Thanks to everyone reading this story. I really didn't expect the wonderful response. Here is the next chapter and there may be another one later.

Cindy.

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Dean had been driving around for hours desperately searching for Sam. He had checked parks, the library, alleyways and back streets. He had scoured homeless shelters, clinics, and the hospital. He lost count of how many people he had shown his one and only picture of Sam to in the hopes that someone had seen him, had seen what direction he had gone. Nobody recognized Sam. It was like he had vanished into thin air. Dean was beyond frustrated, beyond panicked. He was nearly hysterical with worry. He had scared more than a few people that he had questioned with his intense stare and the barely contained rage in his voice.

Dean was running on adrenaline now, as the breakfast he had consumed early in the morning had burned off hours ago. He gave himself no more time for food. Time was not a luxury he had at his disposal. Sam was out there somewhere, hurt, cold and all alone. Dean had put him there, and if Sam was cold and hungry, then Dean didn't feel he deserved better than what Sam had. So he continued searching, pushing himself the way he knew Sam would if the roles were reversed.

Dean decided to check out the bus depot next. It was possible that Sam had some money in his pocket that hadn't been taken. At any rate, Dean wanted to cover all the bases before heading back to the motel to meet Bobby. Five minutes later he pulled up to the bus depot where he got out of his car and headed toward the ticket booth. He walked up to the booth where a middle aged woman was counting money.

"Excuse me. Have you seen this guy around here today?" Dean asked the woman, holding Sam's picture out for her.

The woman took the picture and studied it for a moment before shaking her head and handing it back to Dean. "Sorry, I haven't seen him."

"Thanks anyway," Dean said with disappointment, turning away. He stopped, turning back around. "If you see him, will you call me at this number?" he asked, writing his number on a slip of paper and pushing it toward the woman.

"Sure thing. So, who is this kid anyway?" the woman inquired.

"He's my kid brother, and he's missing," Dean replied.

"Well, I hope you find him."

"So do I. Thanks for your help."

The woman nodded and went back to her counting. Dean turned and walked from the depot, scanning the area before heading back to the impala. He headed back to the motel, expecting Bobby to show up at any time. Sure enough, when he pulled into the parking lot he saw Bobby's beat up pickup sitting in front of his room. He pulled up alongside Bobby and got out of the car, Bobby following suit.

"Hey Bobby," Dean said as he gave Bobby a nod.

"Dean," Bobby answered.

Dean unlocked the door to his room and entered, followed closely by Bobby. He immediately sank down onto his bed, rubbing his hand over his face then up through his hair.

Bobby looked at the younger hunter with concern. Dean looked like crap and Bobby figured he had been looking for Sam all day. "So, has anyone seen Sam?" he asked the exhausted looking man.

"Nobody. Not one damn person has seen him. It's like he just walked off the face of the earth. Either he found a way out of this town, or he's d...something else happened to him," Dean said softly, his voice hitching.

"He's not dead Dean. You have to believe that. I'm sure he's just found a place to hang low for awhile, or he hitched a ride somewhere," Bobby soothed, wanting to comfort the young man who he had come to think of as his own. He felt the same way about Sam, and he felt that his 'family' was crumbling, Sam being the glue that held it all together. He was as scared as Dean, but he didn't have the added guilt weighing on his shoulders.

"Bobby, if he did catch a ride he could be anywhere. How are we going to find him?" Dean asked with desperation.

"Like I said before, Ash will call if..."

"If he sees demon signs! Yeah, I know. But that may be too late Bobby! What if Sam is too far away for us to get there in time? We have to find him before that happens," Dean shouted as he jumped up from the bed and began pacing.

"Maybe he'll call once he calms down and has had time to think," Bobby reasoned.

"He's not going to call me Bobby. I told him I hated him and that I wanted to kill him. Would you call me?"

"Sam loves you Dean, no matter what. I can't see him not calling eventually."

"Eventually will be too late Bobby!"

"Dean, we'll find Sam."

"I wish I could be so sure Bobby."

"Look, get some rest and we'll hit it again. I'll go grab us something to eat while you sleep."

"No way! I'm not wasting any time eating and sleeping."

"Dean, you're no good to Sam if you collapse. Get some rest and when you wake up we'll eat and then hit the streets."

"Bobby, I just can't help imagining Sam out there cold, hungry, hurt and alone. Why should I have the luxury of sleep and food if he's probably going without?"

"Because you need both to stay strong. For Sam."

"Right. Well, I'll sleep, but only for a few hours. And I'll eat, but in the car."

"That works for me. Now get some rest and I'll wake you in a few hours."

"No more than two hours Bobby. Promise me."

"I promise. I'll do some checking around while I'm out. We'll find him Dean."

"We better Bobby. We have to."

Bobby nodded, then slipped out the door. Dean continued pacing for a few minutes, then collapsed onto the bed and fell into a fitful sleep.

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Sam walked for what seemed like hours. The wind had picked up and the previously cold air had turned bitter. He had tried to find another ride but had no luck. His mission now was to find someplace to get out of the weather. Snow had started to fall, and the wind whipped the flakes at Sam, stinging his bare face. He had no hat or gloves and knew he needed to find some sort of shelter before he got frostbite.

Sam finally found an abandoned house, the windows boarded up and a padlock on the gate. He scaled the chainlink fence and found a loose board on a basement window, which he pulled off the window frame with his numb fingers. He pushed the cracked window open and squeezed through the barely big enough opening, falling to the basement floor with a loud thud. He grabbed his already sore ribs and lay on the cold cement floor, slightly rocking from side to side. When the pain that had erupted in his ribs from the drop to the floor subsided, he pushed himself up and began searching for the stairs that would lead him up to the street level of the house.

He quickly found the stairs and carefully made his way up, testing each step before putting his full weight on them. When he reached the top of the stairs, he pushed open the door and entered into what used to be the kitchen. All of the appliances were gone and the only thing that remained other than garbage was one lone kitchen chair. The smell of rotten garbage invaded Sam's nose, and he had to put his hand over it to try and block out some of the odor. He could hear scratching and scuttling noises and hoped it was mice and not rats. He really hated rats.

He shuffled across the garbage strewn room and through another door into what he guessed was the livingroom. It wasn't much cleaner than the kitchen, but it didn't smell quite as bad. Although it was fairly light outside, the boarded up windows gave the appearance of nighttime in the small room.

Sam was able to make out the shape of a couch against the far, white wall and carefully made his way over to it. It was broken down and smelled bad, but Sam was exhausted and it was definitely better than the floor, so he slowly lowered himself down onto the sagging cushions. He pulled his coat tightly around his body and curled himself into a ball, trying to conserve as much warmth as possible. It was cold in the house, but not as cold as it was outside. He lowered his head into the crook of his arm and slowly drifted off into an exhausted sleep. It wasn't long before he began to moan and whimper, his face scrunched, looking anything but peaceful.

"Run Sam! Run! Save yourself!" the voices screamed in unison. Sam was once again in the fog covered clearing, trying desperately to find the origin of the voices. He jerked his head left to right, but the voices seemed to be coming from every direction. There were both men's and women's voices and they all shared the same panic filled tones. They were telling him to run, but he couldn't move. Suddenly he was in the empty room again, pressed against the wall, his arms outstretched from his sides, his palms facing outward.

The dark figure appeared again if front of him, his red eyes glowing maliciously.

"You are the saint Samuel, and you must die as the One did," it hissed, it's evil breath turning Sam's stomach.

A spike flew from nowhere and impaled Sam's right hand to the wall. Another one followed and impaled his left hand. Sam screamed, and this time the scream filled his head, it was so deafening. The red eyed man pushed the ring of thorns over Sam's head, tearing skin as the sharp thorns dug in. Sam's screaming stopped and was replaced with quick gasps. The man tore Sam's shirt from his body and the spear pierced his side. A scream was ripped from Sam's throat and he kept screaming and screaming....

Sam jerked awake, sweating and panting, bile rising up in his throat. He swallowed it down and pulled his hands up to his face. He could swear he saw dark spots in the center of his palms. He reached one shaking hand up to his forehead and felt a warm stickiness. His side was on fire and he could feel wetness there also. He wrapped his arms tightly around his body, shivering uncontrollably. "What's happening to me?" he wondered through a pain filled haze.

He squeezed his eyes shut, taking deep breaths to try and calm himself. Dean had always been able to calm him down no matter how upset or hurt he was. But Dean wasn't here.

"I'm so sorry Dean. Please, I need you. Please Dean, please forgive me," he whispered softly before falling back into a fitful sleep.

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There it is. Things definitely are not looking good for Sam, the poor guy. At least he's out of the wind. Well, please let me know what you think.

Cindy