A/N: Huge thanks to everyone who reviewed, story alerted, story favorited, etc! I love knowing what you guys think. :-)

Disclaimer: If this were mine, the show would consist of nothing but chick-flick moments and brotherly schmoop. Also, Big Brother!Dean would be out in full force. He's not; therefore, Supernatural does not belong to me.

AU after episode 7x04

Dean growled in frustration. It had been over twelve hours since Sam had taken off. Twelve freaking hours. Dean wasn't even sure why it was taking twelve freaking hours other than the fact that he was stupid enough to call Bobby first and agree when Bobby made him swear not to go after Sam until he got there. Therefore, Dean was waiting for Bobby which was seriously pissing him off.

Though, he never swore he wouldn't do anything until Bobby got there.

This meant that Dean had been analyzing police reports, looking for stolen cars in the area. Three had been stolen last night and he knew exactly which one it was that Sam had taken because – duh – he knew Sam. So he had called local and state police departments, making sure everyone was on the lookout for that car because apparently, it was involved in an important federal investigation… What? It totally was.

So now Dean was being good and waiting for both Bobby and the incompetent police department of Boston, Massachusetts. Though, if said-incompetent police department suddenly decided to become competent and call him with information on his brother's whereabouts, his attempt at being good would swiftly come to an end.

That was when the phone rang. Dean didn't even bother to check the caller-id as the situation was far too severe for him to waste precious time doing so. Besides, if it wasn't someone he wanted to talk to, he could just hang up on them and it would probably take half the time it would take to wait for the phone to ring out. There, see? He's all for time management. "Hello? Agent Johnson speaking." He bit his lip – hard – to keep from demanding the person on the other end of the phone tell him where his little brother was, regardless of whether said-person had any idea at all.

"Agent Johnson? Yes, um… We found that car you were talking about… license plate DKE 2528?"

"Tell me where," the words came out harsher than he had initially intended but still… if it got the job done, then he didn't really care. Not at this point. If he scared the person half-to-death and they told him faster, then he counted that as a win.

"Right um… Well it's off the highway um… Highway 16. Just past exit 19—"

"'kay, thanks," he interrupted, ending the call and dialing Bobby's number. It rang and rang and rang, wasting his time completely. He wasn't surprised when it went to voice-mail because naturally, he'd have to wait for the longest time possible before he could tell Bobby what was going on. He briefly wondered if there was a button you could press to make it go straight to the other person's voice-mail. He didn't think so, but Sam would know for sure. He'd ask him when he found him. "Hey Bobby. Found Sam's car. Sounds like he's already ditched it. I'm heading out to Highway 16 exit 19 to see what I can find. I'll meet you there."

With a goal in mind, he hung up his phone, dressed himself as a real fake FBI agent would, and stormed out the door.

Fortunately – or unfortunately depending on your perspective – the car was pretty impossible to miss and all Dean could do was hope to a nonexistent, absent, apathetic god that he was wrong and that this wasn't Sam's car. Because it better not be.

He could have made a mistake, right? Maybe Sam finally got smart and broke pattern for once or something, anything that made this car not Sam's.

A police-line outlined the area, enclosing the car, and naturally, there were police everywhere. That was the first thing that caught his attention. It was just a stolen car and just a stolen car shouldn't have been getting this much attention from the cops. They should have like, impounded it or something and not been rushing around like a murder had just taken place. Which it better not have. Dean pulled over and jumped from the Impala pretty much before he had even had it stopped. He flashed his badge at one of the officers as he rushed past, freezing several feet away from the car's open driver's door.

There was blood everywhere, on the ceiling, on the seats... It stained the upholstery, was splattered on the windows... He stood there, not able to look or think past what he was seeing in the front seat of that car. He felt sick. Violently, violently sick and his vision started to swirl. All he could think was that Sam better be far, far away from anywhere near this car. Sam better not have even thought about being anywhere near this car. Because if he was— Dean cut himself off because Sam was okay. Sam was okay because he had to be, because after everything that had happened, there were no other options.

"What happened here?" Dean asked, voice coming out more as a croak than anything else. He figured he probably wasn't pulling off the FBI agent thing very convincingly, but acting took effort that he was instead using to keep from panicking, that he was using to tell himself that it wasn't Sam's car. It wasn't. One of the policemen stopped and looked at him, worried, before turning back to whatever notes he was working on.

"Um… Well… It looks like…" the man sighed, pushing a hand through his hair. "Someone tried to bleed someone else dry." He shifted uncomfortably under Dean's stare which was probably pretty scary so Dean couldn't really blame him. "But uh… there were no bodies in the car, locks aren't broken so they either knew each other or the one got threatened into letting the other into the car. Um… Yeah… The car was found around ten o'clock this morning and no one was in it then. So… The possibilities are that the psycho took his victim out of the car to torture elsewhere or the victim's already dead and the psycho buried him along the side of the road somewhere."

"I'm gonna uh…" He gestured stupidly at the open car and rushed away from the man who was telling him his baby brother's body could be lying mutilated in a ditch somewhere. Sam's body was not lying in a ditch somewhere because this wasn't Sam's car. Sam was somewhere else, far, far... faraway.

He swallowed thickly and leaned into the doorway, careful not to touch anything. The blood was splattered everywhere except, Dean realized, where the victim had been sitting because – duh – the body would have caught any blood falling there. When he looked, he immediately noticed that there wasn't a matching bloodless spot anywhere in the car. That meant ghost, something the blood would travel right through.

So that meant a malevolent spirit had gotten into the car and carved Sa- the victim up. Not Sam; victim. God, he had to stop doing that. Shaking himself, he thought back, wondering if Sam said anything ever about a possible case here. He didn't think so. Actually, he was pretty positive he didn't. So what did that leave him? A big pile of nothing.

He was about to examine the back seat but the entire world froze in place when his gaze drifted to the floor and instantly landed on a piece of fabric – torn off piece of fabric. A torn off piece of fabric from a shirt that belonged to Sam. Sam's shirt. Sam's shirt. That made this Sam's car which in turn made it all Sam's blood. Sam's blood. Sam's blood.

Dean stumbled backwards, forgoing his analysis of the backseat in favor of gripping his stomach to try to keep it from heaving. It wasn't working too well and he barely managed to make it to the Impala before he was latching onto the driver's door with both hands, watching as the world swirled around him which, by the way, did nothing to calm his rebelling stomach. Actually, it did quite the opposite.

There was so much of it, so much blood. It gave him a completely different outlook on the crime scene when he knew all those people were clinically debating his little brother's demise. It gave him a completely different outlook on the crime scene when he knew that it was Sam who had sat in that car, when he knew it was Sam that something had tried to bleed out. That was what made him fall into the memories of the dreams he had during the year Sam was in Hell. A masochistic part of him wondered if Sam screamed for him, for his big brother to make the pain stop like he always did in Dean's nightmares.

He didn't come back to himself and was pretty sure he was going to pass out until a hand landed on his shoulder and he heard Bobby's voice, telling him to 'calm the hell down, ya idjit.' Dean wanted to reply, to ask him how the hell he expected him to calm down when Sam was missing and Sam's car was covered in little brother blood.

"It's his car, Bobby," he choked out, swallowing thickly in attempt to counteract anything that tried to come up the other way. "It's his car and there's blood, Bobby. It's everywhere and it's Sammy's car and—"

"Alright," Bobby said quietly, trying to soothe him. "I'll go check it out. You sit here and try not to hyperventilate." Dean nodded before slowly climbing into his car, staring anywhere but the crime scene.

What if something had happened because Dean hadn't been there? What if Sam had been dead for hours and Dean didn't know, couldn't save him, because he hadn't been there? What if he had lost Sam forever because he hadn't been there when he should have? His mind drifted, remembering a younger version of himself silently promising a terrified Sammy that he'd never leave him. But how many times had he left? How many times had he let Sam leave? Every time was one too many.

Dean shook himself. He couldn't think like this. He couldn't. He would curl up into a ball and die if he did and that would help no one. Sam was fine. Sure it was Sam's car, but Sam could easily still be alive. And he was still alive. Because again, there were no other options.

He was so lost in thought that he jumped when Bobby's hand landed on his shoulder again. He ignored the look Bobby shot him because he was afraid that if he analyzed it, he'd find pity. And he didn't want anyone's pity because Sam was still alive, goddammit! "It's Sam's car and with this road the way it is it's gonna be near impossible to track him. There ain't no signs he went into the woods so that means…"

"He either followed the highway or the spirit's already stashed his body in a ditch somewhere," Dean interrupted, turning the key in the ignition. He instantly froze because he hadn't given his mouth permission to say that, much less give his brain permission to think it. Sam was alive, Sam was alive... He kept repeating that to himself, wondering if believing would be enough to make it so.

Feeling desperate for something that would give him a more concrete form of hope, he grabbed his cell phone, instantly hitting Sam's speed dial number.

"Hey, this is Sam—" Dean all but brained himself on the phone when all he got was Sam's voice-mail. That could mean either one of two things: 1.) Sam was ignoring him, or 2.) Sam was incapacitated and unable to reach said-phone.

"Sammy," he snapped, wishing that for once, Sam's stubborn streak would have allowed him to pick up. "I need you to call me. I get you're pissed and whatever but this is important." He paused and then started again, quieter, "Please. Just... tell me you're okay? Let me know you aren't lying in a ditch somewhere." He meant the last sentence to lighten the mood but it came out far more pleading than he had intended, making it do just the opposite. He hit the end button, trying to keep the pit of despair, guilt, and grief from welling up inside him.

"Did you try tracking his GPS?" Bobby asked and Dean shot him a withering glare because, well, duh. Technology may have been Sam's forte but Dean wasn't inept... or stupid. He had tried tracking the GPS about twenty minutes after he had found out Sam was gone.

"Of course I checked his GPS!" Dean snapped, scrolling through his contacts. "You know that kid and his technology. I can't get it activated. He's probably done something to it…"

Bobby sighed, glancing around the area as if Sam would just appear, staggering out of the trees. Dean wished he would. More than anything, he wished he would. "I guess I'll put some feelers out there. See if I can get people on the lookout for him." As he spoke, he pulled out his phone and started dialing numbers, stepping away from the car.

"Yeah, me too," Dean muttered, sending Sam alternately scathing and worried messages from his phone because really, if Sam had gotten his message he would have answered him already, right? He could at least have sent him a frickin' text. "Goddamnit! Answer me, Sammy!" He was starting to panic again. He knew he was, was perfectly aware of it. So he took a second, focusing on his breathing and stilling his shaking hands. It didn't work though. If anything, it made it worse.

It was in this moment that one of the cops from the crime scene came running towards his car, calling his name. What did he want? Confused, Dean stepped out, closing the driver's door.

"Sir," the man breathed. "We found something we think you might be interested in." Dean's breath caught in his chest because he wasn't sure he wanted to know what it was these men thought he'd be interested in. It couldn't be anything good. They didn't come and tell an FBI agent that he might be interested in something positive. In all his experience, a cop had never once rushed up to an FBI agent like that to tell him the whole thing was an elaborate joke and laugh in his face.

Dean glanced back at Bobby who was in deep conversation with someone over the phone. Well, he wasn't going to be of any help then. Sighing, he reluctantly followed the man back to the crime scene, steps unintentionally slowing the closer he got.

"What is it?" Dean snapped when he finally reached the car. Maybe if they just told him, then he wouldn't have to look. He definitely wasn't looking unless they made him. He was already pointedly not looking the car.

"Um… Well…" the man looked uncomfortable and slightly confused as he rocked back and forth on his feet. Dean's eyes narrowed. This guy looked seriously out of his element. He was young, probably a new recruit and Dean understood. He really did because he remembered a similar look once on his own face and then later, on Sam's. Finally the man sighed, giving up. "Just see for yourself." With that he pulled open the door to the back seat, revealing it to Dean's inspection.

Dean glanced at the man hesitantly, afraid to look too closely for fear he'd find a finger or something else equally horrifying that would take his hard-earned lack of nausea and throw it out the window. He hadn't made it to the backseat when he had examined the car the first time. He'd glanced, sure, just enough to see the blood everywhere but he hadn't really analyzed it. And now that he was, he found himself choking on nothing. He had missed it the first time, not even allowing it to register. The backseat had been completely shredded.

"They look like they were made by claws or more likely, fingernails since we actually found one in one of the scratches." Dean swallowed thickly, wishing his phone would go off in his pocket and that it would be Sam and that he'd be fine. The whole situation was so... horrible that Dean had to actively repress the burning in his eyes. "But uh… Look closer…" Dean glanced at him like he was crazy because really? He wanted him to look at that closer? Bracing himself, he stepped forwards, tracing the marks with his eyes, half-afraid he was going to find another one of his brother's fingernails - god - sticking up out of the upholstery.

And then it dawned on him what the man was talking about and the world came to a standstill.

An angel banishing sigil had been carved into the seat.

See you (hypothetically) next week!