sometimes, not very often, she just wished that she could settled down and watch a movie without being disrupted.

She knew she was letting her emotions get riled up again, but after going so long just pushing them down, it was nice to let them go a little. She'd tried laying down and sulking, even managed to squeeze out a few tears, but mourning just wasn't something she did well. It wasn't that her and Dean weren't close. They hadn't known each other for long before he disappeared, but she'd been closer to him than to the rest of the team at that point in time. He'd been the first to welcome her to the BAU—the fact that he'd been trying to get into her pants at that time notwithstanding—and he'd paved the way for her with the others. They'd all been wary about having someone come in to replace Elle, especially someone with the connections she had. There was suspicion in everyone's eyes but Dean's.

"I know the look," he said to her after she asked why he trusted her when no one else seemed to. "You're trying to get out from under someone, pave your own way. I like you, Prentiss. You're smart, but most importantly, you're persistent. You'll be good for the team." Then he smacked her on the back once and gave her a wink and sauntered back to his desk like it had been any other conversation. She knew differently, though. It had taken a lot for him to open up even that much.

It had only been a matter of time before the others came around to his way of thinking. She owed it largely in part to the easy way Dean seemed to include her in everything. His constant movie quips had her smirking and smiling to the point where she'd just jump right in whenever he got going about a recent episode of some obscure sci-fi show he was watching. Reid had been the next person to come around, followed by JJ, Garcia, and eventually, Morgan. She hadn't even needed to save anyone's life a time or two like Dean had joked.

Dean hadn't just helped her with the team. He was the one who came to work two hours early to help her with the hand-to-hand combat skills that weren't quite up to par. He was the one to suggest switching out her gun for one that suited her better. He was the one who told her not to worry about Hotch when she was practically chewing her nails off. He was the one who took her out for a drink to celebrate closing her first case and didn't try anything afterward, content to just share a drink or two and drop her back off at her place with a smile and a 'see you tomorrow.' Despite his constant flirting, he respected her, and that was what made him her friend.

God, she hated that he was gone. He wasn't just gone or missing. Those she could handle. Dean had been kidnapped. She hated the not knowing. She didn't know whether he was dead or alive and it was hard to keep hoping when she just didn't know. Every fiber in her being wanted him alive and safe, but there was that small, persistent part of her mind that told her that her friend was gone forever and she would never see him again.

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Sam sat in his car outside of the coffee shop, waiting for the right time to walk in. It was just after seven and he had been off work almost an hour. He had seen Spencer at this same shop just two weeks ago and he didn't want another run in with the FBI agent, especially since the man was a profiler. The last thing he needed was someone to tell his boss what he was doing in his down time.

Since that last accidental encounter, Sam made sure to scope the place out before going in for what he needed. There was no sign of Spencer or anyone else that could give him a hard time. A couple of patrolmen had been in the shop once or twice since he'd been on watch, but they'd merely gone in for a quick cup of mud and walked out again, their minds at ease.

This part always made him nervous. It used to be that he only needed to make this trip once a month. Lately, though, supplies only lasted two weeks. The longer he was on it, the more he needed for the same effect. He thought about switching up, but he didn't want anything too hardcore. He needed his job and the comfort his pay grade provided, if only to support his habit. As long as it didn't affect his work, he was alright with what he was doing.

There was another reason he needed this job so much. It was all busywork and he never any time to think about things outside the Quantico field office. His job took his mind off of everything and didn't give him any time to do anything but help people. When he went home for the day though, he was forced to replay events in his head over and over until it drove him crazy. He'd been over the files, poured through the team's testimonies and reports, been through the suspect lists so often that he pretty much had the case memorized. Every week or two, he would get a call or a text or an email from Hotch saying that they were still looking and not to lose hope. These had spread out to every few weeks, to every month. It had been a couple months since the last one and he knew from Dean's picture going up on the wall that they'd finally stopped looking.

There was no hope. His brother was the only one who knew everything about Sam. He'd been there to take care of Sam before either of them had been out of elementary school. When everything was bad—and through the years, there were some times he didn't think things were able to get any worse—they'd always had each other. Now, though, Sam was alone for the first time.

He didn't handle alone well.

Satisfied that no one who could identify him was in the vicinity, Sam exited the Impala he'd inherited from his brother and strode into the coffee shop. He saw his man sitting in the corner on his laptop, nursing a mug of steaming something. Sam had never seen the man leave. For all he knew, he owned the place.

Trying not to appear suspicious, he ordered a small black coffee to go before he sat in the seat across from the man. Sam had never asked his name and the man never offered it.

"Hey there, partner," the man said looking up from his laptop. He always looked different than Sam pictured him in his head. His features were obscure and Sam wasn't even sure he could pick the man from a lineup though he'd been in contact with him multiple times over the last four months. He was young despite the wrinkles and pockmarks on his face, probably in his early thirties. He had brown eyes and short brown hair. Like Sam, he wore a business suit, but it wasn't FBI issue… more like a law firm intern. "What can I do you for?"

The exchange was quick. Sam and the man made the switch under the table all the while making pointless conversation in case someone was listening. Sam slipped the small vial into his pocket, said goodbye, and left sipping the bitter coffee. It was disgusting. He started the car and drove home quickly, doing his best to avoid the speed traps.

When he'd first come east to Quantico for the Academy, Sam had been staying in an apartment complex until he could locate a place. With Dean gone, it didn't take much to transfer the lease and have him moved into Dean's loft. Sam supposed it hadn't been the best idea to stay in his brother's apartment, but he had nowhere else to go. He didn't have anywhere to put Dean's things, and he would rather shave his head bald than sell them. Dean was coming home, dammit, and Sam would make sure everything was ready and waiting for him when he did. He couldn't afford to keep up two places and Dean wouldn't mind Sam taking the bed for a while.

Sam put his keys and wallet in the dish by the door. He disarmed and stuck his gun and badge in the wall safe that only he and Dean knew the combination to. He'd never gotten it from Dean, but it wasn't the first time he'd had to crack a safe. Luckily, it wasn't a newer model. He hadn't kept up with those particular skills and, like everything else, the technology was always changing.

Sam set the alarm despite the early hour and stripped for bed, sliding on a pair of pajama bottoms before slipping under the covers.

He remembered a time when they'd always shared a bed. Traveling from hotel to motel to everything in-between, Dean and Sam had had to share a bed every night until their father was arrested. Dean always had nightmares. Even if he didn't tell Sam about them, Sam knew. It was in the way Dean would twitch awake and break out in a cold sweat and look around the room as if he didn't believe he was still safe in whatever place they'd taken up for the night. Most nights, Sam would wake up when Dean left the bed to check the salt lines or pour over their father's notes. Dean had been doing it since Sam could remember. He was the one who'd held the family together for as long as he had.

Thoughts of Dean and their childhood circled through his head, always accompanied by the pang of guilt and anger at not being able to save him. He just couldn't take it.

He reached over to the bedside table and grabbed the vial of amobarbital the man had given him. He knew what it was just like he knew he couldn't ever stop taking it. Outside of work, it was the only thing keeping him going by taking away the memories. Sam knew that the time up until he took it would be pure torture. He slipped the needle into the top of the vial, pushed air into it and pulled the plunger back out, drawing just enough of the clear liquid to allow him to drift into the high that offered him some semblance of comfort.

He knew things were bad and that he wasn't handling them well. He knew that Dean's team was worried about him if the way Morgan or Gideon would sometimes stop by his floor on the way to or from a case was any indication. He knew that he was continuing down a path that would lead him to a worse place than he was in now. He knew that he wasn't thinking clearly about anything. He knew that if he wanted to pull himself out, he needed help. But, more than any of the other things he knew, Sam knew that wherever Dean was, it was worse for him than it was for Sam, and the thought made everything just that much harder.