Dean's frustration meter was pegging toward overload. Every route that he and Bobby had explored had come up a dead end, and ARC Mobile was the first disappointment. When Dean called to trace Sam's phone, there was no signal at all. According to the horrid woman on the other end of the line, whom Dean had fantasized about salting and burning a mere 10 minutes into the conversation, this revelation most likely meant that the phone had been destroyed. And when Bobby began calling in favors down the line, no one had run across a 17-year-old hunter who carried only a machete, a small hunting knife, and a slick .45. Bobby left strict orders that should anyone encounter Sam in the course of a hunt, he was to get an immediate heads up. But so far – no one had called in.

Dean had an old flame who still worked at the DMV check to see what she could bring up on a blue Mustang registered to Sam Jovani, but all that turned up was Sam's old address in Kankakee. Dean cursed his luck at Sammy's safe driving skills. After all, a speeding ticket or a parking violation would have given the two hunters a solid place to start. But no – Sammy had to be just as meticulous behind the wheel as Dean was impulsive. Bobby even had an in with the Social Security Administration and had an old hunting buddy run Sam's fake social for a current work address. But the last job on Sam's work history was the bar in Elwood. Whoever Sam had worked for in this town had paid him under the table.

It was these dead ends that brought the two to the town square in Kankakee, Illinois on a sweltering day in July.

"Damn, could it be any hotter?" Dean complained, pulling up to the last address he had for Sam and killing the engine.

"I don't see how." Bobby pulled off his hat and wiped the sweat away with a handkerchief. "Feels like the damn bowels of Hell."

Dean looked around at the red, white, and blue bunting that smothered seemingly every porch railing and at the hustle of happy families as they moved to gather near the grand pavilion that took up a large portion of the town square. "I don't think I've ever seen so many casserole dishes together in one place." He noted.

Bobby glanced out his window at a family of five – all dressed alike in matching flag motif. "These people really revel in their independence." He nodded toward the spectacle.

"Dean looked and flinched. "Oh, now they're just bragging." He agreed.

"That should be Sam's old building right there," He nodded toward a run-down brick disaster. "So, we just hit all the restaurants near here, I guess?"

"You start there." Bobby directed. "I'll go look up the old landlord. That's if we can find anyone to talk to in this madness. Maybe Sam left a forwarding address. You never know."

"Like it could be that easy." Dean snorted.

"Right." Bobby agreed. "We are dealing with a Winchester, after all. What was I thinking?"

Dean chuckled, "Right, again."

"You got the picture?"

"Yeah." Dean handed Bobby the flyer he'd had printed that featured Sam's most recent photo. It was a solid year out of date, but it was all they had. It was Sam's school photo from his junior year of high school in Virginia. Sam looked all of 15 years old. Beneath Sam's photo was simply the word, "Missing," followed by Dean's phone number. While Bobby had encouraged Dean to report Sam missing officially, Dean hadn't yet been able to bring himself to do it. Fake ID or not, Sam was still technically a minor. Dean didn't want to rock the legal boat where his little brother was concerned. Sam seemed to be making it okay out here on his own, and Dean didn't want to be responsible for tearing him away from a good life he'd created only to trap him in the nightmare of Child Protective Services. Maybe later, if Dean couldn't locate him on his own, he'd bring the police in, but only as a last resort.

Bobby took the photo, studying it. "Nobody's going to recognize him from this." He complained. "Who'd give a job or an apartment to this kid who looks like he's 12?"

"Yeah, well, it's all we have. So get on it, old man."

"Bite me, Dean." Bobby growled, struggling out of the Impala. "Need a damned can opener to get out of this thing." He pulled his hat back on and headed toward the apartment building.

"You leave Baby out of this!" Dean called indignantly behind him.

As Bobby headed off on his mission, Dean unfolded himself regretfully from the car and took a moment to pull his drenched tee shirt away from his sweating body. It felt like a blast furnace outside the vehicle, and Dean would never understand how anybody would willingly congregate outside in these temperatures – holiday or not. Fireworks after dark he could see. In fact, one of his best memories involved him and Sammy and fireworks one Fourth of July long ago. But just the thought of a community picnic under a blazing sun and filled with an assortment of hot dishes made him feel slightly nauseous. The whole damned town smelled like fried chicken, and Dean could feel his stomach beginning to churn. He needed an icy beer and a dark bar in the worst sort of way.

The first item on Dean's list, however, was a vegan sort of café right across the street from Sam's old apartment, and Dean noticed at least one teenage-type person waiting tables. He could just see the place drawing Sam in like a fly on honey. He crossed the street, avoiding the crush of Middle America heading in the other direction, and slapped the glass door open. Inside, it was positively frigid, and Dean stood still for a moment, basking in the sudden change in temperature.

"Hi!" A chirpy 20-something greeted him from behind the register.

Dean nodded and moved to take a seat at the juice bar. "Give me whatever is cold and wet." He ordered, taking a cursory glance at the overhead menu. Most of the offerings were combinations he'd never heard of, and he crossed his fingers that his drink would be minus the sea grass and algae crap.

"Here you go." She sat the glass in front of him with a smile. "You look like an apple-orange kind of guy."

"Apple-orange is perfect." Dean winked, relieved, and took a long draw on his straw. It was actually good, and he vowed to start paying more attention to Sam when he rambled on about this juice and bean curd stuff.

"So," Dean leaned in and flashed his brightest smile. "I'm looking for my brother. Maybe you can help me?"

"Sure," the girl shrugged.

"Tall guy, messy hair, lived across the street a few months back? Drove an old blue Mustang?"

"You mean Sam?"

Dean choked on his straw. "Yeah! Sam. You know him?"

"Not like know, know him. But I knew who he was. He rented a room from my aunt."

"The room across the street?" Dean asked, and she nodded. "You seen him lately?"

The girl twisted her hair, thinking. "I think the last time was a while ago. I think he left town in a hurry if you know what I mean."

Dean shook his head. "No, I don't."

"Some guys had beat him up. They were looking for him. He stopped in here to leave my aunt the rest of the rent money he owed her. I think he was afraid to go back to his apartment."

"Did he say why people were after him?"

She shook her head. "Sorry."

"Say where he was going, maybe?"

"Not to me."

Dean rose and tossed a few bills on the counter. "So his apartment … his stuff still there, you think?"

The girl nodded. "Aunt Jamie hasn't rented it out again yet. I think everything is in boxes now, but it's still up there. You taking it with you?"

"Not sure. Maybe." Dean winked. "Thanks for the info." He braced himself for the heat and shot out the door.

He had only just crossed the street when he heard Bobby calling to him. Dean looked up to see the older hunter leaning out a window on the third floor of the ancient brick monstrosity. "Up here," he motioned.

Dean took the steps two at a time, trying not to notice the smell and the size of the roaches that scattered in his wake. On the second floor landing, someone had vomited – several days ago by the look of things – and Dean's apple-orange drink suddenly struggled to claw its way back up and out.

By the time he reached the third floor hallway, his eyes were tearing. "Damn, Bobby." He gasped out, making his way to his old friend around an ancient mattress that leaned halfway against the wall. His boot caught a corner of the tattered material and dislodged a small mountain of used syringes that had been stuffed inside the springs.

"I know." Bobby said, standing in the doorway of Sam's old apartment. There was no landlady in sight, which was probably fortunate for her, Dean thought. He'd have been hard pressed not to tell her what he thought of her housekeeping skills.

Bobby clapped Dean on the shoulder as he approached and stepped aside to let the boy enter the room that had sheltered his brother not so very long ago.

Dean stopped in surprise. The difference between the hallway and the bright, tiny apartment was like night and day. The room smelled of lemon cleaner with a faint lingering trace of body wash. There were bright, white blinds at each window, and the floor was swept clean. Aside from the worn furniture that had obviously come with the place, the only other object in the room was a pathetically small stack of boxes piled alongside one wall. Dean squatted down in front of the first box and gently dislodged the flaps, peering inside.

The tears came fast and hard then, and Dean didn't even try to stop them.