A/N: Heartfelt thanks to supernatfem76, Katharra, Dali2theLlamasquared, and MdarKspIrIt for taking the time to leave me a review. I was nervous and knowing there was somebody out there who was interested kept me going. Thanks!
Jim's insisting that Dean tell him what happened.
Dean's been trying to avoid this conversation, not wanting to talk or even think about it again, but Jim's getting impatient and, like it or not, the old man's right; he's not likely to be any help to Dean or Sam if he doesn't know what's going on.
"From the beginning," the Pastor urges, so Dean takes a deep breath and begins.
Sam isn't answering his phone. Dean's ticked because he always answers his phone, and even when he doesn't answer it, he calls right back.
To a normal person, a missed phone call would be a mild irritation - an inconvience. In their line of work, a missed phone call could have dire consequences. The Winchesters had more enemies than they could count – a missed call could be a loved one in trouble, a cry for help from a victim, another hunter in need, a lead on a case. Hell, it could even be Dad.
Their lives are just too dangerous for missed phone calls, and Dean's counting how many ways he can kick his brother's ass when he sees the sign for Deborah's Corner Inn down the block.
The little motel isn't exactly the cream of the crop for a New Orleans suburb, but being so far outside the city limits and across the Causeway has its perks. The fact that it's clean, comfortable and dirt cheap more than make up for the fact that they have to drive forty-five minutes and over twenty five miles of water just to get dinner.
Dean's thinking about Sam, how he insisted on staying in the room to finish their research, and Dean hadn't felt the need to argue. His brother's been quiet since the skinwalker incident; not the angry, bottled-up Sam he's grown used to over the miles. This Sam listens to Dean talk, nods when necessary, provides the usual one-word answers to any questions thrown his way, but otherwise remains distant.
It isn't unlike Sam - the moodiness, the brooding. But what is unlike Sam is not answering his phone, and Dean knows there's something wrong the minute he pulls into the parking lot.
Maybe it's his hunter's perception, or maybe he's channeling his inner Winchester-worse-case-scenario, but Dean takes in the entire lot, his trained eyes noting everything.
There's a fire extinguisher lying haphazardly by the soda machine, several feet away from a dark oil stain that can't be an oil stain because there's no way a car is fitting in that small of a space. The door to their room is ajar – Sam knows better than to leave it open – and there's a boot-shaped scuffmark in the paint that wasn't there before.
Dean doesn't even bother pulling into a parking spot. The car's barely in Park when he thrusts open the door and jumps onto the pavement, all but tearing inside.
Panic kills. His dad taught him that, taught him that panic dominates and replaces clear thinking, thereby hindering a man's ability to act quickly and efficiently. He knows not to panic, knows how and why he should fight it back when it threatens to consume him, but the room is empty and Sam's phone is on the nightstand and world is just so damn silent all of a sudden.
The room's no more of a mess than usual, which really doesn't make sense. The laptop is still out, sitting open on the table, a handful of wadded receipts and change and pocket lint on the nightstand. Their duffle bags are still against the wall and the TV is still on, but it's evident someone's been there; the bathroom and closet doors are open, the shower curtain is pulled back, cabinets exposed, the bed skirt lifted. Someone was searching for something.
And Sam is gone.
Dean remembers the misplaced oil stain and retreats outside. It's not a far walk; they're only a handful of doors down from the soda machine.
The first thing he sees is the fire extinguisher lying next to the stairs. It's scuffed at the bottom and there's a scrape in the pavement that tells him where it was dropped before rolling to its current location.
The soda machine is one of the older models; the giant square box kind that, back in the day, only charged fifty cents and you could never get it to take your dollar bill if the corners were bent. The light next to the change slot is red and there's a quarter on the ground in front of it.
He's not sure at first why he does it, but he picks the quarter up and drops it in the coin slot. The appliance grumbles and the little red light turns to green. He doesn't even look at the selection, just presses the first button he sees.
A root beer tumbles out but Dean's already moving. He doesn't like the scuffed up fire extinguisher and he doesn't like the unfinished soda transaction. He's connecting the dots as he bends to inspect the oil.
It's not oil.
It's dark and coagulated and…and red.
His legs give and oxygen vanishes and he's on his knees before he can speak the conclusion his mind's already come to.
Someone is roaring, "Sammy!" but it's not him because he can't breathe through the suffocating fear that drives him to heave to his feet and charge toward the room.
"Sammy?" There's that voice again, and this time he notes that his lips are moving, but it just doesn't sound like his voice. It's too desperate, too choked.
Standing in the middle of the room isn't helping. He whirls, grabbing Sam's cell from the nightstand, and dials the first number that comes to his mind.
Dad.
It doesn't even ring. His father's voicemail has never been more infuriating.
Dean's fist makes several considerable dents in the wall, and it isn't the first time he finds himself wishing it's John Winchester's jaw in his line of fire.
Ignoring his now throbbing hand, Dean drops onto the bed. Plaster and blood line his knuckles and for a fleeting moment he thinks about what the maid will say when she sees the new room décor.
His mind is whirling and there's no time to rest, but he's got to stop and think. He should call the cops, get Sam's picture on every police station wall and his description on every badge's tongue. He should get them to come here, look into this mess, hell - take fingerprints.
But cops don't deal with the things he and his brother deal with. And thanks to a friggin' skinwalker, Dean's supposed to be a dead man. He can call the cops, play the anonymous card, but then what? Get another hotel room? Hide in a friggin' hole until a bunch of under-trained amateurs find Sam? None of his aliases will hold up in a background check and Dean is so not going to sit down and twiddle his thumbs while somebody else looks for his brother.
No, the police will just get in his way. They won't even know what to look for. He's got to call someone he knows. Someone he can trust.
Sam's phone is cold against his ear.
"Hello."
"Jim? It's Dean."
"Dean?"
The voice is familiar and to hear it is a relief so physical it's almost painful, but Dean's mouth feels dry, stuffed with cotton, and his words catch in his throat. Where to even begin? "I'm sorry. I just…I can't find dad and I didn't know who else to call…"
Jim tells him to slow down, asks him what's wrong. His answer tumbles out in a flurry of information and curses. He's seething by the end of the conversation, but Jim is flying in tonight and if Dean hurries he can get out of there before Miss Deborah herself notices something's fishy and gets the cops involved.
"…New Orleans? …Isn't that where you and your daddy…?"
Holy…
The realization hits him like a punch to the gut and he can't believe he missed it.
There was no EMF, no sulfur, yet the door had physically been kicked down and every place where a full-grown man would be capable of hiding was exposed.
They were looking for someone. For Dean.
They were looking for Dean and they took Sam.
He remembers later that the curses to follow were probably a bit inappropriate to say in front of a clergyman.
Jim says its all right, tells Dean he should calm down, but Dean's freaked and it's easy to say what someone should do when they're no you.
Then Jim reiterates he's not far and he'll catch the first flight out. Jim disconnects, Dean doesn't even say goodbye, and several long minutes pass before he lowers the phone. His hand is still shaking and his ear hurts from the pressure.
Anxious and impatient, he finally stands. The room is suffocating, getting smaller, and he has to move, has to get out. His keys are in his hand and he's back in his car before Jim has the opportunity to call back with his flight information.
Later, Dean drives to the airport with the windows up so that no one will hear his shouts. And if the lady in the Escort next to him sees him punching the steering wheel, so be it. He's got to get his anger out now, so that when he picks up the Pastor he'll be cool, professional, and they can figure out how to find Sam together.
It's impotent rage, he knows, and to be honest, his fury even scares himself, but more worrisome is that he doesn't care in the least. Somebody has taken Sam, and when he finds them, Dean's rage will be the least of their problems.
Pain brings him to as something sharp stings his face.
Sam groans. The blow does it's work, violently jarring him to wakefulness. He jerks upright, his first instinct to lash out, to fight back, before someone slaps him hard enough to knock him back down again, dizzy, out of breath, and almost nauseated with pain.
"Hey!" Another slap, this one wrenching his head to the side. "You with us?"
Sam grits his teeth through the pain and waits for the room to complete its impromptu loop-the-loop before – slowly - turning his head back. No good. Vertigo's a bitch, even the tiniest movements make his head pound agonizingly and, despite himself, he lets out a pained gasp.
A large, unfamiliar hand grasps his shoulder and gives a brief squeeze. "Easy does it, kid. We just wanna talk."
Talk?
His vision is blurry, black at the edges, but he can vaguely make out the figure looming over him. At least six foot tall, long limbed, broad shouldered, a stance he doesn't recognize…
"Who are you?" he slurs. And, just because he's sure he won't get an answer, "What do you want with me?"
"Just full of questions tonight, aren't you Sam."
The name rolls casually off his tongue, buddy-to-buddy like.
His name.
Oh Crap. They know his name.
"Nice of you to finally join us. How's your brother?"
It takes a second for the question to sink in. Brother? How the heck do they know he has a brother? And how do they know who he is? He's sure he has never seen any of them before, not that his vision is clear enough yet to get the details, but even their voices aren't familiar. He wants to ask again, to demand who they are, what they want, but the way the speaker said the word brother immediately sets Sam's hackles rising. It's a small detail, something he probably shouldn't even have noticed, but Sam does and his confusion skyrockets. "What?"
"Your brother, Winchester, where is he?"
There it is. The brother, again. Something in his tone, the way he says it, sets off warning bells in the back of his mind and Sam's unease intensifies.
Whatever this is, it isn't about him, he realizes.
Dean.
His brother.
His brother Dean and Oh god…It's about Dean.
There's nothing like a little panic to clear up a head full of confusion.
They're after his brother.
The snippets of conversation he'd heard earlier suddenly make a whole lot more sense and for Sam, some of the pieces fall into place. He hadn't been randomly abducted. They had known about them; had known exactly where he and Dean were and when to come after them. It had just been chance that his brother had not been there when they struck.
Right then, he decides that he doesn't have a brother. And Sam Winchester definitely isn't his name.
"The name's Vallis," the speaker continues. "Your brother and me, we go way back. Met up 'bout four-five years ago. Lost contact, ya know? Been lookin' for him ever since."
Sam swallows, his throat suddenly tight. That doesn't sound good. The words were innocent enough, but innocent would have been a phone call or a polite knock on their motel door - Hey, have you seen your brother? After having been knocked out and dragged to god-knows-where, innocent just doesn't cover it.
Someone looking for Dean that way can't be a good thing, and four years is a very long time to hold a grudge. There's no telling what Dean could have done to tick these people off. It wasn't like their family won popularity contests wherever they went. Showing up in town right as trouble's starting and then leaving when it's over, people tend to make their own connections. Whatever the cause, Sam hadn't been around to witness it. Four years ago he'd been sitting in class at Stanford, and Dean had been on the road hunting on and off with dad.
Unfortunately, if Dean had deemed it unnecessary to mention, it probably meant it was serious enough for him to want to keep secret from his brother. Sam can't imagine people gunning for his family to be such a small affair that he simply forgot to mention it.
Vallis is still talking, pacing the room and addressing Sam as if he were his company, not his captive. It would have been amusing, that is, if Sam hadn't been the one tied to a chair.
"I was hopin' you could help me find him. You know where he is?"
For a moment, Sam considers smarting off, but that would probably be a dead give-away that he shares blood with the man they're after. So he puts on his best confused-face and settles for playing dumb. "Excuse me?"
"Your brother, Winchester. Where is he?"
Sam blanks his face, betraying no signs of surprise or recognition. He's determined to reveal nothing. Four years ago he'd been at Stanford, so he's banking on that these guys have never seen him before. "Buddy, I have no idea what you're talking about."
Without warning, Vallis's fist comes out of nowhere, slamming Sam in the jaw. Sam reels in surprise, chair tipping slightly from the impact. Blood spills from his lip, decorating his already ruined and sweat-soaked shirt.
"I'm sorry, that wasn't the answer I was looking for," Vallis says pleasantly.
"Answer the question. Please."
"I did! I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
Another punch, and now his nose matches his lip.
"I don't even have a brother!" It's a slur because half his face now feels numb.
Eyes, cold and calculating, fix him with a heavy stare. Sam braces himself for another punch, but it never comes. Instead, Vallis turns his chin and orders over his shoulder, "Stand him up."
Sam is pulled to his feet and made to stand. A clatter tells him the chair is kicked away.
Oh crap.
Vallis spreads his arms in a what-can-you-do? manner, a friendly gesture that was all the more dangerous for it's casualness.
"I gotta tell you, it'll be a lot more satisfyin' payin' your brother what I owe him personally, but if I have to pay him through you, I can do that too."
Sam doesn't respond, just tenses, preparing himself for what he knows is coming, but he doesn't have to answer, because someone else does it for him.
"Boss," a new voice cuts in. Sam can't see the new arrival, but Vallis has stopped his advance for the moment so he sags in the arms of his captors and listens.
"Foz just called," the newcomer's rushed voice is thick with implication. "Said somebody broke in and roughed him up. Somebody lookin' for you."
"Who was it?"
"He didn't know, but he said the guy told him he was gonna go lookin' for Maggi next."
"The weasel," Vallis sneers. "I'll kill him if anything happens to her."
"You think Foz talked?" Gruff asks.
Vallis turns back to them. "I know he did. Tex, Kid, take this guy down to the basement. Make sure he keeps quiet. Shrivey, call Mags. Go pick her up if you have to. I want her here in hour."
"What about Foz?"
"We'll worry about Foz after I get Winchester."