A/N Thank you so much, once again, for all those who are reading this. Your reviews have warmed my heart. :) Also, sorry if this feels a bit like a filler chapter...I promise that things will pick up again next week!

Chapter Two

Dean ran both hands down his face, looking around the empty motel room as panic roared just below the surface.

Sam was gone, and he did not know who had taken him or why.

"Damnit. Damnit. Damnit." Dean kicked the overturned chair before swiping all the books off of Sam's bed in one furious motion. Crossing to the door, he peered outside, but everything looked normal. A couple was pushing a stroller down the sidewalk, and two men with cups of coffee were walking in the opposite direction.

The sunlight was aggravating his headache, and Dean ducked back inside.

Everything was normal…but everything had changed for Dean.

Things had looked bad before, but it was nothing—nothing—like the sudden and overwhelming darkness that was pressing in on him now.

He needed Sam, and Sam needed him. He just hadn't realized quite how much until they had rejoined each other after Zachariah's little skit. Hell, he hadn't even realized how much he had missed Sam, even if he and his brother weren't at their best.

He wasn't letting Sam be taken from him now.

Only, anyone or anything could have taken his brother. Hunters, monsters, angels, demons…he could take his pick, they were all after Sam or himself. And Zachariah had proved that it was not that hard to find them if someone was really trying, and they were trying.

But…both of them were on the hit list, so why take Sam and leave him? The angels wanted Dean to say yes and had targeted him, maybe that meant that the demons were after Sam in the same manner.

It was not a pleasant thought and Dean swore loud and long. He knew how demons worked and how they would try and get Sam to say yes. It certainly wasn't going to be as nice as a play-by-play of the future.

Grabbing his jacket from the end of the bed, he fumbled through the pockets, looking for his phone. It wasn't there, and Dean yanked a hand through his hair before he grabbed the blankets off his bed, wrenched them off, and shook them out. His phone came tumbling out and landed on the floor.

Letting his weight rest on the edge of the bed, Dean stared at the phone. There were really only two people that he felt like he could call. Their list of allies had grown depressingly thin over the years, and that hurt in and of itself.

Dean rested his forehead in his hand as he called Bobby first. There was no answer, and his guts churned as he called Cas instead. The angel didn't answer either—which was not as surprising, Cas was hard to reach at the best of times unless they were in the middle of a crisis or he needed something from them—and Dean fought the urge to throw his phone against the wall.

Sam had already been missing for… he flipped his wrist over to look at his watch, about five hours. He could be anywhere now. The trail was already growing cold.

It only took minutes to throw on a wrinkled suit, find a suitable FBI badge, and march across the parking lot to the front office.

The middle-aged woman at the front desk didn't know anything and hadn't seen anything suspicious. There also weren't any security cameras that he could look at.

It was a good thing that Bobby called back right when he was walking out because Dean could feel the anger and panic threatening to overcome him.

"Bobby—" he began without preamble. "Someone has Sam, I don't know who—they had these darts and they knocked us out, but when I woke up, he was gone."

"Woah, slow down, boy," Bobby broke in and Dean forced himself to take a breath.

"Sam. Someone took Sammy," he said clearly, crossing the parking lot to lean against the Impala.

There was silence on the line as Bobby processed what Dean had said and followed it up with a soft, "Damnit," before he asked, "Who? Angels? Demons?"

"I don't know. I don't even know how they found us. We were just in our motel room, then someone broke the window and started shootin' darts at us. And they were good because I didn't see them."

"What were you hunting last?"

Dean slid down to sit against the wheel of the Impala and propped his elbow up on his knee as he tugged his tie loose.

"Nothing good, but it couldn't think beyond 'eat' and 'kill'. Most definitely didn't have the opposable thumbs to be able to pull the trigger."

"Okay, well, that's one thing crossed off the list. Has anything odd happened the last few days, people you felt like were following you or acting strange?"

Dean was silent, the warmth of the Impala soaking into his shirt, but he still felt cold inside. "Don't you think that I would have mentioned that first? There's been nothin' off that I noticed. Except maybe…" Something was nagging at the back of his brain, and Dean paused.

Last night was foggy, the alcohol clouding his memories. Had something happened at the bar?

"No, I've got nothing, at least not anything concrete."

"You boys sure do know how to pick 'em, don't you?" Bobby heaved a slightly exasperated sigh. "I think that we can rule out demons and angels. Since when do they use dart guns? They usually go for the more eccentric methods."

Dean snorted at that. Bobby wasn't wrong.

"Look, as much as I hate to say it, Dean, you're goin' to have to do some groundwork. We need more information and I can't exactly get out there to help, but I'll do some digging on my end, makes some calls."

Dean was silent for a minute, chewing on his lower lip. That wasn't the answer he had been hoping for, but he didn't know what else he should have expected. Bobby wasn't a psychic or all-knowing, but the urgent need to find Sam was coursing through his veins like ice.

"Bobby…Sam can't be anywhere nice. We've got to find him as soon as we can."

Bobby's voice was gentler when he spoke again, and damn if that didn't make Dean feel all of about two years old. "I know, Dean. And I'm goin' to do all I can, so get up off your ass and do the same. We don't got time for dilly-dallying."

And with that, Bobby hung up the phone on him. Dean stared at it with surprise, before standing up and brushing off his suit.

There had to be security cameras somewhere, right? He would figure out who had taken his brother and if Sam was hurt in any way, then he was going to raise hell and make them wish that they had never been born.

He was still angry at Sam, but that didn't mean that other people had the right to be.

#

Sam snapped his eyes open to find his surroundings shrouded in darkness. He attempted to sit up, only to smack his head into something unmalleable making it throb painfully. He tried to stretch his legs, but he couldn't move them more than a few inches.

Wherever he was, it was tight and cramped.

Slumping back down, Sam closed his eyes, trying to think. The floor vibrated beneath him, a gentle hum against his aching muscles. His brain felt like mush, and it took him far too long to come to the realization that he was in the trunk of a car.

Dean wasn't there with him, and Sam tried not to let his panic get the better of him. Just because Dean wasn't in the trunk didn't mean anything. For all that he knew Dean had been placed in the backseat (the trunk wasn't big, it wouldn't have been easy to fit two grown men in it) or even left behind at the motel. Just because he wasn't right here didn't mean that he was dead.

Right?

The car came to a gentle stop, and Sam tensed as he listened to faint footsteps crossing around to the trunk, and the scratching of the key at the lock. The lid was thrown open and Sam flung up a hand against the bright sunlight that came streaming in. Blinking rapidly, he lowered his hand and tried to make out the unfamiliar face filling his vision.

"Where's Dean?" Sam demanded in a hoarse voice, but there was no answer as the man roughly shoved Sam's face against the floor of the trunk. There was no answer as a needle pierced the skin of his neck, and the face faded as darkness swamped Sam's senses.

He had vague recollections of a similar exchange happening at least once more after that, maybe twice, but the next time that he awoke long enough to form complete thoughts, he was no longer in the trunk.

A fan twirled lazily above his head and Sam blinked up at it in confusion for a moment as his brain tried to process what he was seeing.

Was he back in the panic room? Had he relapsed?

A wave of shame crashed over Sam, and he couldn't stop the hot tears that were pricking at his eyes. He had sworn, after everything that had happened, never again. He would never drink the blood no matter how much he wanted it.

What did Dean think of him now? Was Dean the one that had drugged him, dragged him away? Sam had used up all his second chances, he couldn't—

The bone-deep feelings of despair and shame settled in deeper and Sam squeezed his eyes shut.

"De'n, 'm, sorr'…" he managed to choke out. There was rustling near the end of the bed and Sam waited for something to happen, for his brother to speak, to pronounce his doom. There was nothing, and Sam pried his eyes open again. The dizzying circle of his thoughts stopped abruptly when he did so, because it wasn't Dean standing next to his bed.

Another hunter then? Or worse, demons or angels?

Sam didn't have time to figure it out. The only thing he had time to feel before the needle was back, piercing the already tender skin on his throat, was a staggering relief that he had not relapsed.

This wasn't the panic room.

It was not a bad feeling to go under too.

The next time, consciousness came more slowly, teasing him and just out of his reach every time he tried to open his eyes. When he finally managed to pry them open, he found himself staring at a stained carpet.

He had been in enough low-quality motels that he felt like he should be able to identify what the large, orangish, spot was. He couldn't. To be fair, he wasn't the one typically causing the stains. Unless it was blood. How many times had he and Dean staggered into motel rooms, bleeding and barely alive?

It felt sometimes like that was all he ever did was leave a trail of blood, pain, and death behind him.

Shaking the morose thoughts off, Sam rolled his throbbing head back and blinked until he could make out the rest of the room. Not that there was a lot to see, it was a typical motel room after all.

The only thing distinguishing it from the hundreds of other motel rooms that he had been in was that he was zip-tied to a chair with a piece of duct tape slapped across his mouth to keep him quiet.

Dean was nowhere in sight.

A chill went through Sam's whole body and he jerked his head around, trying to see behind him, but his brother wasn't there. Wrenching around, Sam looked frantically about the room, his heart thudding painfully in his chest.

They had been at a…bar? It had been a bad hunt and then they had been working on finding a new hunt and defeating Lucifer. Dean had called him a freak again… But that didn't matter, none of it mattered if Dean was dead.

"Dean?" Sam attempted to call out, but it came out muffled and distorted through the tape. Sam tried to twist his wrists, attempting to jerk the plastic apart enough to slip his hands through.

Panic was crawling through him.

He didn't even know how long he had been missing. The clock on the bedside table read just after ten in the morning, but that didn't mean much. It could have been hours, or days…and Sam didn't remember anything about the fight that had surely happened when he had been taken. He just remembered the sound of shattering glass, and Dean's frantic face.

Dean could be seriously injured with no help. Or worse…

If Dean died, then it was Sam's fault. He was the one that they wanted. If Dean was collateral damage—

Sam thought that he was going to be sick and twisted harder against his bonds. Dean was just about the world's only hope at this point and one of the very few reasons that Sam had for getting up in the morning.

There was a jingle of keys from outside the door and Sam's head shot up, watching as the door handle twisted down.

He straightened, jutting out his chin defiantly.

The door opened, and a broad-shouldered man backed through, juggling a case of beers and a bag of what looked like trail mix. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but Sam couldn't quite place it.

The man dropped the beers onto the table, tossing the bag towards the bed.

"Oh, good, you're up. I thought the dose would wear off before I got back," he said, leering at Sam. He was chewing obnoxiously on a stick of gum, his jaw snapping every few words. Sam glared up at him, trying to communicate his displeasure.

Still grinning, he walked over and ripped the duct tape off Sam's mouth. Sam hissed as the tender skin on his mouth ripped, and worked his jaw stiffly.

"Where's Dean?" he demanded. His mouth felt all wrong, all fuzzy and dry, and his voice reflected the disuse.

The man shrugged, grabbing a second chair from a sturdy-looking table. He spun it around, straddling it, and leaned his forearms across the back. "You're like a broken record, boy. I'll tell ya what I did before. I dunno. Don't matter much now, does it."

"Doesn't matter? If you've hurt him, if he's dead, then I swear to God that I will kill you."

He smirked, apparently amused. "No need for threats. Your brother is back…I dunno, where'd I pick you up again? Arizona? Texas? Yeah, Texas. He's back in Texas."

Sam eyed him suspiciously, trying to discern the lie there but he didn't find one. "Why did you leave him?"

He shrugged. "That wasn't my original plan, I'd admit to that. That plan was to kill 'im, but that was like three years ago, and plans change. Hell, I didn't even really have a plan this time. It was an ass chance that we all knocked into each other at that bar—"

Sam was bewildered until it clicked. He had seen this man before, at the bar, the man who had been talking to Dean all night, the one that he had almost spilled drinks on.

"—and after that happened, I said to myself. Darrion, you've got one chance to get this right. Just the one, and it's never gonna happen again. So, I sat down and had a nice little chat with your brother to test the waters, to try and gauge if this was even gonna be possible. Do you know what he told me?"

Sam had an idea, based on the mood that Dean had been in, but didn't say anything.

Darrion nodded, smacking his gum once. "I asked him what was makin' him drink the hard liquor and he said that it was his little brother. His pain-in-the-ass brother who was making life difficult for him, who had let him down…now what you did, I don't the hell know because he wouldn't tell me.

"But whatever it was, I'm grateful. I appreciate it, even if Dean don't. I don't like to deal with bodies if I don't have to, especially if there is no easy way to dispose of 'em. They draw too much attention and take too much time. So, I figured, there is no way that Dean's gonna put too much effort into finding Sam. So, he can live."

Sam closed his eyes. It was the only outward expression of the intense relief that he felt. He hadn't gotten Dean killed. Dean was alive. As for Darrion's story…well, Sam didn't disbelieve it, even if the words did spark a pain deep in his chest. Dean had been upset, and Sam had been an easy target to vent his frustrations on. He deserved it.

The one thing that he did know that Darrion was wrong about was that Dean wouldn't come looking for him. He might not have a few weeks ago, but things had changed, Sam had to believe it.

Darrion leaned over to grab a beer and dug a small knife out of his pocket that he used to pop the top off. He leaned over, spitting his gum into the trash can before he brought the beer up to his lips.

"Did you follow Dean back to the motel?" Sam asked and Darrion shook his head.

"I was goin' too, but Dean slipped out when my back was turned. Guy's quick on his feet when he wants to be."

Yeah, well, the truth was that Dean was stealthy even when drunk. It was no accident that he had left when Darrion's back was turned.

"But no. I know that you guys drove a real beauty of an Impala, so I just staked out the different motels till I found yours. Then I set up shop and waited. I had a perfect view of Dean through that window, but I didn't care about him. Once you stood up, you were as well and it was game over."

Sam digested the information, sorting it away for later, even as he demanded, "So…what are you? I would think that you are a demon but, if so, you aren't a very good one. And I know that you are no angel because you don't exactly fit the dress code."

An amused snort followed his inquiry. "I ain't no demon and I don't know anything about angels. As far as I am aware, I am one hundred percent human."

If that was meant to reassure Sam, then it didn't.

"So, you're a hunter?"

"Ain't no hunter either, although I know about you guys. Have for years, just not my cup of orange juice. Too much risk involved, and you all aren't the happiest or most well-off folks ever. No, I only turn to you guys if I need something, or if I need a quick buck. No, I'm just a man looking to scrape out a living, and you—you might just be able to help me scrape out a pretty good one." He grinned again, taking a long draft of beer.

Sam did not like where this was heading for him, not that being kidnapped ever really boded well for anyone. "Who's paying?"

"Mr. Harris, another pure human in case you were wondering."

Sam opened his mouth to ask another question, but Darrion waved him off, speaking over him. "Look, I don't got time to answer all of your damn questions and besides, Mr. Harris can answer 'em better than me. If he lets us in, anyway. He's not exactly expecting us, and I want you to make a good impression, make you presentable."

"Presentable for what? What do you want from me?" Sam tried again, his voice lowering as he leveled a glare on Darrion that, a few months ago, had sent demons fleeing for their lives. Now he was stuck, a non-hunter having taken him captive. For a moment the intense longing for the power and control that the demon blood had given him rushed through him and Sam closed his eyes, struggling to let it go.

Dean smiled darkly. "Oh, I think you know what kind of performance we want. I know you got powers, kid."

That cleared up the longing pretty damn quick and Sam felt like he had been slapped as he reared back. If he had thought that things couldn't get any worse then he had been proven wrong. How had Darrion heard about the blood? Had Reggie and the others spread it around? Darrion had said that he sometimes talked to other hunters.

But Sam had made his decision after Lucifer rose—never again.

"No. No, I won't. I refuse to do it—I would rather die."

Darrion chuckled, but Sam shook his head. This was no joke or laughing matter. He refused…drinking demon blood and using his powers, that was what had gotten him into so much trouble in the first place, what had helped to crumble his relationship with his brother. The control wasn't worth it, he couldn't be trusted. His powers were never to be used again no matter how much he wanted to, and Darrion was not going to get anything from him. He hadn't let Tim and Reggie.

No, he would die first. He would kill himself before he let that happen.

Darrion was watching his reaction carefully, and his expression was unreadable. They stared at each other a minute, before Darrion shrugged, scratching at his forehead. "We'll just see about that. But for the moment, all you got to do is take a shower and put on clean clothes."

Standing, he flipped the blade he had pulled out earlier and approached Sam. "Don't think of running. I'm a damn good shot, and you will be out before you hit the floor." He nodded his head towards the bed, where Sam could just see a dart rifle that was within arm's reach.

Sam let his head roll back, clenching his fists in exasperation as Darrion cut him free. There was a brief moment when he seriously thought about running—if more for show than anything—but he squashed that idea before it could fully form. He did not doubt that Darrion would manage to get to the rifle before Sam got anywhere. His limbs were still slightly numb and wobblily from the previous rounds of sedatives, and there might be a better chance to escape later.

In that case, he needed to be awake and functioning.

Sam stood slowly, leaning one arm against the back of the chair as he waited for the room to stop spinning. Darrion grabbed his other arm, jerking him towards the bathroom impatiently. "I'm going to leave the door open. If I hear any funny noises…I'm not afraid to drag your naked ass out here, so think twice before you do something dumb." He paused at the door, locking eyes with Sam so that he could see the cold intent there.

Sam didn't give an answer, but Darrion didn't seem to care about his consent as he let go and retreated to the other room. Holding tight to the doorframe, Sam glanced behind him to see Darrion pull the bag of trail mix off the bed and rip it open.

At least Darrion hadn't taken down the shower curtain, and Sam was grateful for that small blessing. That, and the chance to be alone to try and form a plan.

Dean was coming for him. They had done a lot of rebuilding recently, and Dean was the one who had allowed Sam back in after originally putting his foot down and telling him to pick a hemisphere.

He wanted Sam in his life.

So, he was coming, Sam just had to hold on until then, or find a way to escape.

He doubted that whomever this Mr. Harris person was would come to this cheap motel, they would go to him. And that might give him a chance to make a run for it.

Sam stayed in the shower until the water turned icy. Even then, he was reluctant to get out and was shaking with cold by the time he turned the water off.

Grabbing a threadbare towel and wrapping it around himself, Sam carefully got out of the shower. He could see Darrion sitting on the bed, still mindlessly chewing on the trail mix while glancing through a glossy magazine. The gun was resting near his hip and he had a perfect angle into the bathroom, should he so need it.

Darrion had left a bundle of clothing on the floor. They weren't his, those had disappeared while he was in the shower. Sam began to shakily put them on. He had to sit down to pull the pants on, his legs still shaky. They didn't fit the best—they were baggy, but short in the wrist and ankles—but they appeared to be clean, so that was something.

Reentering the main room quietly, Sam looked around, unsure of what to do next.

Darrion didn't look up from the magazine, although Sam was sure that he was aware of every single move that he made, but pointed a finger in the direction of the small fridge. "Glad to see you didn't drown yourself, I was startin' to wonder if that was what you were tryin' to do. Beer and food in there. Eat, and then we are leavin'."

Sam's stomach churned over unhappily at the thought of food, but he didn't know when he was going to have a chance to eat again, and maybe some food would help steady him. Pulling open the fridge, he found that it held only beer, and what looked like yesterday's leftovers from Taco Bell. Wrinkling his nose, Sam began to pick through the questionable-looking tacos and forced himself to eat half of one.

Darrion proved Sam's theory right that he was watching him when he stood as soon as Sam had finished. Brushing salts and the stray peanuts off his jeans, he grabbed something off the bed.

"Kneel, and put your hands behind your head," he ordered, with another pointed glance at the gun that was still in reach. Sam hesitated, but Darrion's eyes narrowed, a coldness glinting there.

Darrion, Sam was sure, was a very dangerous man even if he did not seem so at first glance, and he did as was asked.

His wrists were pulled down to rest behind his back and a zip tie was yanked tight enough around them that his fingers began to tingle from the lack of circulation. A moment later, the roll of duct tape was produced, and a strip ripped off. It was slapped over Sam's mouth again, which was just the icing on the cake.

"Alright, we outta here." Darrion grabbed him by the arm, his fingers digging painfully into his muscles as he shoved him out the door and towards a small, beat-up, Dodge Avenger. Darrion forced him into the passenger side, slamming the door behind him, before returning to the motel room. Sam shifted, trying to get his hands free, but Darrion was returning with the rifle held discretely at his side.

Once he was in the car, he rested the gun across his lap so that the end was digging into Sam's thigh and gave Sam another warning look. Sam glared mutinously back at him.

The message was clear. Sam shouldn't even think about trying to escape, because Darrion was in complete control.

Darrion fixed the rearview mirror, before digging through the consul for a piece of gum. He rolled down the window, flicking the wrapper out, before looking over at Sam.

"Enjoy the fresh air. The next bout you get might be right before we toss you in your grave and, by that point, you ain't gonna enjoy anything."