This was written for and based off a prompt by Bell1408. Dean is 20, Sam 16.

Going to be a 2 Chapter story! Enjoy!

Dean rubbed his hands together to try to warm his fingers in the cool autumn air. He tried to pick up the pace, willing the motel they were crashing in to be closer. He had been away far longer than he intended, and he wasn't sure what the fallout would be.

It was the first night of fall break, just before thanksgiving, and that meant Sam didn't have any class assignments due tomorrow. Combining that with their father being on the tail end of recovering from a hunt gone wrong, and tensions were bound to be high. Usually he was there to douse the flames, but he had gone out with the intent of scaring up a bit of food money. Gone for an hour, maybe two. He had given them that assurance with a smile as he headed out.

Now, just shy of four hours later, and the twenty year old hunter was practically jogging the thirteen blocks between the bar and their room. The nearly five hundred dollars in his pocket would be a peace offering for their father, but he assumed Sammy would be harder to win over. Maybe we'll go out for a drive. Kid always likes just getting away for a bit.

Dean let loose a sigh of relief as the shitty half-lit sign of the motel came into view. He slowed his pace, letting himself steel himself for the inevitable fireworks. Where he had been single mindedly trying to get there as fast as possible, he now suddenly found himself dragging his heels, in a subconscious attempt to delay the fighting. He held his breath as he approached the door, taking a moment to listen through the thin wood, trying to get a gauge on what topics were being flung at each other. He frowned. Quiet. That was certainly unexpected.

He frowned, pulling his key out of his pocket and unlocked the door, slipping inside. His eyes found his father first, sat in the ratty armchair near the table, reading a paper. He didn't even look up at Dean.

The young Winchester scanned the room, trying to spot his brother, but coming up empty. His heart rate started to pick up slightly as he saw the bathroom door open, room dark. He frowned, but his brain didn't allow himself to freak out yet. Sam could have gone for ice… or perhaps somehow Dean did not see him sulking inside the impala. "Dad?"

"Dean." John replied, still not putting down the paper, but Dean could hear the edge of annoyance in his voice.

"Where's Sam?"

John shrugged, closing the paper at last. "Don't know."

Now Dean's heart rate did pick up. "What do you mean?"

"Grabbed his backpack and stormed out maybe an hour ago."

"What?" Dean asked, disbelief flooding his tone.

"Your brother was having one of his fits. Decided to get some air."

Dean narrowed his eyes, knowing the things unsaid. Whoever started it, it had escalated into a full blown screaming match. Then Sam had left. "And you didn't stop him?"

"Watch your tone." John snapped. "I'm not his keeper."

Dean bit his tongue on pointing out that yes, actually, he really was. "Any idea where he would have gone?" Dean was already reaching for the keys on the table.

"A bus station? Who knows." He watched Dean pick up the keys. "You're not going to find him." John said simply. "The kid wants space, he'll be back when he's good and ready."

"Yeah, or he'll get killed by something out there, Jesus Dad." Dean snapped, grabbing the keys and checking Sam's side of the room. He was slightly relieved that Sam's schoolwork was still sticking out from under his bed. At least that meant that Sam intended on coming back. When he set off to Flagstaff, he had packed thoroughly.

"Your brother isn't a kid. I had you out on hunts at twelve Dean. Sam can handle himself. He'll be back before school." His father had opened the paper again, going back to reading.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling a sense of dread settle into his stomach. What his father was saying made sense, not that it pissed him off any less. But if Sam really didn't want to be found, he really wouldn't be easy to find. Still, Dean couldn't just sit down without at least trying to find him. With one last glance back at Sam's stuff he turned and headed out to the impala, intent on at least taking a look.

When the search proved fruitless he settled back into the room, resigned that he'd have to wait for the kid to decide to come back on his own.

.

Sam Winchester was a straight A student. He was an impressive linguist. He was surprisingly athletic. He was smart and determined and strong. And by most accounts, he was something of a stubborn idiot.

Bobby had on more than one occasion joked that his strong willed nature was going to get him killed one day. And right now Sam was just hoping that 'one day' wasn't today.

The youngest Winchester had tried, really tried to follow Dean's plea to not get into a fight with their Dad while he was out. He hadn't started it. Not really. Mostly. And then when it was a full blown shouting match, he didn't have a good out. He knew he couldn't win the argument (it wasn't that he wasn't right, it was just that John Winchester was never going to concede), and he was getting dangerously close to reaching the frustration level of tears. If there was one thing Sam knew, he was not going to cry in front of his asshole father. So he quickly developed a plan B. He spotted his backpack, already packed for tomorrow's training, sitting at the foot of his bed. Shoving his feet into his sneakers and grabbing the bag, he promptly told his father to "go to hell" before he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

He half expected to run into Dean on his way out of the motel parking lot, but he could see most of the blocks towards the bar, and they were free of his big brother. Thanking his good luck, he booked it in the opposite direction. He was just taking a mental inventory of his snacks and water when the pain exploded from his left side and he was knocked from his feet.

He made contact with the ground, rolling a bit, the backpack finally awkwardly arresting his momentum. He was shaking, and he could tell immediately that his left collar bone was broken. A few ribs too probably. Groaning weakly, he pulled his head up, trying to get a sense of exactly what just happened. He saw the van up on the curb and his brows knit together. He was hit by a car!?

Of course it was never that simple. A woman got out of the van, hurrying to his side, and he relaxed for just a moment, expecting she was coming to his aid after the accident. His last memory was her fist coming at his face before darkness consumed him.

Now he was in the dark, hands bound behind him, back digging into a post. He couldn't see anything at the moment, so he tried to make sense of his surroundings using his other senses. It smelled… musty. Maybe a basement or something. No, he could feel the itch in his nose, hay. Probably a barn. Though, given the amount of dust he could smell, not one that was used a lot. He strained to hear, and he could hear very distant cars… so they weren't in the middle of nowhere, but given how far they sounded, they might as well be.

Sam tried to adjust himself slightly, but he winced, his shoulder erupting in a blinding white pain. He ran the tips of his fingers over the rough rope, feeling out the frayed knot. He tugged on it slightly, feeling the tension.

He tried to rationally figure out his next move, but his head was pounding. His neck felt like fire, his collar bone was grinding with every small twitch of movement. He was dizzy, and he had to keep careful track of his breathing to avoid being sick. He knew he was in trouble. With the way he left, he knew his father expected he ran off… Dean would look for him, he knew he would, but without any indication something was wrong, he wouldn't look hard enough. He was on his own.

Swallowing dryly, Sam ran his fingers over the splintered wood post, trying to ignore the agony even that small move cost him. He bit his lip, scrunching his eyes and forcing his hands just a little further. He let out a small breath of relief as he was rewarded with a smooth cold nail head. Steeling himself, he began to dig into the slightly rotted wood, working and twisting the nail out until it had enough of a head for him to begin to rub the rope over. Each pass made his head swim, but he was gratified to find the rough rope beginning to split. It took almost half an hour before he felt confident to pull himself free.

Sam bit his lip to stifle his cry as he forced his wrists apart and snapped his bindings. He took a moment to let the stars clear from his vision before letting himself slump back against the post in exhaustion. He fought to get his breathing back under control, listening closely for any indication his captors had heard his escape. Nothing.

He reached his less injured arm up, pressing his hand up to his neck. He frowned. It was sticky, with, given the pain, blood. He didn't remember injuring his neck when he got hit by the car, but he had to admit he wasn't exactly taking full stock of himself while he was on the ground in shock.

Sam pulled himself to his feet and began to move forward, arms up to feel in front of him, trying to feel for his surroundings. He tripped over something at shin height, sprawling and hitting the ground with a thud and a yelp. He could feel unconsciousness squeezing in at the edges of his mind as the pain reverberated through his body. He fought it, pulling himself to his knees and reaching for whatever had taken him down. He grasped the canvas and let out a small sigh of relief. His backpack.

He could hear footsteps now, heading his way. This last fall had been less than stealthy. He hastily unzipped his bag and thrust his hand inside, feeling around for the gun he knew was in there. He grabbed it, pulling it out and readying it to be fired. He wouldn't admit it to his father, but he was glad he knew his way around a firearm blindfolded.

He heard the door open, and the moonlight flooding in through the doorway was almost blinding after the total darkness of just moments before. He squinted up against the light, trying to make out the figures that were approaching him. He could just make out a glint of sharp teeth before he fired at them, two bullets each, center mass.

His vision was still tunneling as he staggered to his knee, the echoing noise of the gun blending into his heart beat.

It didn't even slow them down...