Chapter Three

The silence left behind after the images fade is unnerving and absolute, and it makes Dean's ears ring. Like after staring at something bright, the imprint of Sam's murder still lingers in the empty warehouse. If Dean stares long enough, he can still see Sam's body hanging from the ceiling with blood dripping over the kaleidoscope of bruises on his skin. It fills him with a pain so deep and intense that he doesn't know how to contain it, but at the same time, he doesn't know how to let it go. It's nothing like he's ever felt before, not with any previous loss he's ever suffered, including Sam's two years ago. He can feel it bouncing around inside him, red hot, caged, and begging to be let out.

Dean can feel the energy crawling up his spine, the need to hurt something and see it bleed, to feel the perverse pleasure that comes with seeing his victim struggle and flail. He felt the beginnings of it when he killed that vampire the night they met Gordon. He perfected it in hell. He felt it explode when he tortured Alastair. The only difference between this time and every other time is that this time, his target isn't a demon or something that goes bump in the night. It's human. Dean suddenly finds that it doesn't make a difference. He knows it should scare him, disgust him, and a year ago it would have. But it just doesn't. In fact, he wants nothing more than to open his arms, embrace it, and let it take over.

As he makes peace with his alter persona, he turns to Castiel, who is staring at him with wide, sympathetic eyes that are laced with panic.

"Are you gonna tell me where they are or do I have to find them myself?" Dean asks, his voice chilling the air with promise.

"Sam would not want this," Castiel states, going right in for the kill, "He would not want you to do this to yourself."

Dean smirks humorlessly as he nods over to Sam's lax body, "I don't think he cares about much of anything right now."

"Dean…"

"With or without your help, Cas, what's it going to be?" Dean interrupts flatly.

"Dean, please, think about this. If you kill those men, you will be condemned back to hell. Is that what you want?" Castiel demands fiercely as he steps directly in Dean's personal space, his eyes cutting through him.

Dean stares back unflinchingly, "If that's what it takes."

Castiel shakes his head, his anger apparent, "This is without a doubt one of the most ignorant, arrogant things you've ever done, and I will not be a part of it."

"Fine by me," Dean says evenly.

Dean starts to turn, making a motion to leave the warehouse, but his eyes catch Sam one more time. For a brief second, the coldness is washed away from his expression and his face contracts, like the tears are about to start again. But as quickly as it appears, it vanishes and Dean moves brashly to stalk out of the building.

"Dean…"

"See you around, Cas," Dean interrupts, his stride not breaking as he breaches the doorway to the warehouse.

The night is cold enough for Dean to see his breath but he barely notices the bitterness of the wind, he's too concentrated on the task at hand. He has no idea where he is, city or state, and he's without the Impala, which means he's without weapons and supplies. It makes things a little bit harder but it's not going to stop him. He takes his cell out of his back pocket and robotically scrolls through the top set of numbers before hitting send.

The other end picks up almost immediately, "Singer."

Trying to sound normal, Dean clears his throat, "Bobby, it's Dean."

He must fail at sounding like everything's just fine because Bobby immediately pauses, and Dean can picture the concern on the older man's face, "Dean. Everything alright?"

"Fine," Dean immediately replies, "I was just calling to ask for a few things."

"Such as?"

"Tim Holland's number and the last location Sam gave you."

"Tim Holland?" Bobby reiterates, surprised "I just sent him and a few other hunters to Garber, Oklahoma to take care of a demon problem. Sam called and said he wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot silver pole, said he wouldn't call you about it either. You in Oklahoma?"

Dean swallows as his rage burns hotter in the inferno of his stomach, "Yeah, I'm here. I need to hook up with Sam but he's not answering the phone, probably asleep or showering. You got an address?"

"Yeah," Bobby drawls uncertainly, "You sure nothing's going on?"

For a brief moment, Dean considers telling Bobby everything. The man is like a father to them and he deserves to know about what happened to Sam. He was the one who didn't give up on the kid and he considered Sam family, so he knows that Bobby wouldn't try to stop him, he might even lend a hand. But something won't let Dean say anything. Maybe he doesn't want to hear the "don't dirty your soul" speech, or maybe he's just trying to protect Bobby, seems how he can't protect anyone else. He knows that after it's all said and done that he'll have to tell him but for now, Bobby's better off in the dark.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Dean finally replies.

"Uh huh," Bobby mutters, obviously unconvinced, "Sam's staying in the Great Plains Motel, he didn't give me the room number."

"And the phone number?" Dean's teeth grit as he tries to keep his impatience in check.

There's another slight pause before Bobby says, "555-3102."

"Thanks, Bobby."

"You stay out of trouble, you hear? We got enough shit going down without you needing bail money," Bobby replies. His words are somewhat harsh but his tone all concern and care.

Dean smirks darkly, his eyes gleaming, "Don't worry, I won't get caught."

He clicks the phone shut before he can hear Bobby's reply.

With part one of his plan complete, Dean sniffs against the cold and narrows his eyes as he surveys his surroundings for part two. There are some houses a few blocks down, hopefully with accessible cars that don't have newer alarm systems so that he can hijack one. He starts walking, moving briskly to keep his blood circulating and to waste as little time as possible. He has no idea if Tim and his gang stuck around town or not, so he can't spend a lot of time getting his plan in action.

The first house he comes across has a newer Nissan that he won't get into without sounding ten different alarms. He strikes gold with the second, which has a Chrysler LeBaron parked out back that has definitely seen better days. He has the door jimmied in under a minute and the wires yanked and sparked in the same amount of time. It's rusted with hideous brown interior and it smells like a shoe, but it runs, which is all Dean cares about right now. He pulls the car out of the backyard and floors it down the street, thankful that he's out in the middle of nowhere with few street lights.

He pulls out his phone and dials information for the number to the local police department once he's further down the road and in the clear.

Normally when he needs to find someone by tracking their phone he'd call the phone company directly, or do something that's not as drastic as involving the 5-0. But desperate times and all, and he doesn't feel like screwing around.

"Garber Police Department, how can I help you?"

The bubbly voice on the other end grates on Dean's ears, but he swallows and tries to sound professional, "This is Dean Perry with the state police. I'm in pursuit of a suspect that just wandered into your jurisdiction. I was hoping to get someone in your cyber division to track his cell."

The voice on the other end hesitates, "We don't typically..."

"I understand this isn't the standard protocol," Dean lets his true pain seep into his voice, "Look, this guy...he killed my partner. Please, I need to find him."

There's another moment of silence before she says, "Ok, I'll start a trace. I'll need your badge number for confirmation."

Shit. Shit. Shit.

All his IDs are in the Impala. The Impala is in Kansas City three hundred miles away. Shit. He has one option. It's desperate and it's going to alert Bobby that something is definitely up, but he can't let this go. No way.

"Can you get confirmation from my Lieutenant? My badge was stolen today and I haven't been back to the department to replace it," Dean replies and closes his eyes briefly, wondering if this is about to be the stupidest thing he's ever done.

"Yes, sir, I'll just need his direct line."

Dean rattles off Bobby's State Police number that he memorized for emergencies like this, and waits as she puts him on hold.

It takes what feels like forever, and a few miles go by in the car before her annoying voice is back, "Trooper Perry? You're all set. Give us a little bit of time and we'll call you right back with the information."

"Thank you. And top priority, ok? This guy's a real son of a bitch."

Before she can respond his phone beeps, alerting him that there's an incoming call. It's Bobby, Dean knows it without looking, and he snaps the phone shut, cutting off the sound. He's going to have to ditch it before Bobby gets pissed off enough or worried enough to track his GPS. Another shrill beep sounds, signaling a voicemail. Dean doesn't listen to it.

Turns out that Tim stuck around town and is currently tossing back a few in a place called Rudy's. Dean didn't think that it was possible for him to be any angrier than he already was; that bastard murdered his brother and then went to a bar as if nothing happened. He can picture it now, Tim with a beer in hand, re-telling the story with his pals, having a laugh over the demon freak that they hunted and killed.

Dean clenches his hands on the steering wheel in an attempt to steady his shaking limbs. He's glad that he needs to go to Sam's motel first. If he went after Tim like this it'd be over too fast and it'd be too sloppy. He doesn't want to get caught and more than that, he wants to make Tim suffer.

Dean pulls into the parking lot of the motel and does nothing but stare at the building for a few moments. Cold sweat pricks his skin as he takes in the dark missionary walls and the wooden cut-out horse pasted on the double doors. This is where Sam was taken from.

Dean exhales and exits the car, the door squeaks and grinds loudly as he forces it open. The front office is mercifully empty when he stalks in through the front doors. Dean simply has to lean over the counter to peer at the guest registry. He takes a quick look around to make sure that no one's about to bust in before he scans over the list, waiting for one of Sam's aliases to jump out at him. It doesn't matter if Sam used something other than the normal ones that they cycle through, because Dean knows his brother well enough that he'd be able to pick it out, even if it was…Keith McLean.

American Pie was Sam's favorite song when he was sixteen, he went around singing it for the better part of three months. Dean's stomach clenches at the memory and he pushes away from the counter, making his way to room 22. He swallows and forces himself to breathe as he turns the doorknob, unsurprised to find it unlocked.

The room is a mess. The bedding is in shambles and the mattress is shifted off the box spring. The table lamp is on the floor but unbroken. A shattered water glass is on the other side of the room. But all of that isn't what makes Dean's heart stutter and crack just a little more. It's the charred remains of what looks to be all of Sam's fake ids in the sink, it's the lack of personal belongs in the room, it's the dry blood on the floor.

Dean wonders how much Sam fought. His brother wasn't small and he was a damned good fighter, and even though he was outnumbered, he should have been able to do some damage to his attackers. From what he remembers, Tim didn't have a scratch on him, neither did the others. Was he surprised? Drugged? Or when they came did Sam just let them have him, struggling only because it was instinct. The idea of Sam rolling over and letting himself be taken makes Dean's skin crawl, but the pit in his stomach tells him that it's most likely what happened.

Dean shakes his head, telling himself that he needs to snap out of it because the clock is ticking. Quickly he checks Sam's usual hiding places for weapons and comes across Sam's favorite Taurus 9mm under the pillow and his favorite bowie in the side table drawer. He pushes aside the grief that surfaces as he holds Sam's weapons and pockets them both, exiting the motel room, shutting the door silently.