Disclaimer: I do not own the Winchesters, or Bobby, or anything else you might recognise.

Day Two

Bobby drives through the night to get to Sam. He's heard that tone of voice from a Winchester before and it never ends well. Those boys are like his own and he'd give his life for either one of them. He hopes it won't be necessary but Sam's call tore into him in a way he didn't think possible.

He gets to the motel just after dawn, spotting the Impala gleaming in the crisp winter sunlight. He thinks it ironic the weather is smiling when everything else is going to hell in a handcart. He hesitates just outside the door, hand raised to knock. Sam must have seen him coming though, as the door swings open and Sam is standing there, a half smile on his face.

"Hey, Bobby."

Sam looks exhausted and Bobby knows he hasn't slept at all. He'll be no good to Dean in this state and Bobby thinks he might have to pull the fatherly concern card. If the tables were turned, if Dean were standing in front of him he could just issue an order, Dean would never disobey, but Sam? He never really understood the chain of command. And Bobby doesn't think now is the time to start that lesson. His brother is missing and, by the looks of him, Sam is ready to kill something, anything.

Pleasantries are dispensed with, they know each other too well to waste time on formalities. Dean's life is at stake here and neither of them is willing to jeopardise it more than they have to. Sam's distraught call last night told Bobby everything he needs to know and that look on the boy's face now? That fills in any gaps.

Bobby's tired though. He's been in this game longer than Sam and he knows a tired hunter is a compromised hunter. He knows it's going to kill Sam but they really need to take a timeout. The longer they stay awake, the less effective they're going to be and the longer it's going to take to find Dean.

And they will find Dean.

*****

Dean thinks his eyes are open. It's hard to tell in this gloom. He tries to wave a hand in front of his face, just to check, but he can't. They're tightly bound behind his back. So tightly that when he tries to wiggle his fingers all that happens is the tendons in his wrists press against the cord, which cuts into his skin.

His head is throbbing but that's to be expected, he muses, as he tries to work out what happened. He knows there was a fight and he knows he lost. He's uncharacteristically accepting of that little fact. Not only was he outnumbered, he thinks he was outstrengthed. Then he wonders if that's even a word. Sammy would know. He must remember to ask him when he gets out of this little bind he finds himself in.

There's a nausea in the pit of his stomach he doesn't think is entirely down to the head injury. He knows a concussion when he feels one, he's had enough of them in his time, and this feels different somehow. Slowly he becomes aware of a dull ache in the crook of his elbow that wasn't there before.

Just as he begins to catalogue his injuries – the headache, the nausea, the dancing spots on the edge of his vision, the irritating buzzing in his ears – there's a soft scraping sound somewhere down by his feet. He instinctively brings his knees up to his chest, thankful that he's lying on his side whilst trying not to think of what else might be on the floor with him.

His movement seems to have startled whatever was making the noise into silence and he releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. He adds bruised ribs to his mental list. Trying to relax, he pushes his feet to the floor, shoving his body along the floor. He suspects he looks ridiculous but nobody's watching, or at least he hopes nobody's watching.

He's dismayed to find his head connecting with a wall after only a couple of inches. Closing his eyes he stretches his feet out as far as he can, halting when his ribs scream in protest and he can't help the sharp intake of breath. The scrabbling sound has started up again and in the darkness he has no idea what it is.

If Sam were here, Dean muses, he would know. He'd be able to give Dean a lecture on all the creatures, both natural and supernatural, that make dark, damp environments their home. Dean wishes with everything he has that Sam was here with him. Because then he might stand a chance of getting out of here in one piece.

He doesn't know when he became such a pessimist. Maybe it's the binding around his wrists, maybe it's the disorientation the darkness brings, maybe it's the blinding headache and the sickness. Whatever it is, Dean can feel himself teetering on despair and it's not a place he likes. He closes his eyes and tries to transport himself to his happy place. Only problem is, he thinks after a minute or two, he doesn't have a happy place. Hasn't really had one since he was four years old.

The scrabbling sounds louder now, and closer. Dean curls in on himself, feeling helpless and vulnerable. He feels tugging on the hem of his jeans and instinctively kicks out. There's a shrill squeak as his foot connects with something soft. He hears it land and then the scrabbling sounds again. More tugs at his jeans and suddenly, without warning, a sharp nip at his ankle has him jerking his leg up to his chest again.

But the first nip is followed by a second, and then a third and then it seems that Dean is the main course for a thousand tiny teeth, pulling and gnawing through his clothing to rip the tender flesh at both ankles. The brush of course hair on his shin gives the game away. He's sharing his space with rats. A thousand rats. A thousand, hungry rats.

Right now, his life sucks.

*****

It's hard work, but eventually Sam concedes Bobby's point. After half an hour of tossing and turning he finally falls asleep. It's not a restful sleep, images of his brother – bloody, screaming, dead – fill his dreams, taunting him. He wakes full of renewed determination.

Bobby is lying on Dean's bed and for one, irrational moment, Sam thinks his brother is back, that it's all been a nightmare. But then Bobby grunts and the spell is broken, bringing Sam back to reality with a crash.

He knows the older hunter needs to rest, to recover from his long drive, but the urge to start looking for Dean is overwhelming. Every second spent in this crappy motel room is a second he could be using to find the missing man. He begins to move around the room, shuffling papers, closing doors none too gently, trying to coax Bobby back to wakefulness without physically waking him.

Just as Sam is about to give up and throw a glass of cold water over Bobby, he stirs, rolling over onto his back and stretching his arms above his head. He peers blearily through small eyes at Sam. Sam holds the water out to Bobby with an apologetic smile on his face. He hopes Bobby doesn't realise what he was about to do.

By the time they've got coffee in their hands, Sam is ready to explode with impatience. He can't bear this inactivity. He knows Dean would have scoured the whole town, hell the whole state, by now if he were the one missing. Bobby's all for taking it slow, making sure of their facts before running off half cocked into a potentially deadly situation.

Sam's never been one to sit by meekly if he disagrees with something. The harsh words exchanged between the two hide their mutual concern for the older brother. Eventually Bobby suggests tracing Sam and Dean's movements from the day before. Sam can't see the point but, as Bobby, points out, he didn't spend the whole day with Dean, and who knows what that boy managed to get up to while he was alone?

It's not Sam's chosen course of action, but it's action and that's what he needs right now. He'll do anything to bring him one step closer to finding Dean, so he agrees.