Thank you all so much for the reviews. I love you! Again, I don't own SN, but there is always hope. Lol. Thanks guys!

Chapter Three

Dean got dressed quickly and stormed out the front door. Fear, anger, and anxiety were just a few of the emotions that were coursing through his body at the moment. Dean didn't know what to think. What had happened to Sam? Where was he? He wanted, no, needed the answers – and now. Nothing compared to the urgency of this matter – his matter - his brother's disappearance. Dean's fear vaporized, like the rain on black asphalt in august, and turned to rage. If someone so much as touched his brother, they would pay dearly. He would unravel the twisted strings of his brother's disappearance, one way or another.

Dean hopped into the Impala and took off toward the diner, the last place he knew Sam had gone. Or was supposed to have gone, anyway. The diner was only a block from the motel, so he made it there in record time. He parked his car in a small parking space and turned off the engine. Dean raced toward the diner like a mad man, hoping by some small miracle that Sam would be sitting in one of the booths, reading, eating; hell even sleeping! Dean flew through the diner's front door, trying to remain somewhat collected. His eyes darted around the restaurant, searching for his brother, but to no avail. Sam wasn't there. But maybe someone had seen him?

Dean walked over to the bar. He sat down on one of the red glittered stools and searched for an employee. He noticed a medium built older woman walk out from the kitchen area. She was heading towards Dean. Before she could even ask Dean what he wanted, he started on his tirade.

"I'm looking for someone," Dean said, rushing through his wording. He needed to slow down, push the adrenaline aside, and remain composed. "He is tall, hazel eyes, and has a goofy mop of brown hair. My brother was supposed to have come here early this morning."

Catherine stared at him for a moment, as if she was thinking carefully about what to tell him. She adjusted her glasses, and shifted her gaze to the right. "I'm sorry. We haven't had anyone come in with that description. Do you want to order?" she asked, quickly averting her gaze back, staring directly at Dean.

He looked at her tentatively, and then replied, "No." That's all he said, and he left as quickly as he had come in.

Outside, Dean shivered as the crisp, clean air nipped at his flesh. Instead of going back to his car, he decided he would retrace Sam's steps. He rounded the side of the diner and entered a small alleyway. He kicked the side of the brick wall. That waitress was lying. Years of hunting had trained him well. When a person shifts their eyes to the right, they are accessing their creative side – their lying side. Dean knew it. She was not telling him the whole truth.

Dean looked around the alleyway for some sort of indication that his brother had been here. There was nothing, except for a few cigarette butts strewn across the concrete. He turned to leave, but something caught his eye. On the ground towards the entrance of the alley, were red spots – blood. Someone had bled here, and recently too. Dean's stomach flipped. God, he hoped it wasn't Sam's blood. He turned around once more. This alley held some kind of silent clue to his brother's disappearance.

He knelt down and searched the concrete, sifting through the loose pebbles and debris that were lying innocuously on the ground. He noticed something next to his left hand, just barely out of eye sight. The tip of the small item was apparent from underneath the dumpster. Dean knelt down to pick it up. He looked at the green plastic item and immediately knew what had happened - Sam had been kidnapped. The blood, and now this: it was the top to a syringe. The green translucent cap was mocking him with all its unanimated splendor. It was saying, "Look at me. I am part of the thing that stole your baby brother."

Dean's lip quivered with rage and pure hatred as he flung the small item clear across the alleyway. Dean wasn't sure if the blood was Sam's, but he was sure that the syringe cap was meant for his brother. Dean leaned up against the dumpster, trying to calculate his next move. Dean punched the side of the dumpster, hard. The black plastic top to the dumpster popped up briefly, and then fell back down.

Dean noticed something when the top had flown up, something he recognized. He lifted the black top up and there, sitting on top of all the trash and filth, was Sam's jacket. Dean's heart was pounding rapidly in his chest; the sound of his blood was deafening in his ears. Now it was evident. Someone, or something, had Sam.

Dean picked up his brothers dirtied coat and headed back for his car. He needed to figure this out, and he knew he wouldn't rest until Sam's lengthy body was sleeping in the motel bed next to his. He got in the Impala and threw Sam's jacket in the back seat. He started the engine and headed for the police station. He knew he could figure out this mystery, but it didn't hurt to have the men in blue looking too.

Dean arrived at the police station quickly; in a small town like this everything is moments away from everything else. He parked and headed inside.

Inside the station things were quiet. No one was running amuck like in the movies. No phones were ringing, no fax machines were buzzing annoyingly, and, worst of all, no one was talking. No, this place was dead. Dean walked over to one of the officers that were sitting at his desk.He coughed to gain the attention from the obviously distracted officer.

The heavy set man looked up at Dean, his blue eyes piercing their way through the uneasy tension, they were so pristine, captivating. "Can I help you?"

Dean sat down in the chair in front of the man's desk, and leaned back He noticed a black ballpoint pen lying on the officer's desk, and picked it up. He started clicking the top of the pen, extracting the pen tip, and then retracting it. Dean then started to shake his leg up and down rapidly. He was fidgeting. He was worried "I need to file a missing persons report."

The officer started to type on his outdated keyboard, and then looked up at Dean. "What is the person's name? Date of birth? And how long has he been missing?"

"Samuel Winchester. He was born on um… May 2nd of 1983—"

Dean didn't have time to finish filling in the rest of the information; before the officer lifted up his hand rudely and told him to hush. Dean, a little taken aback by the officer's blunt uncouthness, sat there quietly.

The blue eyed man looked back up at Dean, "Birthplace?"

"Lawrence, Kansas," Dean answered.

The man typed away on his keyboard and then leaned back in his chair, stretching, "Want some coffee while it pulls up the information?"

Dean nodded affirmatively. "Sure. I could use some right now. Jitters and such."

The officer sat up and rounded the corner, taking off down the hallway. A couple minutes later the man emerged with two coffees in hand. He sat back down and placed one of the cups in front of Dean.

Dean picked up the cup and blew a cooling breath over the hot liquid. "Did you find anything?"

The officer sipped his coffee and set it down. He rubbed the scruff on his face and looked at his computer screen, bewildered. "Says here that no record was found. Samuel Winchester of Lawrence doesn't exist. Sorry."

Dean lifted an inquiring brow and smiled a comical half smile, cocking his head to the side. "Excuse me? Did you just say my brother doesn't exist?"

The officer turned the computer screen to the side so Dean could take a look for himself. Dean looked at the screen, puzzled. There, in black in white, it said 'no file found'. Dean read over what the officer had typed in. Maybe he missed something, or forgot something vital? But no, it was all right. Sam's birthday, his city of birth, all of it.

Dean didn't know what to say. This wasn't right, obviously. Why did the computer tell him that Sam had not been born? This made no sense. "You are wrong," Dean spoke up finally. "I know my brother exists. Search again."

"I'm sorry, but there is nothing I can do. I can't file a report on someone who isn't real. There is nothing we can do." And just like that, the officer gave up hope. He was done with the matter.

Dean wasn't done, though. He was pissed. This man was sitting there telling him there was nothing they could do. His voice roared through the police station, his anger clearly evident as he screamed, "What do you mean you can't not look for him! He is my brother, dude! You sick, sorry, excuse for cops are gonna tell me that he isn't real? You are wrong! I know my brother, and I damn well know he is real. This is ridiculous! I don't need this shit!" Dean flew up from his seat and exited.

He had hit a dead end with the police. He snickered. "Like they would help anyways," he mumbled as he unlocked the driver's side door to the Impala.

He sat down in the driver's seat and then reached into his wash-faded jeans pocket. He pulled out his cell and dialed someone. He waited until he heard the familiar voice pick up on the other end.

"Kathleen. Hey, it's Dean. I need a favor," Dean asked the deputy. He hadn't seen her since the last time Sam had been kidnapped, but he knew she was a cop that could actually help.

Dean finished his phone call and drove back to the motel. Once he got there he rushed inside and turned on Sam's computer. Dean held onto the silver computer and sighed. Sam's computer, something his brother used. The thought was heartbreaking, but he had to remain composed. For Sam's sake.

Dean checked his email and downloaded the attachment. He opened it and scanned over the documents contents. He found what he was looking for and smiled.

"Gottcha now," he grinned. He grabbed a pad of paper and wrote down what he was searching for.

Dean had asked Kathleen to pull the phone records from the motel. Sam had mentioned something about Tabby giving him a weird vibe that night. So, Dean was going to go on his brother's instinct. Dean had found out from the phone records that Tabby had made only one phone call that night, and it was right about the time Sam had left the motel. That bitch was in on it. Dean knew it.

There was something seriously wrong with this town. It was like they were all working against him. First Tabby, and then Catherine at the diner, and finally the police. He didn't need them; he would find Sam on his own. Dean looked at the phone number and pulled up the white pages on the internet. He entered in the number and waited in anticipation for the business, or person, to be exposed.

The page pulled up, and Dean looked at the name. It was a business. Some place called Naitokurabu ba. He jotted down the address and pocketed the paper before he left the motel and got back in his car.

Dean parked his car across the street from the nightclub. It was obvious now from sitting outside of the building that this was some posh nightclub. He got out and started towards the club. He walked up to the front door of the blue painted building, and opened the front door.

The inside of the building was huge and elaborate. White square pillars were placed randomly throughout the club, there were booths in the back corners that were dressed with fine velvet curtains, red ones. The seats matched the plush tapestries. The floors were a dark mahogany colored wood. Behind the VIP looking booths, glass fountains replaced the walls. Blue lights shimmering through the water that was cascading down the clear glass. To Dean's right was a stage, scattered with equipment of every kind – DJ equipment.

Dean decided that since no one was around, well, it wouldn't hurt to take a look around the place. He started to walk towards the back of the club when he heard a clattering sound coming from his right, where the bar was. He looked over and saw a man rise from the underside of the bar table.

The Asian man walked out from behind the bar. He was dressed in business attire; finely pressed black pants, a black business jacket over a white collared button-down shirt. His shimmering black hair was adorned with bright, fire-red streaks and was pulled back into a short ponytail. His hair, if down, looked like it would measure to the thin mans chin. He was tall. Not extremely tall, shorter than Sam, but a little taller than Dean. The man had one earring that dangled from his left here; it was a small silver pendant with a tiny red stone in the center.

The man smiled genuinely and outstretched his hand, "Hi. I'm Katsuya."

Dean shook Katsuya's hand. "Dean."

"Well, Dean, what brings you to Naitokurabu ba?" Katsuya asked.

"I am looking for someone. Who runs this place?" Dean asked, but it sounded more like a demand.

"Ah. Ritsuka runs the place. He will be in later tonight. I can give him a message," Katsuya said while turning around. He headed back over to the bar and started to place several bottles out on the counter.

"No, thanks," Dean said, watching the Asian man's every move. "Hey, Katsuya, how old is this place? I mean, it looks pretty new. No basement or anything built underneath it?"

"Ah, you can call me Katz. To answer your question, no. This place does not have a basement. It is fairly new, and having a basement in a nightclub, well… that is a liability. You know legalities and such," Katz said, reaching underneath the bar table and pulling out a small glass. He poured a clear liquid into the glass, paused, and then lifted the cup up towards Dean. "Sake?"

"I'm good. What time will Ria… whatever his name is, be in?" Dean asked.

"Sundown," Katz answered plainly.

Dean nodded his head abruptly and started to leave the club. Katz stopped him as he reached for the doorknob; the Asian mans voice filled the air, "I'll let him know you are looking for him, Dean."

Dean didn't answer, he just opened the door and left. Another dead end for the moment. He was frustrated. He decided to start over from where things had gone awry – the diner. It was his only choice. This owner, whatever his name was, wasn't going to be in until tonight. Dean knew Catherine was lying to him. He might as well go and jog her memory.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Sam tried to open his eyes, but they felt like they were sewn shut. Like some unmerciful being had glued his eyelids shut and left him there to suffer. After a few more minutes of trying, he was able to open his left eye, and then his right eye followed suit. He blinked both of his eyes rapidly, trying to brush off the sleep induced haze his mind was clearly riddled with. He tried to sit up, but he couldn't. Then it hit him. The kidnapping, the men, the Asian guy with a cigarette – the needle. It had all happened so fast. He looked around, but he couldn't make out anything clearly yet. He noticed that his mouth had an extra appendage – they had gagged him.

The foul smelling cloth was making the bile rise in the back of his throat. It smelled like dirty soil and sediment. He could taste the rough grains of sands that skidded across his tongue as they fell off of the rag. His hands were obviously bound, because he couldn't move them. He was in some sort of cage. He also noted that it was extremely dark in the room. No windows, no lights.

Where the hell was he? And where the hell was Dean? What did those men want with him? God, he hoped some of his questions would be answered soon.

His head throbbed with the onslaught of a forming headache, that, and his mind was still jumbled. The sedative had not completely worn off yet. His arms were numb with pain, the pain of being pulled behind his back for such a long period of time. He just wished he knew what the hell was going on.

A door opened, and a thin man entered the room. He walked over to the cage, and looked down at Sam. He smiled sadistically and then spoke, "I see you are awake. Let's get started. Shall we?"