A/N Hello my beautiful people! I hope that you enjoy this next chapter :)

Chapter Four

Dean was playing his music too loud. The old man stopped next to him at the red light glared at him through the window, but Dean couldn't muster the energy to care as he reached over to turn the volume higher. It was no use, it was already up as loud as it would go.

The light turned green, and he gunned the engine, roaring ahead of the old man and his judgmental looks. That was the last light out of Sioux Falls as the city faded into the country, the last light before Bobby's, and Dean—already anxious—was starting to feel jittery.

Could it be possible that Bobby knew where Sam was now? It had been almost twelve hours since he had last talked to him, that would be plenty of time, right? Bobby should have the name of someone whom Dean would very, very, much like to kill or at the least maim.

When Dean pulled into Bobby's yard twenty minutes later, he didn't take the time to shut his door gently, allowing it to slam shut as he bounded up the front porch. He slipped through the door, calling as he did so, "Bobby! It's me!"

"In the library!" Came the answer and Dean strode purposefully through the house.

"Hey."

Bobby looked up from the book that he was hunched over. "I wasn't expectin' you for another three hours. You look like hell, boy."

"Well, you don't exactly look like princess charming either," Dean said, sitting down on the edge of the desk, before immediately getting up again and rubbing his hands together. "Do you have anything on Sam? Do we know who Thomas Harding really is?"

Bobby's lips thinned, and Dean knew the answer before Bobby gave it. "If I had something, don't you think I would have led with it? Frank—my contact—he's been tracing this man through almost as many fake IDs as you and Sam go through."

Dean wilted, dropping down to sit on a chair as he rested his head in both of his hands with his elbows propped on his knees. "Sam's been gone for almost three days now, Bobby…" he said, his voice muffled.

"I know," Bobby said, not unsympathetically, and leaned back in his wheelchair, regarding Dean. "But we can't rush this or go barreling off half-cocked. Right now, we just gotta sit tight, let Frank do what he does, and be ready to leave as soon as we get a name and location."

Dean was silent for a long time, his head still in his hands, before finally saying, "I can't just sit here while Sam is—"

"Then don't!" Be useful and go get yourself some sustenance that isn't coffee, make dinner."

Dean blinked and raised his head to peer at Bobby. "Excuse me? Sam's missing, and you want me to make you a steak?"

Bobby didn't look perturbed as he returned to his book, rolling his eyes. "No, idjit. What I'm saying is that there is nothing that we can do right now, but if you are just going to sit there then you are going to start pullin' out your hair, or I'm goin' to start in on mine. So, to keep us both from goin' bald, you're goin' to go into that kitchen and make us dinner. After that, you are gonna get some sleep. Unless—unless!" he said loudly, overriding Dean's protests, "I get some news about that ID. Trust me, as soon as I get word, we're going. I'm not thrilled about this either, but it's what the situation is, so suck it up and deal."

Dean opened his mouth again and Bobby glared at him over his book and his objections were stillborn. Standing, he grabbed the half-full tumbler of whiskey that was resting by Bobby's elbow and drained it. Smacking it back down, he left the study and headed for the kitchen.

Bobby wanted him to cook dinner, well, he was going to make dinner, quality of said dinner be damned.

Only, once Dean reached the kitchen and was faced with the decision of what to make, he found himself at a standstill. He stared helplessly at the cabinets, his hands on his hips. The last few days were catching up to him, and it suddenly seemed like an exhausting effort to think about putting ingredients together, or pulling out the needed pots and pans.

To his horror, his eyes began to burn as a lump formed in his throat.

Clearing his throat roughly, he bowed his head, blinking rapidly to keep his composure.

He hadn't had time to think much besides find Sam and don't think about Sam being tortured or dead over the last few days…

But Sam was missing. And the last thing that Dean had done was call him a freak. That delightful little tidbit had been hovering darkly at the back of his mind, waiting for the perfect moment to spring up and swallow him whole. Now it certainly wasn't helping the panic that he was feeling, nor the rising guilt.

"You idiot. You complete moron," he muttered to himself.

Sam wasn't a freak, or at least, he wasn't any more of a freak than Dean was. Except for the drinking demon blood thing. That was a little…but he had asked Sam to come back, to hunt together again, and with that had been the silent understanding that they were going to move and try to let things go. And he wanted to do that. He'd missed Sam and he had wanted him back.

He wanted them to be able to go back to what they had been, but he also just wanted Sam. Things sucked, but it was a little bit more bearable with Sam.

And, as many mistakes as Sam might have made over the last year, he hadn't deserved to be called a freak over something as inconsequential as Shakespeare. Not when Dean already knew about Sam's deep fears on the subject.

Pulling in a shuddering breath, Dean pressed his lips together tightly.

Dinner, he was cooking dinner. He was making…well, mac and cheese were really about the only thing that he had practice making, but somehow he doubted that Bobby had boxes of it just laying around. He probably hadn't since John took them away for the last time when they were kids.

But Spaghetti shouldn't be that hard. That was just pasta and sauce. Maybe he'd start there.

It was over an hour later when Bobby wheeled himself into the kitchen to find Dean sitting on the floor and slumped against the stove, a bottle of Jack in his hand. There was a pot on the stove with a cover on it.

"Dinner," Dean said, gesturing at the pot with the bottle before taking another swig.

"Yeah, and did you eat any of it?"

Dean shrugged.

"Yeah, well, even if you did it probably wasn't enough to combat all that liquor you're pouring into your stomach."

"Like you're one to speak," Dean grumbled pointedly, but Bobby quelled him with a look before he wheeled himself over to turn the stove on low. They let the Spaghetti reheat, and then Dean dished them both a serving.

"Sam's tough," Bobby said, breaking the heavy silence that they were eating in, and Dean immediately looked away, his fork halfway to his mouth.

"Yeah, he's a tough son of a bitch," he admitted and Bobby gave him a knowing look that said he understood that Dean wasn't telling him everything, but didn't press.

They ate the food halfheartedly, Dean only managing half a plate, and then Bobby chased him out of the kitchen with the order to get some sleep. Dean thought briefly of the bed upstairs, but it seemed like too much effort to climb the stairs, not when the couch was right there.

He was beyond tired, but it still took him a long time to fall asleep as his mind rigidly replayed the crushed look on Sam's face again and again.

#

Almost eight hundred miles away, Sam was having just as much trouble falling asleep.

His body ached, begging for oblivion and rest, yet he was unable to find it. For one, his head throbbed like it was about to split into two and the pain was too much to allow him to rest. Also, the bastards upstairs had turned the AC on and the small room was frigid. He had wrapped his arms around himself to preserve body heat, but it wasn't helping.

And then there was the water and crackers that sat mocking him, just out of reach. Sam simply wasn't sure if the pain and effort of moving were worth it. If only he had the power to move things with his mind…maybe he should just ask them to activate that power instead, he thought bitterly.

If he had been interested, Ruby probably could have taught him how to harness the other powers as well (he had moved that cabinet, after all) but he had been so caught up in revenge and hurting Lilith, that exorcising and killing demons was all that he had cared about.

If only Dean knew all the things that he had turned down, all the offers that Ruby made that he had steadfastly refused. Maybe it was just his broken way of justifying his powers, but he had tried to stick to the family business of hunting things and killing demons.

Sam had tried damn hard to help people, but now an untold number of innocent lives rested on his shoulders.

More to break himself away from the pressing weight of the apocalypse than anything, Sam finally moved, stretching to reach for the water.

Pain lanced, sharp and strong, through his head and he froze, forcing himself to breathe through it without throwing up. Winchesters did not give up, however, over such a small thing as pain and once it died down, he crawled the few feet to the food.

Sam drank half of the water immediately, only just restraining himself from chugging it all. The crackers he merely picked at, and it took him a long time to choke them down. Once finished, he rewarded himself by drinking the rest of the water.

It wasn't nearly enough to quench his thirst.

How long had it been since he had been kidnapped? Surely Dean was out there trying to find him. For a moment, he let the weaker side of him fantasize that the next time the door opened it would be Dean coming through it.

When the door did open a couple of hours later, however, it was Darrion who came prancing through, rifle in hand.

"You, my fine psychic freak, don't look so good," he said, snapping his gum on the last word, as Sam raised his head from his knees. Sam snorted, lifting his hand to show that he still had enough energy to show his middle finger.

Darrion only laughed.

"It's a good evein' to do drugs, don't you think? A little somethin' to help you sleep later?"

Darrion hefted the dart gun up into position, but that was the only warning Sam had that he was about to fire. Flinging his arm up, Sam was just in time to stop the dart from hitting his chest. It embedded itself deep in his bicep, and he yanked it out with his other hand.

Whatever was in the dart had already injected itself into his bloodstream, however, and the pain hit as hard and as fast as it had the last time.

Darrion leaned down, already pulling a second syringe out of his pocket. He waited patiently for the first serum to pass, this time not giving Sam a moment to recover before injecting him with the first dose of the second serum.

The same fire and ice dance from before began to flood through his veins and Sam's heartbeat pounded sickeningly in his ears, the agony tearing through him with such ferocity that it left him breathless.

"No," Sam ground out between his clenched teeth. "No—" he cut himself off as he rolled over, clutching at his head. Blood began to coat the inside of his mouth as he bit his tongue in an effort to keep from crying out. It didn't help and he finally let go, screaming out his pain for the world to hear.

Darrion watched dispassionately from the side as he pulled out a bottle of clear liquid and stuck the needle in, refilling it in preparation for the second dose.

The pain faded, and Sam went limp, sucking air in desperately. Darrion didn't pause to ask if he had seen anything before sliding the needle into Sam's neck. He repeated the process with the third dose.

Sam felt like his whole body was threatening to snap apart at the joints as he screamed until his voice gave out, writhing in excruciating agony.

Afterward, he could do no more than lie there, hardly able to breathe as his consciousness wavered.

Through blurry vision, he could see Darrion watching him with something like contempt. He twisted a hand into Sam's hair, lifting his head so that he could look him in the eye. He had to do most of the work, the muscles in Sam's neck not working quite right.

"What did you see?"

Sam's stomach churned dangerously, the crackers not sitting well, and he didn't dare open his mouth even to attempt some sort of witty comeback. Not that he had one prepared, that was more of Dean's thing.

"Answer the damn question. Did you see anything?"

When Sam remained silent, Darrion shook him, his fist tight in his hair. "Hmm, maybe you saw big brother, maybe you saw him celebrating you being gone...Maybe that's why you aren't talking."

Sam swallowed thickly, trying to form a response. Darrion slapped him, repeating his question.

"What do you think?! No! No, I didn't see anything," Sam spit out, the anger giving him a burst of energy. His already tentative stomach did not appreciate the effort, and Sam just managed to break free of Darrion's grip to roll over onto his side before the crackers made an abrupt reappearance.

Darrion leaped back, cursing and wiping his hands off on his jeans as if Sam had gotten some of the vomit on him. Sam's stomach lurched, and he heaved up bile until there was nothing left to throw up.

He slumped back to the ground and felt his skin crawl as he landed half in the watery puddle of puke but couldn't move. It was Darrion who grabbed him by the neck of his shirt, dragging him back.

"You're disgusting," he said, his lip curling up as he wiped his hands off on his t-shirt. Sam blinked sweat out of his eyes, watching as Darrion's blurry boots retreated.

The door slammed shut, and Sam allowed his eyes to close as he let out a low sob. Everything hurt worse than before, and to top it off the sour smell of sickness now penetrated the room. This was—this was humiliating and anger burned just beneath the blanket of exhaustion and misery.

The door opened again and Sam jerked his head up, trying to compose his features.

Darrion couldn't be back with another dose. Sam didn't think that he could do that, not right now, not so soon after the last session.

Through his fuzzy vision, he could see Darrion tugging something along behind him. Something green and long.

A hose. Darrion had a hose, Sam realized right before the gush of ice-cold water hit him in the face. Gasping, Sam jerked upright, the freezing water a shock to his system. Darrion chuckled, and then aimed the spray of water at the floor and washed the puddle of vomit towards the drain.

Once the floor was clean, he left for good, slamming the door hard behind him.

Sam sat there for a moment, half-soaked and trembling.

Gingerly, he peeled his wet t-shirt off, spreading it out on a dry section of the floor in the vain hope that it would dry. His jeans were wet as well, but he drew the line there as the camera twisted, following his movements. He wasn't giving the sick bastards anymore of a show than he already had.

Sam curled up on another mostly dry section of cement and tried not to let the pain that he was in show on his face.

The AC clicked on overhead, adding insult to injury.

#

Bobby had nothing new for Dean in the morning, only the gruff reassurance that it 'was being worked on.'

That didn't soothe Dean any, and he spent the day tearing apart an old Ford, looking for any useable parts. It felt good to destroy something, but the work didn't bring him any of the satisfaction that it usually would.

The next day there was still no news, and Bobby once again sent Dean out to the yard to work. It was taking more time than Bobby and his contact had anticipated to trace down 'Thomas Harding'.

It was almost a week later before they had anything concrete to go on.

The morning had been rough, with Bobby and Dean snapping at each other, and Dean had left in a huff to go find something to vent his anger on. That turned out to be an old and rusted pickup truck.

The engine needed work, but all the tires were flat and he decided to start there.

The bolts were rusted on, and Dean found himself working up a sweat in an attempt to get them off. The driver's side tire was being particularly difficult, and one of the bolts simply refused to budge no matter how hard he twisted the wrench.

Anger was boiling just below the surface, and it was getting stronger with each passing moment.

If only he hadn't talked with the stranger at the bar, if only he had kept his mouth shut like he had been taught to…

The wrench slipped, and Dean cursed long and loud as it smashed his thumb. He turned in a circle, flinging the wrench further into the junkyard where it collided with a crash into something glass.

"DEAN!" The call came from the open library window.

Dean winced, still shaking his hand out. "I know, I know, sorry!" he yelled back, stalking towards the wrench.

"No! We've got an ID!"

Dean wheeled around, adrenaline suddenly pumping through his veins. He sprinted towards the house, the truck and bolts forgotten.

Bobby met him in the hallway. "You're not going to like this," was all he said, tossing Dean a rag to wipe at his stained hands before turning around and wheeling himself back into the library.

Dean's heart was thudding against his ribs as he dropped down onto a chair, waiting for whatever Bobby had to say.

"First off, the man knew what he was doing. It was almost impossible to trace him, but it turns out that his real name is Darrion Hodges. Does that ring any bells?"

"No, should it?"

Bobby hummed uncommittedly. "That name might not, but he used to work for a William Harris back in 2006." He paused significantly, and Dean stared at him, nonplussed.

"William Harris? Am I supposed to know who the hell—" Dean's brain caught up with the name, and he straightened, a surge of fear and rage coursing through him so strongly that he saw red. "No! No, we-we had him—we called the FBI in, I made sure that they were going to throw his ass into jail until hell froze over!"

"Yeah, but he's rich and money runs the hell on this earth." Bobby shrugged a little, looking just as dissatisfied as Dean felt. "Look, we don't even know if Harris has Sam, only that Hodges used to work for him. But he hasn't, not since we busted Harris, or at least tried to."

Dean shook his head, shoving himself upright and pacing in an attempt to control the furious wrath that was flowing through him. "That man was a complete psychopath! He has Sam, I can feel it in my gut, I know it."

"Dean—" Bobby tried to cut in.

"Is he still living in New Hampshire?" Dean turned abruptly on his heel, shrugging on his flannel while looking around for his jacket.

"Dean!"

"What?!" Dean rounded on Bobby in exasperation, and Bobby rolled his eyes.

"If you'd listen to me for just one second, you idjit, you won't go off and get both you and your brother killed. First off, Harris isn't living in New Hampshire anymore, but in Michigan. I have an address, but you need a plan. We've got to be smart about this."

Dean huffed as he patted down his pockets, looking for his car keys. "I just need an address, Bobby, I'll figure it out as I go."

"Look, Hodges took both of you down without working up a sweat, and now he's in his element. You need to go in prepared. We need a plan, and you might even consider calling in back up."

Dean laughed a little shaking his head as he gnawed at his lower lip. He dropped down onto the chair again and rubbed at his forehead. "That Harris man…he has Sam, he would want him. And he's going to kill him, either on purpose or on accident."

Bobby was silent, waiting for him to continue. Dean looked up, licking his lips before he could continue. "Last time, I called you to get in contact with the FBI so that we could put him away, but I couldn't—I didn't tell you the full story of what happened. Harris was performing experiments on that girl from Sam's vision. And I don't think she was the first one either. We didn't find more bodies, but we didn't exactly have time to look. But I saw her arms, her neck…there were multiple track marks and she was no drug addict, I checked when I hacked into the post-mortem report. There were also unidentifiable toxins in her blood and a lot of it. The autopsy revealed that her brain and heart had been destroyed by them, that they had been damaged beyond repair and were the cause of her death. I would bet my life on it that she was one of Azazel's kids, and that Harris was trying to do…something with them, what I don't exactly know."

"Sam's visions always did revolve around them," Bobby said, nodding in understanding.

"Yeah, they did."

"And Sam knew about this?"

Dean lowered his eyes, shaking his head. "I never…I never told Sam."

"Damnit, Dean. These sorts of secrets between you two are going to be the death of you both, hell it already almost was!"

Dean made a face, not disagreeing, but his voice was still soft. "I don't think that he ever saw the proof for himself. He may have suspected it—the kid's too smart for his own good—but he didn't tell me if he did. I had called the FBI, and we witnessed the arrest, so he knew that she had been avenged…after that, he just shut down. Her death hit him pretty hard…I think that he felt like he should have done more, that if he would have acted sooner, he could have saved her. We couldn't have, but Sam's always had a bleeding heart."

He stopped, wiping a hand over his mouth. "I couldn't…I just couldn't add to his grief if he hadn't put the pieces together himself. We took down Harris, and Sam knew it. That was enough for me."

"He already felt like a freak, you didn't want him to know what was happening to others like him," Bobby supplied.

"Yeah," Dean said, his shoulders sagging.

Bobby heaved a sigh, shaking his head. "That boy didn't deserve a thing that life threw at him."

Dean nodded in agreement before standing once again. "Give me that address, Bobby. I'm getting him out of there because I sure as hell am not digging him up from an unmarked grave in someone's backyard. I just…I won't do that. I won't. I'll figure out a plan once I get there."

Bobby didn't try to persuade him again. He picked up a sticky note from his desk, handing it over. "3761 Green Gates Rd, Ann Arbor, Michigan."

"I'll call once I get there," Dean promised.

Bobby gave him a long searching look. "You be careful, boy. Bring Sam back."

"I will," Dean vowed immediately.

#

"Anything? Did you see anything?"

Darrion's voice was too loud, and Sam flinched away from the face that was blurred beyond recognition. It was all that he could do to keep breathing, he couldn't focus on much else.

"I asked a question, answer it!" Darrion was shaking him, and Sam closed his eyes to keep the room from dancing dizzying circles around him. His head hurt bad enough that he was long past wishing that death would come for him.

He just wanted it to be over.

Only Darrion would not be ignored.

"Go to hell," Sam whispered through cracked and bleeding lips. He didn't even know what session they were on anymore. He had stopped keeping track about the fifth or sixth one, and simply relished in the brief interludes between the horrifying pain."

"Not an answer." Darrion dragged Sam upwards into a sitting position. Sam's head rolled on his shoulders, unable to keep it upright, and Darrion dug his fingers into Sam's cheeks to force eye contact. With each failed session, Darrion's smug and cheerful attitude had started to slip and was replaced with an increasingly moody and violent tone.

"No…no vision," Sam choked out. Something warm began to roll down from under his nose, coating his lip. He tasted iron and figured that his nose was bleeding again. That had started to happen recently, and he did not find it a comforting sign.

Darrion swore under his breath, letting go of him abruptly. Sam hit the ground hard enough that his head bounced off the cement. He curled forward, retching feebly, but nothing came up. He hadn't eaten anything in…well, he couldn't stomach the crackers and Darrion had stopped leaving them.

The door slammed, and Sam relaxed against the ground and curled gingerly into a ball. His head felt like it was about to split into two...

Closing his eyes, Sam fought for control as his wheezing breaths reverberated oddly in the small room. It sounded bad, even to him. His lungs weren't working properly and he had vague concerns that his heart wasn't in much better condition. His chest ached constantly, his heart fluttering unevenly as it tried to handle the drugs that were being pumped into his system.

Sam's body was failing him in ways that it never had before. Even if Dean did burst through that door to rescue him, he was beginning to realize that his body might be past saving.

Irreparable damage had been done, and now it was only a matter of time before death claimed him.