The sun glistened over the bright silhouettes of the clouds, a cool breeze danced about and Jason whistled a happy-go-lucky tune as he made his way to work. Such a lovely day.

Well, it was.

Jason came to the door of the garage where he worked and noticed the lock had been broken. It definitely wasn't a sign of friendly company. He paused, only for a moment, before he entered quietly. He grabbed for the nearest object, which happened to be a crowbar, lifted it like a baseball bat and continued to silently search the shop.

What was curious wasn't that the shop had been broken into, but the fact that it had been broken into and nothing was even touched.

"What the f...?" Jason allowed himself to speak softly, scratching his head.

Regardless of the fact that his shop had just been broken into Jason didn't feel threatened, or in danger. He felt more curious and confused then anything. He decided against calling the police, for now, and went to the back, still looking for any signs of, well, anything really.

Jason entered the back, where they keep some of their inventory, and switched on the light. He never would have expected what he saw then.

In the corner of the middle sized, crowded room, lay a bunch of dirty clothes and what looked like oil, dripping and pooling around it. Jason approached it, slowly, gripping the crowbar at his side. As he came closer, he realized it wasn't just clothes and the liquid substance wasn't oil. There was a body under the rags and they were soaked with blood.

Being a mechanic and not a surgeon, Jason's knees nearly buckled underneath him at the thought of blood. The shadows from shelves and boxes kept the person's face hidden and the injury or any weapon they may have had perfectly concealed from this distance away. He cleared his head quickly as he thought of the person's pain and peculiar reason to find refuge in a car shop. He gathered his strength and moved closer and closer to the pathetic mass before him to get a better look.

With the distance of 7 feet, Jason could still not make out anything, so he snatched a flashlight off the shelf and shone it on the body, trembling from the shiny red liquid that oozed across the floor. From his distance, he could see the face of a man, around his late 20's and he was either unconscious or dead, he couldn't really tell.

A harsh cut bled openly from his forehead and sweat and dirt smeared the rest of his face. At this Jason leapt forward, a sudden adrenaline running through him. He bit his lip though, trying not to think about the blood that he had to stand in to get to the man.

His nerves shook as he began to remove the jacket, which he first presumed just a rag and swallowed, afraid he might see more then he bargained for. As he slowly took the jacket off, careful not to move or disturb the man, Jason saw no visible stomach or chest wounds. A sigh of relief escaped his lips, but he held his breath as he pulled it the rest of the way off.

A bloody hole presented itself as gory results that Jason had no problem identifying as a knife wound.

Jason almost gagged and closed his eyes, then opened them only to see the man still lying silent, unmoving and incredibly pale.

"Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit." Jason stood abruptly, holding his head, as the weight of his situation hit him. A sudden groan interrupted Jason's screaming head and he kneeled beside the man.

"Oh shit, he's alive!" Jason breathed, scared and nervous. "Uh, hey, hey, can you hear me?" Jason asked, holding the man's shoulder and tapping the side of his face. Nothing more came from the man, so Jason checked his pulse.

The man's skin was cold and clammy, but his heart was still going...barely. At this Jason jumped up, ran to the front desk and dialed 911.

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

Beep..beep..beep..beep..

"Aw for crying out loud." Dean scowled, squinting from the brightness of his hospital room. "Not again."

Knock, knock

"Hello and welcome back. I'm your doctor, Dr. Hue. How are you feeling?"

Dean gave the doctor a weird look.

"Ah, not so good..." Dr. Hue gathered and jotted something down.

"No, no, it's not that. I feel fine, really." Dean spat out, realizing what he'd done.

"That's what they all say. But you're healing quite nicely considering."

Dean opened his mouth to speak then quickly became aware of the massive pain as he shifted his leg. "Damnit!" Dean bit his lip.

"Yea, that was a pretty extensive wound you had there, but the stitches are coming together wonderfully. Your head will probably leave you with a scar though." Doctor Hue nodded to his head and scribbled something more down.

Dean frowned in confusion and then wished he hadn't. His hand flew up and touched the tight skin and stitches on his forehead as he rolled his eyes, grimacing.

"So," the doctor paused, "Do you remember anything?"

Dean hadn't even tried to think about how he got there again. He just knew, for some reason, he'd left and now he was back. Of course, the doctor didn't give him a chance. This was the first time he'd really been conscious since, well, since whatever it was that happened, happened.

"I didn't think so." Dr. Hue said after Dean's long pause.

The doctor didn't try to pry anything from Dean at this point, he seemed content to just be there and let Dean think, while randomly writing more notes and other such doctoral things down.

Dean took the time to, unfortunately, think about what had happened. The only thing Dean could call what he could remember was a nightmare. Nothing seemed real, or even possible, yet there he lay, in pain, on a lonely hospital bed with proof that it did.

The distressed eldest of two lay there for what seemed like quite some time, trying to piece together possibility's and scenarios for what might have happened before the doctor chimed in and interrupted.

"Would you like a hand?" Doctor Hue asked seriously, "I only know what the police told me though."

A slight nod was Dean's solemn reply.

With a deep sigh, the doctor began, " You weren't my patient before so I just learned you were here only last week. They told me you had been kidnapped from here 6 days ago, you were with your brother and then you vanished. And that a man found you in his car shop and he called 911. That's pretty much all I know."

Dean stared past the doctor, in a sort of shock, listening.

"Police have come around a couple times, trying to speak with you, but you're in no condition to be bombarded by those bastards in badges." Doctor Hue finished.

Dean came out of his trance and raised an eyebrow at the doctor.

"Hey, you don't think you're the only one who they piss off do you?" He laughed.

A weak smile laced Dean's lips, and he would have laughed had it not been for the fact that Sam had been mentioned but failed to be present.

The question of Sam's whereabouts would have escaped him but his nerves couldn't handle an answer he didn't want to hear, so he kept quiet.

"Oh," Doctor Hue started suddenly, "The police did give me this," He handed Dean a crinkled letter, "It's addressed to you. They said they found it by you at the scene and weren't allowed to open it for some crap-police-policy reason."

Dean grabbed the letter without notice to his rudeness and ripped it open, curious and sick with worry.

The letter read:

Dean,

If you're reading this, it's because all my fears are becoming true. A man, named Pete called me to exchange the colt and the bullets for your life and I knew it was a trap. I also know Pete's working for The Demon and he wants me.

I've arranged some things for you, in Rom 102. I've put my laptop, the fake ID's, our weapons, and the Book of Solomon in a trunk. You'll know which it is, because I drew a protection symbol on its lid. It's the same as on this letter.
Dean, I don't know what's going to happen, but you don't have any fault in this. Understand that, please. Don't forget to look after yourself and promise you'll take what pills you need to, to get better. You're no good to anyone dead. I know it's pointless to tell you not to look for me and I can't stop you from trying, but don't die doing it. I still need you.
Don't go crazy, but don't give up.

Sam

Time seemed to stop as hot tears formed in Dean's eyes and he let his hands fall slowly to rest on his bed. Rage and regret hit Dean like a ton of bricks as he realized what Sammy had done. Big brothers were supposed to the sacrificing, not the younger ones!

Dean would have left right then and there (regardless of his current condition), had it not been for the stinging responsibility Sam had left him with by making one stupid promise to him: Get Better, by means of doctoral drugs.

"Uh, I think we're done here." Doctor Hue stood up, noticing Deans odd staring again, "Just push that little red button if you need anything." He pointed and then walked briskly out of Dean's room.

Dean barely noticed. He was so caught up in thoughts of what to do, and unfortunately, he fell on the conclusion that he had to stay in the hospital and heal. Until then, all he could do was think.

So, over the next three weeks Dean spent every waking hour trying to devise a plan and dig up any information he could on his little brothers whereabouts.

Eventually the eldest couldn't take it anymore. On the 22nd night, since he'd woken up, Dean slipped out of his hospital cot, gathered whatever drugs he could find, and left.

Dean reached Sam's motel twenty minutes later, with letter in hand.

"Aw, crap." Dean fiddled with the doorknob of Sam's room, and swore under his breath when he found it was locked. He didn't have time to muster a lie for the motel clerk and he had no fake ID's with him, so Dean took a deep breath, gathered his built up anger for a famous door shattering kick.

BAM!

The door fell in with its hinges bent from the force of the blow and Dean stepped in, hitting the lights.

It took Dean only a second before his eyes came to rest on the black trunk at the end of an unmade bed. A thin layer of dust covered it, proving none had been in the room for quite some time and Dean figured Sam must have rented the place out for a while.

Dean swallowed hard, thinking of Sam, but shook it off and yanked the trunks lid open. To his relief, he found all the items that Sam had mentioned in the letter, still inside and unharmed.

Dean then plunged his hand in the trunk and pulled out Sam's cell phone, immediately calling his father. Sam and John were never that close, but maybe, just maybe John knew something Dean didn't.

Ring, ring.

"Hello, the customer you are calling is not available at this ti-"

"Damnit!" Dean hung up the phone as the annoying robotic female voice began to speak. The next person who came to mind was Bobby. So Dean dialed his number and held it to his ear, listening intently.

Thankfully Bobby picked up and explained to Dean that his father and he were on a hot trail and trying to get a nasty son-of-a-bitch up North. Dean felt hurt that his dad hadn't told him, and failed to mention about his own abduction. Instead, Dean asked if either he, or his dad knew anything about Sam and Bobby's reply was no. With that Dean hung up.

Then, a glint of silver caught his eye. He reached into the trunk and pulled out a set of car keys.

"Thanks, Sammy," Dean whispered and twirled the keys into his hand. He gathered the contents of the trunk and stepped over the falled door, switching off the lights as he exited.

Dean hurried to the motel parking lot and whistled at the site of his new baby; A black, 1967, Buick LeSabre. He was quick to get comfortable, throwing his possessions in the back seat with a satisfied grin on his face.

"Thanks again dude." Dean smiled as he squealed out of the parking lot.

"Fred honey, don't fall asleep, dear." Martha said to her tired husband as she gave his sore shoulders a slight rub to keep him awake.

It was 2 am and the elderly couple was driving their regular, rural route home. The church meeting in town had run rather late this particular night, and had pushed way past their normal 9 o'clock bed times. The couple's house being roughly an hour or so out of town didn't help much, but Fred being the Pastor in Timnath, Colorado a small town church, he really had no choice.

Though driving could be a chore for the old bones and for tired minds sometimes, neither of the two ever complained. Both were quite happy with their way of life and everyone else in the town loved them, so it worked quite well to be honest.

Martha was the town's tender heart and voice of wisdom. Always keen to lend a hand or hear someone's tragic story, to help ease the pain. And Fred, not only being the Pastor, but the party planner as well. He always had some wild shindig up his sleeve, or a surprise birthday bash planned for a friend, the good times never stopped with this man.

Seeing her husbands faltering awareness, Martha offered her assistance, "I can turn on the radio, or I can sing a bit." She half asked, raising her eyebrows at the tired man beside her.

"Sorry Marty, but you're a terrible singer," Fred stated, laughing at just how straightforward and truthful he'd been.

"Well your feet always stink. But do I deny you a foot message? Noooooo." Martha shot back, crossing her arms.

"That's because you love me, darling," Fred smiled, looking over to his beloved wife with his trademark gentlemen charm.

"Y'know, one day I'm going to whip that around and use it right back at ya," she said, trying to be serious, though her act did not last long. A smile soon crossed her face as she bashfully looked into her life long partner's eyes.

"Awww, yer so cute when you do that." Fred melted at the site of his wife's tinted pink cheeks. "C'mere." Fred motioned and lent in for a kiss.

Martha began to oblige when something caught her eye.

"Oh, my dear Lord. Fredrick look out!" Martha screamed as their Chevy truck swerved to the left.

Dust flew as the truck came to an abrupt halt on the far-left side of the road. Both Martha and Fred sat there, momentarily stunned, trying to regain a regular pulse. You figure a couple as old as they were, would be as ornery as hell and would have started a huge fuss about this by now. Raising their voices and arms, doing nothing but make a bad situation worse. But, these two are not an ordinary couple. Instead of being the stereotypical crabby old farts, they were both genuinely intrigued and concerned. Both with huge amounts of patience, they waited, in caution, until the dust settled.

As the dust dissipated, dim headlights could be seen slightly behind and to Martha's right.

There sat, half off the road, a dusty black, Buick LeSabre. Fred twisted, and squinted to get a better look, but not much could be seen from his point of view.

"Oh, thank Jesus. Thank you very much!" Martha started praying in pure thankfulness.

"Hush Martha," Fred commanded, raising a hand, "Ya hear that?"

Martha fell silent instantly, feeling a tad bit hurt, but decided to listen instead of dwell. "It sounds...like a-"

"Like an engine. By golly, that whippersnappers left his car on," Fred said, partly irritated but concerned, as he pushed open his door and headed on over to the running car.

"Fred," Martha caught his arm, "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to go check and see if the poor soul's alright," He answered honestly.

"You're not as young as you used to be, gramps," she stated for his benefit, still clinging to his arm.

Fred looked genuinely offended. "I know that, but by golly I was in the army and I was trained to look out for others less fortunate then me and that's what I'm gonna do." Fred put his foot down and Martha released his arm, looking amused at his army speech.

He turned to leave.

"But what if it's a trick, and he's a thief? Or worse, a mugger," Martha asked, now more frightened.

"It's alright, darling'," Fred reassured, "I've got Trixy with me." He winked as he patted his left pants pocket, letting her know the presence of his 6-inch army knife.

"Alright, but please be careful honey, ok?"

"When am I not?" He winked again as he turned and started towards the vehicle.

His wife frowned at his last remark as she recalled numerous times he'd been injured because of carelessness.

Fred approached the car with haste, slowly circling it the long way round, trying to see if there was any damage or not. It appeared to be fine, no dents, no broken glass, no missing tires, even the back and front of the car was untouched. The peculiar condition of the car, considering it's situation, raised some suspicions in Fred and he hesitated to go any farther. Looking back at his wife, a bit of worry in his eyes.

Martha inched forward, a wave of concern pulsing through her. He noticed, then nodded and smiled, to reassure her, at the same time reassuring himself.

He then quickly continued his investigation, until he got to the driver's side. Once around, Fred could see a figure. It was blurry and hard to see clearly because of the condensation that had built up inside, but he could tell it was male. The shadowy figure looked slumped over, with its head on the steering wheel. Worry hit Fred with a jolt, and he tapped on the window, just in case. "Hello? Do you need some help?"

When no response came, a pang of urgency coursed through Fred and he grabbed hold of the door handle, pulling open it with no hesitation.

What Fred saw then wasn't just a poor soul; it was a young, poor soul. The man, around 27 years of age Fred guessed, was pale, sweat beaded off his face and he was unmoving. The sorrowful site nearly brought tears to Fred's eyes as the thought of such a young mind and body was in such peril. He filtered his sadness into concentration though and focused. This boy was in his hands now and it was for a reason.

"Hey, kid? Kid?" Fred asked loudly, fear of the worst lingering in his mind. No response. "Kid?" He asked again, gently grabbing hold of the young man's shoulder.

Fred jumped as the young man gasped awake and leant in as the man mumbled. All he got was something about M&M's and a man named Sammy. Since Fred was hard of hearing as it was, the young man's lack of articulation didn't help.

The young man's eyes blinked awake and he slowly turned his head towards the elderly man, looking exhausted.

"Hey...you're not Sam." The young man rasped, clearly surprised and confused.

"No, I'm afraid I'm not," Fred answered, half laughing, half sorry for the kid. He was so relieved that the kid was alive and seemingly ok. "I'm Fred, and you are?"

"Uh...Dean." He answered, yawning.

"Ok, Dean," Fred started in as kind and quiet voice he could, "You wanna tell me why you're parked in the middle of the road with your car running?"

Dean gave Fred a weird look and scanned his where about. "I couldn't really tell you," Dean answered honestly.

"Did you drink? Were you at a party? Are you drunk now?" Fred shot questions at Dean, without giving him time to answer.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa gramps," Dean cut in, "I'm not drunk, I'm just..." Dean stopped mid sentence, dazing off as he tried to think of what exactly he WAS. Things were kind of fuzzy and hard to remember.

"You're high aren't you?" Fred accused, narrowing his eyes at Dean, in suspicion.

Dean blinked in shock, coming out of his trance and raised his eyebrows at Fred in surprise.

"Fredrick!" Martha snapped, coming up behind him, "Don't interrogate this poor boy. Can't you see he's been through enough already?"

"Martha? I thought I told you to stay in the truck?" Fred asked annoyed, "What if he had been a mugger?"

"Then I'd have my strong, burly husband to protect me." Martha replied sarcastically, looking at Dean with a smile.

Dean just sat in his car, looking confused back and forth at the odd couple before him.

"Hello, I'm Martha." She smiled warmly. "Don't mind my husband," She said, half laughing and waving her hand backwards at Fred.

Dean gave her a weak smile, while giving Fred an apprehensive look.

"And you?" she asked, still smiling.

"Dean," He answered faster this time, but he wasn't really looking at her. "Um, do you think you could tell me...where am I?" Dean asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You're on the 23rd west road, sweetie," Martha replied.

Dean's eyesight was focusing and un-focusing without his consent and Martha could tell he was having difficulty staying awake.

"Honey, you don't look very well," the elderly woman said, her face showing concern, "When was the last time you slept?"

"It depends on what day it is..."

"You're in the middle of the road at 20 after 2 in the morning and you haven't a CLUE where you are, or even what day it is?!" Fred interjected in alarm, "You are high, aren't you?"

"No, just-"

"Oh,stop it, Fred. Don't be rude," Martha swatted at him, cutting Dean off. "You poor boy. When did you eat last?" She asked, looking at Deans pale complexion and the scar across his forehead.

When Dean failed to reply and avoided eye contact with her, Martha gasped. "You don't know that either? Oh dear, you must be starving. Fred, we've-"

"I know, I know, Martha," Fred finished her thought.

"What? What are you going to do?" asked Dean still unfocused.

"We are church people and we can't leave you here, young man," Fred was trying to argue with Dean but his wife interrupted him.

"Why don't you come home with us? We live very near and you could rest and have a good meal. And a shower too sweetie, I'm afraid you really need that," said Martha. flushing.

"I'm fine, seriously," Dean tried to say but in that moment he was particularly dizzy so he wasn't much sure of what had come out of his mouth.

"So, you're fine? " asked Fred scratching his nose. " Okay, if you're fine, tell me where you are and what day it is?"

"I'm in Idaho and it's Monday," answered Dean defiantly.

" You're in Colorado and it's Friday," laughed Fred.

"Damn!! Sorry ma'am, " Dean said, rubbing his forehead. He was starting to feel very bad, tired, sore and dizzy.

"You're far away of being okay, kid! Come with us tonight, take a nap, eat some food and then you can go freely," offered Fred with a smile but he was really worried about this exhausted kid in front of him.

Sorry, but the last time a small town offered me some apple pie and a kind smile I almost died by a freaking scarecrow," murmured Dean trying to camouflage this sentence with a yawn. "You're very kind but I can't, really. I'm leaving now, I need to go to Seattle as soon as possible." He was feeling extremely weak and lightheaded.

Dean got out of the car to shake their hands but almost fell to the ground instead.

"I gotcha you kid" said Fred grabbing Dean by the shoulders. "You come with us".