Disclaimer: I own nothing, but I'd share it if I did. Wanna go halfsies?

Author's Note: I just can't stop working on this story! It's going to get me into trouble—I have 2k words to edit before today's Writer Alliance meeting…and I need to iron my cape as well….Please remember to review, if you can take the time. I always love knowing if the story is tickling your fancy.

Bobby and Sam sat silently across the table from each other. They were far past the need for some serious rest, a half empty bottle of Wild Turkey stood between them.

They were rounding down to sunrise; books, maps, talking boards, even a scrying bowl, were scattered all the way from Bobby's desk into the kitchen.

Sam was the first to break the heavy silence that had settled over the house. "What the hell happened in there? "

Bobby shook his head slowly, his eyes glued to the bottle of his glass. "I've never seen anything like it before."

"There's gotta be someone else we can call," Sam said through gritted teeth. "Someone has to know what this is."

"I've called everyone I know, Sam," Bobby explained quietly. "All we can do is wait for someone to call us back."

The silence resumed for another few minutes until Sam spoke again, his voice cracking. "Where do you think he is?"

Bobby didn't want to think about it. "No idea."

"He looked so scared Bobby," Sam said. Worry and fear had taken over Sam, his shoulders hunched while his throat seemed tight with emotion.

"I know," Bobby replied. That fact had him more worried than anything else, Dean didn't scare easily. He drained his glass and filled it again. There had to be something…to try…to do…to think of….anything other than sit on their asses like a bunch of emotional ninnies.

As the sun rose over the horizon, Bobby sent Sam up to sleep.

"One of us has to be awake enough to answer the phones," Bobby had argued. "You can take over after some sleep."

Sam dragged his feet up the stairs and dropped onto the bed. He tossed and turned for an hour, his ears pricking at any sound he could hear or imagine; the sound of a telephone, a car's engine, a door slamming …a voice. Dean's voice.

He was on his second trip the bathroom, a sad excuse to listen at the top of the stairs, when Bobby called up to him.

"Sam, get your ass back in that bed and get some goddamn sleep. I'm gonna need some shut eye in a few hours' time. I want you ready to answer phones and make dinner," Bobby yelled from his chair at the desk.

Sam stood silently, glancing back at the bedroom. He wasn't able to sleep—

"NOW!"

Sam scurried back down the hallway and dropped back onto the bed with a frustrated sigh.

Three hours later, Bobby stepped out on the porch, staring out across the junkyard. No one had called.

Somewhere Unknown

Dean woke slowly. Painfully. His head swam as sensations assailed him.

A faint smell filled his lungs, heady and sweet, his stomach churning with want.

A sound filled his ears, making his brain rattle in his skull. He clutched his head in his hands, only then feeling the burning pain in his arm. He forced his eyes open; they felt gritty as he tried to bring his arm into focus. Bruises wrapped around his wrist, snaking to his elbow.

He lifted his head momentarily. He could see nothing useful.

He dropped his back onto the ground with a thump. He groaned as he forced his sore hand into his pocket, smiling almost triumphantly when he felt his phone. He frowned when he saw the time. It was noon, but what day?

Bobby answered on the first ring.

"Dean! Dean, where the hell are ya, boy," Bobby crowed into the phone.

Dean tried to speak, but found his mouth dry, parched even.

He coughed and croaked out, "I don't know."

"Okay," Bobby said, trying to push him calm through the phone to Dean. "Look around you. Listen. What's near you?"

Dean rolled over onto his knees, groaning as he did. His feet and legs ached to the very bones, the muscles contracting painfully. His head pivoted this way and that, until he heard a familiar sound.

"I hear traffic," Dean said, relief flooding his voice.

"Good! Head to it, find a road sign. Anything to help us find you," Bobby encouraged.

Dean stumbled through the underbrush, ferns and moss making him stumble. He stepped out onto the mowed shoulder of the road, cringing as a loud semi-truck blew past him. He held his phone tightly in his hand.

He looked up, sensing something tall and leery over him. It was a sign. His jaw dropped as he read the words.

"Bobby," Dean mumbled. "I'm standing in Naches, Washington."

Bobby felt his heart skip a beat.

"Bobby, can you come and get me," Dean asked as he tried to keep his voice calm, firm.

Bobby swallowed the lump in his throat. "Not soon enough, you can't sit on the side of the road until we get there. That's a long drive. I've got someone near you, a hunter; I'll have them come get you. Sam and I will be there as soon as we can."

Dean didn't say anything. He wanted to be away from the woods. Their silence was bearing down on him. He glanced into the trees, shivering. "Can you stay on the phone until they get here?"

Bobby frowned at the fear in Dean's voice. He picked up another phone from the lineup. "Sure thing," he said. "I'll let them know where you are and be right back."

Dean stood shivering on the side of the road, the cool mist drifting past him. He could hear Bobby talking to someone, giving them Dean's location and cell number.

"Dean, I've got a hunter by the name of Patrick Dennis coming to pick you up," Bobby said when he got back on the phone. "He'll be there in an hour."

"Thanks Bobby," Dean mumbled into the phone, his voice shaking.

"Dean, why you're freshly back from…wherever you went… what do you remember," Bobby asked gently. He knew Dean was shaken up, hell, they all were; but they needed more clues to figure it out.

"I don't know Bobby," Dean said as he glanced behind him again into woods. "I could smell something incredibly sweet when I woke up, but I don't see anything here that would cause that kind of smell."

"Anything else," Bobby asked, his mind whirling into action.

"No."

"Alright, how are you feeling? You had hypothermia and exposure last time you were gone this long," Bobby said. "Anything we need to be worried about?"

"A little cold," Dean admitted with a little hesitation. "But it's misty here."

"Anything else," Bobby asked.

"Bruised a bit, probably from being pulled against the handcuffs when I got taken," Dean said staring down at his bruised arm. "Feet hurt too."

"Yeah, I figured as much. From the amount of pressure that was on your arm, I was worried you'd wake up somewhere with it dislocated," Bobby admitted.

They spoke about everything from ammo to the best places in the continental US to get peanut butter pie before a pickup pulled up next to the spot were Dean was sitting, his back to the woods. Dean shoved his phone into his pocket and climbed in. The man next to him was probably his dad's age, with red hair and a scraggly beard.

"Dean Winchester," the man said with a low whistle. "Never thought I'd see a Winchester again."

"You know me," Dean asked.

"I worked with your dad a few times over the years, heard about him passing too," the man said with a nod. "He hated Washington, never stopped bitching about the salt damage to the underside of his truck."

Dean laughed tiredly. "Sounds like him."

They road in silence for miles; the warmth of the truck lulling Dean into nodding off only to jerk awake every few minutes.

"You can sleep," Patrick said. "I'll keep an eye on you."

Dean snorted and shook his head. "I just don't want to fall asleep and wake up in another ditch somewhere."

"You won't if I can help it," Patrick said. "I've got a few things to try out, Bobby told me about what's happening."

They drove through the small town and followed a dirt road through an orchard. Dean woke, startled, when Patrick cut off the engine. "Head on in, I've got a spare bedroom you can use."

Dean stumbled tiredly up the steps, his feet burning and aching in his boots. He felt a warm breeze suddenly blow past him, the same sweet aroma filling the air. He felt himself panic. "Patrick!"

Dean's hand touched the doorknob just as his vision turned white. He felt the world tilt on its axis just as a pair of hands grabbed him. Then, there was nothing.

Naches, Washington

Bobby stood in the doorway of Patrick's spare bedroom. The lamp on the bedside table illuminated the older brother's face, pale against the dark green pillow. Patrick had obviously tried everything he could think of to keep the boy in the house, heck, he'd settle for keeping him on the same coast.

The bed had been pulled to the middle of the room, a heavy layer of salt scattered onto the floor. Dean's legs and arms had been cuffed to the iron frame bed, a layer of quilts stacked on him. Patrick had drawn what looked like every protective and warding sigil he could think of onto the walls. The air was heavy with burnt herbs. Patrick wasn't taking any chances on having to tell Bobby Singer that he had let Dean get taken from under his very nose. Everyone knew how much those boys meant to him. He liked breathing too much to risk going toe to toe with Bobby.

"He looks exhausted," Bobby frowned.

"The only thing he's done since he got here is breath," Patrick said from the other room. "I thought Sam was coming with you."

"Well, given that Dean keeps popping up all over the place, we figured one of us had better stay put and be a little more centrally located to the continent," Bobby explained. "In case he decides to go to Florida all of a sudden, Sam will be a few hours closer than me."

"Probably a good idea," Patrick stated.

"So what happened," Bobby asked, impatient to get more information.

"He was almost inside the house when it happened. I was pulled some gear out of the truck when I saw him flicker, just like you had described when we talking. I dropped the bag and ran for him, grabbed him just as he started to flicker again. He dropped like a stone, but he stayed put," Patrick explained. "Wish I could say I knew what happened, but…I don't."

"He said anything since?"

"Not a peep. Didn't even flinch when I pulled his boots off…speaking of which…I wasn't too sure if you had seen this, but you ought to check it out."

Bobby followed Patrick into the bedroom, the salt crunching under his feet. He watched as Patrick kneeled and began to unwrap the gauze he had wrapped around Dean's feet. He used a small flashlight to illuminate Dean's foot.

Bobby frowned. "What the hell caused that?"

The Dean's foot was raw, blistered in some areas. Bobby gently touched Dean's foot; God, it looked like raw hamburger. How had Dean even managed to walk on it?

"I'm guessing the other one is just as bad," Bobby said with a sigh.

"Yeah," Patrick said. "I washed them with salt and holy water, but other than washing them out it had no effect."

Bobby didn't say anything.

"Any clue what it is," Patrick asked.

"Nope," Bobby snapped. "Not a damn one. But we're going to start ruling crap out."

"We?"

"Yeah, you own me one anyhow. You've already got him trussed up, might as well take the opportunity. I know Sam would want to be here…but we've got to figure this out now and Sam might hold back," Bobby said. He hated to think of keeping Sam in the dark, but he couldn't risk Dean flickering into nothingness again.

Patrick nodded silently and went to get his bag.

"You want to do an exorcism first," Patrick asked. "See if there's something in there with him?"

"Might as well," Bobby said with a flinch. Over the years, he had awoken from more than one nightmare of performing an exorcism on one of his boys. He hated the thought of even trying.

They stood on either side of Dean, rosaries and books in hand. They spoke in perfect synch, the Latin words filling the room. Bobby felt an icy grip in his chest as he stared down at Dean; he knew the words by heart, only holding the book from habit. Dean didn't even flinch, much less expel a demon.

Patrick and Bobby finally tossed their books onto the table and stared at each other, their minds trying to think of something else.

"Get me holy water and silver," Bobby said with a deep set frown. "Might as well rule out the most obvious selection."

Over the next hour, they sprinkled Dean with holy water and salt, burned incense, and nicked him with silver, brass, and iron. Nothing made him stir. It was eerie to watch him, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only movement coming from his body.

Bobby stood next to Dean and examined his bruised arm. He looked up at Dean's face, not a flinch, not a murmur, nothing. It was like his body had been left behind and his mind taken. He frowned at the thought. He lifted one of Dean's eye lids; the pupil was completely blown and unmoving. "Balls."

"Patrick, get your ass in here!"

"What's wrong?"

"I think we're looking at an empty Dean meat suit. Get everything together for a summoning."

"What are we summoning," Patrick asked cautiously. There was no way he was letting Bobby Singer call a demon or anything else into his house.

"Dean," Bobby said with a grunt as the gestured at Dean. "He's not in there."

"Sure it's not just a concussion or something," Patrick asked as he stared down at Dean.

"He's as vacant as a Detroit motel," Bobby snapped. "We got work to do."

Over the next hour, Patrick and Bobby measured, mixed, and combined the items needed to bring Dean's spirit back to the body on the bed. "Least he ain't dead this time," Bobby grumbled, worried. "Just not in there."

"Bobby, are you suggesting Dean's having an out body experience," Patrick asked as Bobby tossed the lit match into the bowl, a plume of green smoke puffing out of the bowl.

"Do I look like I know," Bobby snapped. "I'm just going on my gut here. You got a better explanation for his empty carcass, be my guest. One minute his body is disappearing and the next it's his goddamn mind."

They watched as Dean suddenly arched off the bed, his arms and legs pulling tautly against the metal cuffs. A cry filled with disappointment and longing filled the air, the very sound of it worried Bobby. Where ever Dean had been, he obviously didn't want to be brought back from it. A sweet aroma filled the room and was gone so quickly that Bobby wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it.

Bobby peeled one of Dean's eyes open, the vibrant green filled with winsome yearning. It was probably the only time Bobby had ever seen the expression on the man, without it involving a woman or a bottle.

"Dean, son, you with us?"

Dean stared past him, seeing something only he could.

"Dean, where the hell you been, kid?"

"Aren't they beautiful," Dean asked softly, his eyes were tracking something above the bed. A small smile danced over Dean's face before his eyes rolled back in his head.

Bobby sighed and looked up at Patrick. "I'm too old for this crap."

"You and me both," Patrick said as he pulled a bottle of bourbon from the bag. "Let's go call Sam."

Sioux Falls, South Dakota

Sam tripped over his own feet when the phone rang; his pacing had been wearing a hole in the faded carpet in Bobby's study for the past several hours. "Bobby! Do you have him?"

"I've got him, Sam."

"How is—"

"He's alright, barely talking but okay. Few bumps, bruises….some painfully sore feet. Nothing we can't fix."

"Did Patrick have any useful information?"

"You might could say that. We'll talk when I get back with him."

Sam set the phone back on the receiver with a sigh of relief. Dean was safe. For now.

Alright my fellow adventurers! Any idea?! Any tortuous moments you want?

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