Author's Note: For some reason, this chapter was a real struggle to write. I'm not entirely happy with it, but it did what it needed to. That being said: enter the Sam whumpage, both physical and emotional. Good things to those who wait, as promised! And don't forget to feed the author—leave me a review, let me know how it turned out! Please?

Warnings: Spoilers in this chapter through 6.14. This story takes place between 6.14 and 6.15.

Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine. I'm just happy to play in the sandbox and promise to put the toys back when I'm done.

Chapter 3

Missing

Dean had a bad feeling. He checked his watch, again, and exhaled loudly. He grabbed his phone from his jeans pocket and checked once more—no missed calls. He hit Sam's number from the top of his speed dial and listened with increasing dread as the call went right to voicemail.

"This is Sam. Leave a message."

"Dammit, Sam." Dean hung up the call with an aggravated huff.

Bobby rolled out from under the car he'd been working on and raised an eyebrow at Dean. "What is it, son?"

"It's been an hour," Dean replied. "Sam should be back by now. I told him forty-five and I was comin' looking. That was fifteen minutes ago, Bobby."

"Sam's a big boy, Dean," Bobby pointed out, though there was a hint of a frown in his tone. "He can handle himself. Maybe he stopped for beer, too? We're runnin' low."

Dean shook his head. He had a gut feeling that something was off, and he'd learned to trust those feelings when it came to his trouble magnet of a baby brother. "Even then, he should have been back by now. Or at least have called. But his phone's off."

"Maybe his battery died," Bobby suggested, though he didn't sound particularly convinced by his own suggestion. He knew as well as Dean that there was no good reason Sam should have turned his phone off, especially now with both supernatural and human threats out to get them.

"No. He charged it this morning."

Bobby pushed himself to his feet and dropped the wrench he'd been holding onto the tool bench. He crossed his arms across his chest and regarded Dean for a long moment, as if assessing him, before shrugging. "We'll take my truck."

Dean blinked in surprise at the offer. "Bobby?"

"You wanted to go look for Sam, right?" the older man demanded impatiently.

"Well, yeah."

"Sam took the Impala, so get yer ass moving. We're wastin' daylight."

Sam jerked belatedly as something splashed him in the face, but he found himself off balance. His eyes flew open only to shut against the dim light that assaulted his pounding head. With a wince, he tried opening his eyes more slowly and almost wished he hadn't.

"Look who's awake," Walt said. He stood directly in front of Sam with a bucket in his hands and an odd expression on his face. Sam's sluggish mind couldn't quite place it but didn't register it as anything good.

And that's when he remembered the parking lot. Tranquilizers, he realized with a jolt as everything clicked into place. Ah shit.

Sam tried to move his arms only to find his movements restricted. He glanced up to see his wrists bound above his head, the rope strung up around a low-hanging rafter beam. He tugged and twisted his wrists, testing the strength of his bindings, only to chafe his skin. Nice and tight, as expected of experienced hunters, he mused idly.

He looked down and saw he'd been stripped down to a t-shirt and jeans, meaning the scant selection of tools he normally kept on his person were gone as well. His boots had been removed and his ankles were bound together. His bare toes were just barely touching the scattered hay on the ground, keeping the bulk of the pressure off his shoulders, which were already beginning to ache.

Wait, hay?

Sam looked past Walt, taking in the rest of his surroundings. As his eyes adjusted, he could see that he was in a barn, dangling precariously in the center, and the dim light coming from lanterns held by the other three occupants. Sam swallowed as he recognized Roy, Tim, and Reggie sitting on hay stacks behind Walt, flames dancing across the cold expressions on their faces and the array of blades and other weapons laid out in front of them. Sam could feel bile rising in his throat, and he didn't know if it was from the retreating drugs or the rapidly devolving situation.

"Sorry about the holy water, Sammy, but we just had to check. You understand. Coming back from the dead isn't exactly normal for humans," Walt said, his mouth twisting into a cold sneer.

"It's Sam," Sam snapped reflexively. He shook his head slightly to get his dripping bangs from his eyes but immediately regretted the movement as his head throbbed in protest.

Walt snorted. "Hear that boys?"

"You know, last I heard it was Keith," Tim piped up snidely. "In Oklahoma."

Sam glared in Tim's direction but said nothing. His mind was spinning against the tranquilizers, which were slow to relinquish their hold. His escape options were nonexistent, with only one door and four hunters standing between it and him, even were he untied and armed. Not good.

"Now, now, that's not a friendly face, Sam," Walt chided, putting the bucket on the ground.

"I could say the same," Sam retorted, bringing his attention back to Walt, who quirked a smile.

"Fair enough."

"So are you going to tell me what this is all about or just… leave me hanging?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow, hoping to keep the hunters talking. The longer they talked, the more time he had to think.

"Surprised you even need to ask," Roy replied from behind Walt. "Thought you were supposed to be the college-educated one."

Sam grimaced. "Kidnapping 101 wasn't part of the curriculum during my time," he shot back with more confidence than he was feeling.

"First you flip the switch in the apocalypse," Walt broke in, "then you and your brother come back from the dead just in time for monsters to start acting weird? Hunters don't believe in coincidences."

Tim rose to his feet, selecting a knife from the array in front of him. The hunter made his way up next to Walt, eyeing Sam like he would any foul creature he was hunting. Strung up helplessly, Sam was suddenly struck by the memory of being duct taped to a chair in a motel with a gun pointed at his head in New York, having been caught by two hunters sent by Gordon Walker. He'd been sure his bad luck was going to run its fatal course at that moment, and the feeling was threatening to make a comeback at the moment.

"You've got demon blood in you, but the holy water didn't do anything," Tim mused, touching the blade to his lips. Sam flinched but said nothing. It wasn't like he could deny it. "But there's no way in hell a human came back from the dead. We'll just have to figure out what we've got on our hands."

"Silver blade," Sam breathed in recognition as Tim approached, twirling the long knife in his fingers.

The older hunter merely smiled as he deliberately drew the blade down Sam's forearm from wrist to elbow. Sam clenched his teeth against he pain and tried to jerk away but the movement only jarred the blade and deepened the cut, and he let out a low hiss. Warm blood dripped down his arm. His thoughts meandered, unbidden, back to the Mulligan kitchen table and the ghouls. He still bore scars from the encounter and couldn't help but wonder if Tim had been following an already established track on his skin before forcefully shoving the memories away.

The last thing he needed to do was take strolls down memory lane.

"Huh," was all Tim said as he stepped back, sounding mildly disappointed at the lack of supernatural reaction.

"Satisfied?" Sam snapped. There was no way this was going to end well, not with four armed, experienced hunters who all had a bone to pick with him and a seemingly abandoned barn in the middle of Nowhere, South Dakota—assuming they were still in the state, anyway; Sam had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, only that there was no daylight coming through the cracks in the walls—to do it.

Tim looked back at Walt and the two exchanged a glance before he turned back to his prisoner and hefted the blade again. "Not yet."

Dean spotted the Impala immediately as Bobby pulled the truck into the pizza place's parking lot. Either Sam's taking his sweet time getting pizza or… He couldn't bring himself to finish the thought yet.

He jumped from the passenger side before Bobby had cut the engine and headed for the car, hoping against hope that Sam might be there. Shit, he'd even take the terror of Sam having a Hell-induced seizure in the back seat if it meant that Dean at least knew where his brother was. Dean's helpless feelings were amplified a thousand times over with Sam just gone. He peered inside the windows but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. The knot forming in his gut tightened. Sammy…

He heard Bobby's footsteps crunch under the gravel as the older hunter came up behind him. "Anything?" Dean shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. "I'll go check inside, ask if anyone saw him," Bobby offered and Dean nodded mutely.

As Bobby headed toward the restaurant, Dean forced himself to focus the fear gnawing on his insides into something productive. He scanned the surroundings in the fading light, considering. Insects were beginning to chirp in the woods that bordered one side of the parking lot. An expanse of trees could house just about anything, natural or otherwise. But something told Dean that wasn't the answer.

He turned in a circle slowly. Woods. Restaurant. Grocery store off the side road. Main road into the city. Nothing seemed out of place or strange.

Nothing except for his missing brother. Dammit.

Dean turned back as he heard Bobby return from the restaurant. The older hunter met Dean's gaze and shook his head. Dean let out a ragged breath. Fewer and fewer options of what might have happened…

"No one inside saw Sam in the last hour," Bobby reported grimly. "They noticed the car about forty-five minutes ago but never saw who it belonged to."

"Son of a bitch," Dean swore. This was not happening. He'd just gotten Sam back; he was not losing his brother again. He pulled out his phone and dialed Sam's number again.

"This is Sam. Leave a message."

Dean rubbed his face through his hands and sank down to the ground, back against the Impala. He stared at the phone hanging limply in his hands. He couldn't even track the GPS on Sam's phone with it turned off. The only tangible connection he had to his brother was worthless.

About as worthless as Dean felt as an older brother at the moment. "I shouldn't have let him come alone," he muttered.

"Dean…"

Dean tried to bring his focus to Bobby, but he blinked when he noticed a hint of color buried under a light layer of gravel near the other man's foot. He frowned and shoved himself onto his knees. He crawled forward a few paces and dug out the object, blowing dusty gravel from it.

"What the hell're you doing, boy?"

Dean stared at the object he'd picked up a long moment, eyes narrowing. You've got to be kidding me. The red feathers on the end of the short needle had caught his attention and now things were starting to come together. Dean ground his teeth; he didn't like the scenario one bit. He pushed himself to his feet and held the object out for Bobby to see.

The hunter inhaled sharply. "Tranquilizer dart?"

Dean nodded. "Looks like."

"Think it means—"

"Walt and Tim got their hands on Sam?" Dean supplied. Bobby nodded. "Yeah, I think it does." Dean clenched his fist around his phone. "I'm gonna kill 'em, Bobby. I'm gonna friggin' kill 'em."

"Dean."

"No way in hell they get away with screwing with us, with Sam, like this. Again!" He threw out his arms, gesturing exasperatedly. This was important, dammit. "I just got him back, Bobby. I'm sick and tired of watching my little brother hurt, watching him die in front of me. I'm ending this."

"Dean."

"Bobby, the wall in Sam's head is freaking fragile right now," Dean growled, dropping his arms back to his sides. "He's just barely past it cracking once already. Who knows what could trigger another attack? I'm not giving those sons of bitches the chance to do that to him. He's been through way too much already, all to save the world, including the sorry asses of the goddamn idiots that took him."

"Boy, listen!" Bobby practically roared to get the younger man to stop talking. Dean started in surprise but clamped his mouth shut. "I was saying, I'm gonna to help you. Idjit."

Dean blinked, suddenly speechless. Hunters normally drew a very distinct line between hunting the supernatural and hunting humans. Hunter-on-hunter violence, though? That was taboo, so Dean figured Walt and Tim and their sidekicks had it coming. But to hear Bobby agree to help hunt other hunters…

"They're messin' with family," Bobby replied simply to Dean's unasked question, ending the discussion.

Dean swallowed, suddenly finding it hard to form words around the lump in his throat. "Alright."

Sam was panting by the time Tim stepped back, the silver blade, slick with red, dangling in his grip. He closed his eyes against the spinning room and sharp pain that seemed to come from all over and tried not to count the number of slashes on his arms and chest—tried not to think that losing count was probably the best option after he'd hit double digits, anyway. His t-shirt was in bloody shreds thanks to Tim's, ah, liberal application of the knife even after the first cut hadn't gotten a supernatural reaction.

But he hadn't given the bastards the satisfaction of a scream. Talented hunters though the four were, they would never match the creativity and imagination of two bored and pissed off archangels. The memories that had come back in Bristol and the nightmares that followed, that Sam somehow knew barely scratched the surface, had been more than enough indication of that…

Sam shuddered despite himself. Stop it. It's not Hell. Not. Hell. He forced his mind back to the present.

Tim stepped back up to Sam and grabbed him by the chin. "Now, now, Sammy, no checking out on us yet."

Sam forced his eyes open and eyed the older hunter. "You think this is what Steve would have wanted, Tim?" he whispered. "Demons kill him and you take it out on another hunter?"

"Shut up!" Tim growled, slashing at Sam's face with the blade. Sam tried to wrench away, but Tim's other hand was still gripping his face. He grunted as the tip scratched a shallow line across his cheek. "You still dare call yourself a hunter? Demons were gathering in Garber after you set Satan free, and then you say you have to sit out the hunt that gets Steve killed."

Tim shoved Sam away and Sam swayed unsteadily from the rafter before he could regain any equilibrium. "Seems a little too convenient, even now." Tim swallowed. "I told you then that it's amazing what watching your best friend die can do to you, Winchester."

Don't I know it, Sam wanted to retort as images of Dean being ripped apart in front of him assaulted his mind's eye. He took a shuddering breath in a vain attempt to collect himself. He hadn't been the same after that, and remembering his own anger at Lilith and what he'd done in the name of revenge was a little too much like looking at Tim and Reggie now.

It was just too damn hard to hate these men when he knew exactly how they felt, even if he hated the part of himself that felt that way.

"No on the holy water and silver, then," Walt cataloged from off to the side. "Roy, you got the salt?"

Roy stepped forward, a brown sack in his hands and Sam's eyes widened, drifting down to the numerous open wounds on his chest and back to Roy. "You're not—"

"Gotta run through all the tests, Sam," Walt replied simply. "You know the drill."

When Roy shoved a fistful of salt into the largest chest wound, Sam couldn't help but cry out.

Another splash in the face brought Sam's eyes open, his body jolting in surprise and immediately pulling at the throbbing in his chest. He sputtered a cough, wincing as the movement spiked the pain, and blinked against the water and damp strands of hair in his eyes. As the pain receded to the background, Sam looked up to see Walt standing in front of him, a bucket in his hands once more. He swallowed against a stale taste in his throat, realizing he must've passed out as Roy had methodically ground salt into each slash on his chest.

"Wakey, wakey, Sam," Walt taunted. "Can't have you missing out on the fun, now."

"Let me know when you get around to that," Sam spat out in reply, surprising even himself with the heat he managed to get into his voice. "I was getting bored with your idea of a good time."

Walt shook his head, but was smirking. "You sound like your brother."

A small smile played at the corners of Sam's lips at that before he could stop it. But the smile fell away and Sam's stomach dropped when Walt held up a small object in the palm of his hand. Oh no.

"Reggie found this on the ground in the parking lot. I'm guessing it's yours, eh?"

Sam swallowed, mind racing through the messages he had saved on the phone and the numbers in the phonebook, assessing what the hunters could use against him—or anyone else. He'd deleted the few messages from his missing year after Dean threatened to go through his phone and do it himself to avoid any memory triggers, and the saved numbers were listed mostly by first name and the occasional last initial. With a sigh of relief, he realized there wasn't much that could be used as ammunition by his captors.

But the sense of violation seeing his phone—his lifeline to his brother when they were apart—in Walt's hand twisted at his insides.

He blinked. Lifeline to Dean…

But Walt seemed to be reading his thoughts. "Oh but don't worry, Dean won't be able to track the GPS to find you, Sam. Not when it's turned off."

If they left it switched off, Dean couldn't track him. But it also meant the hunters weren't leafing through his personal communications with his brother and Bobby. He'd take the trade off.

Walt slowly started circling Sam, and he couldn't help tensing when the other hunter got behind him. But Walt seemed satisfied, for now, just to talk. He really liked the sound of his own voice, Sam decided.

"No doubt big brother has been trying to call," Walt said quietly, and his tone sent a shiver down Sam's spine, "wondering where baby brother has gotten to."

And the calls would have gone right to voicemail.

Sam started when Walt suddenly appeared in his personal space, whispering in his ear, "No doubt he knows something is wrong by now." He stepped back and Sam couldn't help the relieved breath he let out. "Don't matter. He could look for months and he'd never find us."

"Let me guess," Sam bit out, "you don't plan on giving me months, anyway."

Walt raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. "You misunderstand."

"What?"

"Holy water. Silver. Salt. None of it reacts to you. But you, either of you, still can't seem to die." Walt paused. "Or at least stay dead."

Sam didn't think it wise to tell these guys that his and Dean's Get Out of Death Free cards had expired a year and a half earlier, their benefactors stuck in the bowels of Hell. Not that they'd believe him anyway.

"So now what?"

"Reggie," Walt said, turning back to the other hunters instead of answering. "Hand me that." Reggie picked up a crowbar and brought it over to Walt, who weighed the heavy bar in his hands while eyeing Sam like he was a puzzle.

"Now we try to figure out what you Winchesters are," Walt said, tapping the crowbar in his hand.

"Human."

"And," Walt continued over Sam's interjection, "why you started the apocalypse, and how you figure into the weird monster behavior now that it's over."

tbc…