Disclaimer: These boys still aren't mine. Neither is Bobby. But if any of them want a home I have a spare room.
A/N: So, it turns out this story wasn't complete after all. It doesn't want to leave me alone and even though I have other stuff on the go this is the one that's grabbing all my attention at the moment.
Day One
Sam waits patiently outside the library for Dean to come pick him up. He's been in there just under an hour and he's found all he can on Felicity Bell. She's been causing quite some trouble since her death and Sam thinks he's found the reason. All he needs now is for Dean to arrive.
After another half hour he starts to get restless. It's not like his brother to be this late without calling. He pulls out his own phone and scrolls down, hitting the call button when he gets to the right place. He listens to the ringing down the line and knows before it happens that he's just going to get Dean's voicemail. He leaves a terse message, he's getting cold after all, and Dean knows how precious time is.
An hour later and Sam has paced up and down the same 20 yards of the sidewalk, left another three messages and is now beginning to seriously worry. He knows Dean's easily distracted by a pretty face and short skirt but he's never left Sam hanging this long without at least a text message or an obscene rundown of his afternoon so far. The motel is too far to walk but Sam remembers it being on a bus route. He can't remember the last time he had to resort to public transport but his need to be doing something is overwhelming.
The bus isn't as bad as he was expecting. He manages to get a seat to himself, by the window, and spends the whole 25 minute journey scouring the street for his errant brother. By the time he reaches his destination his heart is heavy and dread sits in the pit of his stomach like a lead balloon. The Impala is where he last saw it, in the parking lot, engine cold to the touch and the door to their room is swinging in the wind.
Sam has his gun out without realising he's doing it. Nudging the door open he casts his eyes over the room before taking the step he's dreading. He wants to find his brother, but at the same time he doesn't want him to be here in this room. The furniture is strewn across the room and once Sam is satisfied there's nothing in there, he steps over the threshold, heart in mouth, desperately hoping this is some sick joke of Dean's but knowing his brother would never be this cruel.
Dean's duffel is on the bed where he threw it carelessly this morning after his shower, clothes spilling out of it. The paper he was reading is still on the table but that's where normalcy ends. The chairs are lying on their sides or on their backs, the stock motel artwork is hanging on to the wall by a thread, Dean's gun is on the floor at the foot of the bathroom door and just below the window is blood.
Dean's blood.
Sam doesn't know how he knows, he just does. And there's too much there for his liking.
*****
Any minute now, Dean thinks with a smile hovering on the edge of his lips, Sam is going to get really pissed that he's not there. He didn't mean to get held up at the diner but the waitress –Karen, Carol, Kirsty, something like that – was just too enticing. It would have been rude to walk away from her comely charms.
He jangles the keys to the room in his left hand, reflecting that Sammy has a lot to learn when it comes to priorities. An afternoon in a stuffy library, or an afternoon spent in the pursuit of fun. He's lost in thought when it happens. Just as he slips the key into the lock, he hears a heavy footstep behind him. It's a motel though, so he doesn't think much of it as he opens the door.
He should have paid more attention.
A hand between his shoulder blades, one sharp thrust and he's propelled over the threshold, losing any companionship with balance as he goes. But Dad trained him well and he rolls with the fall, pulling his gun from the small of his back and pointing it in front of him before his eyes have the chance to focus on his enemy.
Unfortunately, his assailant is way ahead of him. A foot connects painfully with his wrist and the gun goes flying, it's passage halted by the bathroom door. Resisting the impulse to pull his hand in to his body, biting down a cry of pain as white hot daggers shoot up his arm, Dean rolls over and scrambles towards the weapon. He's nearly there when a large hand wraps itself around his ankle and tugs, just once, and he crashes to the floor.
Absurdly, he wonders when the carpet was last deep cleaned, as he's dragged back towards the door. He kicks out with his free leg but it's to no avail. Belatedly he realises there's more than one person in the room with him and he's willing to bet there's an unnatural strength in that hand gripping on to him. Another hand grabs his wildly flailing leg and twists it painfully. Dean sees spots at the edge of his vision and relaxes his struggles.
He has no idea what's going on and he doesn't intend to find out. He lets his body go limp, pretends to lose consciousness and has to grit his teeth against the agony in his left knee as the twist becomes more pronounced. For a minute it looks like his ruse has worked and both his legs are released, flopping to the floor like a rubber chicken.
He knows this may be his last chance to get away. He rolls on to his back as quickly as he can, drawing his knees up to his chest and thrusting his feet forwards until he makes contact with a broad chest and hears a satisfying 'oof' as the man before him stumbles back a couple of feet. Not waiting for the next move, Dean gains his feet and, dismissing the door as an exit, makes his way falteringly to the window.
He's nearly there when he hears the distinctive sound of a shotgun being cocked. He thinks his time is up and thoughts of Sam fill his head, things he meant to tell him but never got the chance, regret that Sam will be the one to find him, bloody and dismembered in this crappy little motel room in the middle of nowhere. It's not the most dignified exit for a hunter but in the grand scheme of things, he doesn't think it matters.
He hears the explosion of gunshot, waits for the pellets to hit him, waits for the ringing in his ears to stop and then realises there was never any intention to hit him. They want to scare him. But it takes more than that to scare Dean Winchester and he can't help but laugh silently to himself.
Unfortunately, while he was distracted with his supposed dying thoughts, his assailants have gained ground on him and the next thing he knows is the pain of the shotgun barrel connecting with the small of his back, bringing him to his knees, followed by a booted foot connecting with the side of his head, splitting open a gash along his hair line. Head wounds bleed like a bitch and that's going to leave a stain he thinks absently, as his fight with consciousness ends in defeat.
*****
Sam sinks down on Dean's bed, dropping his head into his hands. He knows now why his brother didn't make it to the library. Suddenly Felicity Bell pales into insignificance. There was a fight here and from his research, that's not her style. Dean is gone, taken by force, stolen away from him and he needs to get him back. All other thoughts flee his mind. Sam Winchester is determined to find his brother, to wreak vengeance upon his captors, to kill anyone and anything that gets in his way.
He breathes deeply, an exercise Jess taught him to relax before exams. Although there's no comparison between the two situations, he finds it calms him down enough to think relatively straight, for a while at least.
He knows Dean would have put up one hell of a fight and the state of the room is evidence of that. He also knows he needs to clean this up. One nosey chambermaid and he's done for. One suspicious neighbour and one well meaning call to the cops and he'll never get the chance to find Dean. He considers hightailing it out of there but in the back of his mind he thinks Dean might make his own way back and if Sam is gone… well, it doesn't bear thinking about.
He sets about straightening the room as best he can, as best as he can be bothered, mind whirring 100 mph, rifling through his internal catalogue of enemies, of the ones that got away. He's not stupid. He knows they've both made mistakes, costly mistakes at times, and it's just possible one of Dean's just came back to bite him on the ass.
He finds nothing in the wreckage of the room to indicate where his brother might have been taken and he realises, in despair, he can't do this alone. He picks up his phone, scrolls through the few names left in his contact list and hits the call button.
"Bobby?" he nearly cries down the line, "I lost Dean."