Thank you everyone for the warm welcome. I am going to update a bonus chapter just for you guys. Thank you. I hope you like chapter two. The fun starts now.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, but if I had a genie… well, we all know what I would wish for.
Chapter Two
Sam quickly walked down the empty sidewalk. The cold was starting to numb his toes. He had known he shouldn't have worn tennis shoes, but instead something more suiting to the current weather conditions. He trudged on though, ignoring the cold numbing pain that was nipping at his feet.
He looked around the desolate city; it was bare, lacking of life, but he could hear something in the distance. It was a low booming – music. Music was coming from somewhere up the street, maybe a club, or a bar. Sam didn't know, nor did he particularly care. His main focus was a nice hot cup of coffee right now. He reached the corner of the street, exactly a block like Tabby had said, and there sat the diner.
There were two building that rested next to the diner, small brick buildings. The lights were off, which meant the stores were closed. There was about a yard's length in-between the diner and the other buildings, like some sort of small alleyway. Sam crossed the lifeless street and headed towards the only place that was still awake.
He reached the first brick building and passed by the small alleyway. He looked down the dark, ghostly confines of the space and cringed. He could make out a green dumpster resting up against the diners side wall, and steam was coming out of a manhole. The white cloud of steam just added to the alleyway's distinct creep factor. He walked briskly past the unnatural alley and moved hastily toward the diner.
Sam reached the diner's front door and walked in. The place was exactly like the town's tourist magazine – empty. He looked around the diner and noted that he and an elderly old man, who sat placidly at a booth, were the only two living beings in the small restaurant. Sam walked towards the red plastic-glittered stools and sat down. He waited patiently for a waitress to come and take his order.
After a few minutes had passed an older woman emerged from the kitchen doors. She had her blond hair pulled back into a bun and was wearing a pair of outdated reading glasses with a gold chain connected to the sides of the glasses to hold them in place. She looked up at Sam, her blue eyes stopping for a moment and then quickly shifted her gaze down as she pulled a small notepad from her white apron.
She leaned over the counter, her large form leaning up against its black-pebble surface for support. She pulled a pen out of her right breast pocket and then looked back up at Sam.
"What can I get for you, mate?" she said, her British accent booming through the quiet diner.
Sam raised a brow, slightly thrown off by her accent, and tried to process exactly what she had said. Once his mind caught up with his ears, he spoke, "Just a coffee, please."
She scribbled on her notepad, and then looked back up at him, "Black with white, or without?"
Sam shook his head and scrunched his brow in confusion, "Excuse me?"
"Cream or no cream?" she answered, knowing that her words had confused him. She forgot sometimes that some people didn't understand her dialect.
"Oh, um… none is fine. Thank you," he said.
She smiled and then exited back towards the kitchen. She paused before entering the double doors and looked back at Sam, "Here, or are you leaving?"
Sam hadn't realized she was talking to him. She asked him again, and he looked up this time, "Oh, to go."
She pushed through the doors and started a fresh cup of coffee. The full-bodied cook looked over at her. She knew what he was implying with his stare and answered him before he spoke, "We have a customer. Nice lad, not from here, though."
The brown haired man nodded and then went over to the kitchen window to get a look at their young traveler. The man stared at Sam wildly. There was something different about this boy, and he could feel it. He turned around, and looked at Catherine sternly.
"He is one of them isn't he?" the man asked Catherine.
"I think so," she responded hesitantly. She walked over to the coffee pot and poured the black liquid into a Styrofoam cup. She put a lid on the top. She heard Chris, the cook, talk to someone on his phone as she walked back out into the diner.
Catherine placed the cup in front of Sam, "Fresh brew. I just made it."
Sam accepted the coffee and then reached into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet, but Catherine stopped him.
"No need. It is on the house. You remind me of my son, Benjamin," She looked at down sorrowfully.
"Thanks," Sam said, not knowing how to react exactly to the woman's sudden mood change.
"It's okay," she said, sensing Sam's obvious discomfort. If he only knew that her sadness was partially for him as well, "Have a nice night, dear."
Sam sat up and smiled at her genuinely, "I will. Thanks again," he said as he waved goodbye, and walked out of the diner.
Sam started walking. The cool breeze had already started its game, stinging his cheeks with each passing blow. He paused a few feet from the dark alleyway, and set his coffee on the ground. He turned and looked at the sky. The night was fading fast, bringing with it a new dawn. The colors painted the rim of the horizon. No clouds were present, just one smooth backdrop of pale and dark blue.
Sam looked up at the black streetlamp. It was just feet away from where he was standing, but the orange flickering light seemed to stop midway in the air, lighting only half of the sidewalk. Sam ignored the lack of light, and continued to zip up his jacket.
Being a hunter, Sam knew that something was off. The cold breeze had stopped. The hairs on his neck no longer moved with the cold wind. Someone, or something, was behind him. He turned around quickly, but his face was met with a blur of colors – someone's arm.
Sam nearly fell flat on his back, but his years of training saved him - he had great balance. Sam looked directly at his attacker. A well-built man, maybe in his mid-thirties, his outfit covered by a white apron. Sam knew it was someone from the diner.
Chris moved to attack again. His long legs shifted against the concrete, sending little pebbles flying through the air with the amount of force his was exerting. Sam ducked instinctively and whirled behind Chris. With one quick blow, Sam punched the cook in his kidneys. Sam backed up a few steps, and watched the man stagger.
Chris turned around after the pain ceased, and grinned. Sam cocked his head in confusion, but then he felt it. Someone else was behind him, grabbing his jacket firmly. Sam moved to dodge the assault, but his attacker had too tight of a grip on his jacket. Sam, now thanking the stars that he hadn't had a chance to zip up his jacket, slipped out of the oversized coat; falling flat onto his knees.
The hard gravel dug into his shins as he fell. Sam, wasting no time, stood up quickly. To his left were two other men, and to his right was Chris the cook. He was outnumbered, but he had fought his share of outnumbered battles and still prevailed. He could do this.
Sam, dressed now in just his green sweatshirt, made the first move. He headed for Chris. Chris was blocking Sam's only quick exit out of the alley, so it made sense. He swung for Chris's face, aimed directly for the taller mans nose. He was inches from Chris's face, when he felt the air change again. Someone was attacking from behind. Sam ducked and let one of the other goon's knock Chris directly in the nose. Blood poured out of the cook's nose as he cradled his face with his hands and yelled obscenities.
Sam had the upper hand now. One down, sort of, only two left. Sam didn't think he wanted to take his chances, so instead he decided it was high time he bolted out of there. He made a sprint for the end of the alleyway, but smacked directly into something hard – another man. Tall, and dressed in black slacks, and a long black pea-coat. The man acted as if their collision hadn't fazed him. He just stood there calm and collected, as he stared at Sam.
"Samuel, I presume?" the man spoke in a classy manner.
Sam didn't have time to respond as the two other men grabbed him from behind. His impact with the other man had dulled his senses for a moment. That one moment cost him dearly. He struggled against their hold, moving, twisting, doing anything to try and get them to release him, but they wouldn't. They had a tight lock on his arms, one on each side.
Sam watched as the sophisticated looking gentlemen walked towards him. He had one hand in his coat pocket while the other held a cigarette delicately. The man, clearly of Asian decent, pulled something out of his pocket – a syringe. Sam's eyes widened at the thought of what that was going to be used for. He swallowed hard and looked up at the man.
"What do you want?" Sam demanded, trying to mask the panic that was coursing through his body.
"You," the man said flatly.
Sam struggled once more, but to no avail; his efforts were futile. One slip up had cost him, one damn mistake, and now he was in this situation. Sam noticed that Chris was standing behind the Asian man now, blood still pouring from his broken nose. Chris advanced on Sam, inching closer, and Sam thought this was his advantage.
As soon as Chris was standing directly in front of Sam, he lifted his legs and kicked the man in the gut. The other two men lost their balance and stumbled backwards. Sam was elated, but his hope quickly faded when he noticed he was tumbling backwards with them, the men never releasing their hold on him.
He hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of his lungs from the impact. Panting, Sam tried to move, but his arms were still pinned. Chris moved swiftly and grabbed Sam's legs, holding them down firmly – Sam was screwed.
"Why are you doing this?" Sam pleaded.
No one spoke, no one answered. The man in the black coat knelt down beside Sam and touched Sam's arm, cigarette still in hand. Sam flinched, trying to move away from the man's cold touch, but he couldn't. He watched as the man lifted up the sleeve to his sweatshirt, revealing the inner side to Sam's forearm. The Asian man flicked his cigarette to the side and uncapped the syringe.
Sam growled in protest, but the man didn't pay attention to him. He ignored Sam's silent pleas and proceeded on with his plans. He searched for a vein in Sam's forearm and, satisfied that he had found a good host for his sedative, he placed the needle on the engorged vein.
Sam clenched his teeth together, knowing what was in store. He waited in fearful anticipation. He looked over and saw the needle pressed against his skin, the sharp tip indenting the vein as it prepared for its merciless attack. Sam stared as the needle slowly pierced his skin with a sharp sting, the contents of the syringe slowly being emptied into his body. He could feel the cold liquid course gradually through veins, burning upon entrance.
As soon as the syringe was empty the men let go. Sam felt the weight of Chris's body lift off of his legs, the men holding his arms releasing their grip. Sam tried to sit up, but he couldn't. Whatever was in that needle was now progressing through his bloodstream. He could feel the coldness starting to move throughout his body.
He managed to flip over onto all fours and tried to crawl away, but his limbs wouldn't obey him. He made to the brick wall and propped himself up against it. He couldn't feel the cold brick. His body was already numbed by the sedative the man had administered. He started panting heavily, trying to fight the medicine, but it wasn't working. He body was slowing down automatically.
Sam tried to move his head, tried to get one last look at his attackers, but his vision was blurred. He felt himself descending into a dark void that engulfed his very being. His eyes bolted open, trying to fight off the drug, and then quickly closed again. Before he was totally swallowed by the black abyss, he heard the Asian man whisper in his ear.
"Goodnight, Sam."
Dean woke up with a start. Immediately he could sense something was awry. He glanced at the nightstand, the clock displaying the time boldly: It was 10:42 A.M. He looked over at the empty bed next to his. Sam wasn't there. Dean swiveled his legs off of the bed and went over to the bathroom – no Sam. He moved the curtains to the side, and peered out the window. The Impala was still sitting in the same parking spot; the one Dean had put her in last night. Something was wrong, he could feel it. He was about to run out the door and start yelling.
He bolted to his jacket and pulled out his cell phone, dialed Sam's number, and waited. It went straight to voicemail. Dean's stomach was now twisting into a thousand tiny knots. He nibbled on his bottom lip and dialed Sam's number again. While he was waiting, he noticed Sam's pajama bottoms still lying on the table in front of him.
He stared at the article of clothing, panic welling up through every pore. He knew it. Those clothes were proof enough. Sam hadn't come back from the diner.
Sam was gone.