A/N: Sorry for the cliffhanger last chapter...
Disclaimer: Any recognizable characters don't belong to me.
Sam struggled fruitlessly against the iron grip around his neck and mouth as he was dragged backward down a dark alley. He continued to kick his attacker when he got the leverage to do so, but it didn't seem to make any difference. He'd pushed both of his shoes off already in order to leave a trail, but that meant his sock-clad feet scraped against the asphalt with no protection. Whenever he tried to scream, it came out muffled and only resulted in "Anne" clamping down even harder on his mouth.
It was obvious that his kidnapper was a shifter; perhaps something else that could take another's shape, but those weren't as likely. What he didn't know was why he was being targeted specifically. This thing had posed as his friend just to take him. What was the end game? Why wasn't he dead already? His analytic mind automatically sorted through the possibilities, but mostly he was just thinking about how much he wanted his brother. He was scared, and Dean always made everything better.
Without warning, Sam was suddenly tossed carelessly to the side, and he threw out his arms to catch himself. To his surprise, he didn't land immediately. His descent lasted a second longer than it should've, and then he was crashing onto wet ground. His ankle twisted upon impact, causing him to cry out in pain. That was definitely a sprain. He knew from experience.
He instantly reached out to hold his leg as still as possible, glancing up with a grimace to assess his location. Directly above him was an open sewer grate. He was in a small space, dimly lit only by the moonlight coming through the hole. The rest of his surroundings were dark.
His eyes widened fearfully when the shifter jumped down after him, landing much more gracefully. It was disconcerting to see Anne's face smirking down at him with malice. He began to scoot away, but his ankle protested the movement, forcing a pained hiss past his clenched teeth.
"Poor Sammy," the shifter crooned mockingly, sauntering over to him. "Did you hurt yourself?" It lifted its foot, then slowly applied crushing pressure on his injury. Sam lurched forward with a scream as white hot pain ran up his entire leg, tears finally leaking out of his eyes.
"Stop!" He pleaded with a sob, trying unsuccessfully to push the shifter off of him. It didn't so much as budge, and he internally cursed his small size.
For a few agonizing seconds, the shifter simply watched him suffer, content to see him squirm. Then, it sighed in irritation, reluctantly ceasing its actions. Sam instantly pulled his leg toward his body, trying to shield it. If the sprain had looked bad before, it looked ten times worse now. He'd be lucky if it wasn't broken.
"You're right. We should get going. Big brother is probably on the way by now," the shifter noted casually. Before Sam could offer a response to that, he felt a hand grip the back of his coat, and then he was being pulled into the dark tunnel with zero regard for his comfort. He bit his lip, trying not to verbally express how much pain the jostling was causing him, and transitioned repeatedly between keeping his ankle as stable as possible and clawing at the hand holding him. He couldn't see anything, which only heightened his fear. How was he supposed to fight if it was pitch black? Not to mention the fact that he couldn't even stand on both feet at the moment.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut against another round of hopeless tears. He just wanted his brother. He knew Dean would have discovered his absence by now and would be in hot pursuit, but that knowledge did little to comfort him. Dean was strong and a skilled hunter—despite having been out of the game for a year—but taking on a shifter by himself? It would be a difficult fight. Especially since Dean only had his silver knife on him, and Sam was positive that his brother wouldn't take the time to run back to the apartment for a gun loaded with silver bullets.
The realization that Dean would put his life on the line to protect him had Sam forcing back his fear and replacing it with classic Winchester determination. He couldn't just let his brother walk into this situation without help. Sure, he wasn't really in a condition to fight, but he and Dean were a team. They'd face this monster together.
"You know," Sam gritted out as he was pulled around a corner, which was the fourth turn they'd made so far—he'd kept track. "You made a mistake taking me," he continued, wishing the shifter could see his glare.
"Is that so?" It responded in a bored tone. Sam really wished it had taken the shape of a stranger. Hearing Anne's voice just made the situation so much worse.
"Yeah. Because me and my brother? We're gonna kill you," he snapped back, putting as much bravado as he could into his voice, trying to imitate Dean to the best of his ability. It probably didn't sound as threatening coming from him, but the intent was there.
The shifter's laughter filled the dark space. "That's cute. Completely delusional, of course, but cute," it snickered, yanking him around yet another corner. Sam yelped unintentionally as his ankle smacked into the hard concrete edge, and his entire leg went numb for a few seconds.
When the pain cleared enough for him to focus again, he noticed they were finally in a lit space similar to the one they'd been in before, except a little bigger. He was in the middle of trying to figure out where they would be above ground when the shifter dropped him unceremoniously to the floor. Sam barely managed to catch himself before he face-planted.
The shifter moved away for half a second, then reappeared behind him with rope. Sam tried to crawl away, but he was yanked back against a sturdy wooden post. His hands were tied together behind his back quickly and effectively. They were so tight that he couldn't move his wrists at all. He pulled on the bindings with all his might to no avail, and he let out a huff of frustration.
The shifter had disappeared again. Sam strained his ears, but the only sounds were his heavy breathing and the occasional drip of water. It smelled horrible down there, and his nose wrinkled in disgust as he looked over himself. His clothes were damp and dirty, he no longer had any shoes, and his ankle was twice its normal size.
Please hurry, Dean, he prayed silently, looking up at the closed sewer grate. There were open slits which allowed light into the room, but he didn't bother calling for help. For one, he doubted they were anywhere near a populated area, so there was very little possibility he would be heard. And two, this was a monster. Dean was the only one who could stop it, and he would be able to find Sam easily enough. Any helpful citizen wandering by would just end up getting themselves killed.
Sam tugged on the ropes, looking around for anything useful. Maybe there was a pipe or something that he could use as a weapon, or something sharp that could cut through the ropes. After a few minutes of searching, he realized there was nothing. At least, nothing he could reach.
"Don't bother trying to escape, Sammy," a terribly familiar voice spoke up from the darkness, causing Sam's entire body to freeze.
No, no, no…not him! Please not him!
Sam clenched his eyes shut, unwilling to watch as the shifter walked closer to him, its boots thudding against the concrete. He heard its clothes rustle as it crouched directly in front of him, and he turned his face as far to the right as possible. His lip trembled as unwanted memories assaulted his mind. The pain in his ankle was barely noticeable anymore; the pain in his chest, in his soul…that hurt much more than any physical injury ever could.
Sam flinched when his chin was grabbed roughly and he was forced to turn his head forward, though his eyes remained stubbornly closed. "No!" He shouted fiercely, thrashing in an attempt to free himself.
The shifter chuckled, the sound deep and not comforting like it should be. "Oh, come on, Sammy. It's me."
"You're not him!" Sam protested, kicking out with his good leg. He heard a grunt of irritation, then gasped as a solid punch landed in his gut. Out of instinct, his eyes flew open, and they automatically tracked to the shifter.
His father's face scowled down at him, and Sam couldn't look away. It was the same dark features, tousled hair, and stubbled jaw. It was the same face he saw in his nightmares, except this time there was no blood. It was John Winchester, and it was not.
When the shifter realized it had his attention, it smirked. "Heya, Sammy."
Sam sat there in silence, unable to find the words to argue with the nickname that now only belonged to Dean. Images of his father, torn open and bleeding out in front of him, were all he could see. It was all he'd seen for the past year. And now, instead of an actual reunion, he had to deal with this cheap imitation.
"You're not him," he repeated, this time in a broken whisper.
The shifter let go of his chin so he could pat his cheek roughly. "No. Daddy dearest is dead—" the callous, blunt statement made Sam recoil— "...but it sure is fun to play dress up." It stood up, looking down the dark tunnels of the sewer.
"What do you want?" Sam bit out through clenched teeth.
The monster glanced down at him with a raised eyebrow, as if Sam was stupid. "Revenge, of course," it scoffed.
Sam frowned, confusion overtaking his anger. "Revenge for what? I don't even know you," he pointed out. His ankle twinged, reminding him of the very annoying injury.
The shifter crouched down again right beside him, so close that Sam could feel the breath on his ear. He squirmed uncomfortably, refusing to meet its gaze. "I knew your father, once upon a time. Real charmer, that one," it said sarcastically.
"If you'd met my dad, you'd be dead," Sam retorted, pulling on his restraints as he leaned as far away as possible.
"He didn't know what I was. He was far too distracted with hunting my son to realize there might be another shifter in town. That was his mistake," it hissed bitterly. Sam felt dread settle in the pit of his stomach. "You hunters—" It said the term with clear disgust— "You think you're the only ones with families. Well, guess what? Your father killed what was most important to me, so I'm going to return the favor." The shifter moved around so it could meet Sam's wary gaze.
"You said so yourself—my dad's…dead." Sam gulped, hating to admit the cold truth. "So what's the point of killing me if he won't even be around to see it?" He reasoned, already sensing it would have little effect.
The shifter sent him an eerie smile. "Johnny boy wasn't the only one on that hunt," he responded darkly.
Sam's eyes widened. "Dean." This whole thing…was a trap for Dean. It was going to wait until Dean arrived to kill Sam, because Dean had helped kill the shifter's son.
Sam needed to escape now. If he died, Dean wouldn't survive it.
The shifter grinned wickedly, grabbing something from behind Sam. "That's right, Sammy. Dean is going to know exactly what it feels like to lose the only family he has, right before his eyes. Don't want you spoiling the fun, though, so…" It held up a roll of duct tape, its intentions obvious enough.
Sam shrunk back. He had no idea how they were getting out of this one.
A shifter. A fucking shifter. Dean could hardly believe their astronomical bad luck. Of all the people in Philadelphia, a monster just had to target his little brother. Seriously? They had enough problems.
Dean cursed aloud as he ran for the open door, peeking out into the alley. It was dark and empty, with no signs of Sam anywhere. Add to that, raindrops were starting to drizzle down, the distant sound of thunder hinting at a heavier storm to follow. It matched his mood perfectly.
He tried to keep his breathing even as he came up with a hasty plan. Anne merely watched in confusion as he darted over to the closet and tore through its contents, mumbling under his breath as he searched for a flashlight. There was no time to go back to the apartment for his gun, and the shotgun full of rock salt they kept in the store was utterly useless against a shifter. He would have to make do with his knife.
"Dean, what's going on? Where's Sam?" Anne asked shakily, her worry creeping up a notch. The pair were hardly ever separated, and the older boy was clearly freaking out.
Dean didn't answer, too distracted to even hear her speak. He finally found a good-sized black flashlight in a cardboard box on the top shelf and clicked it on, sighing in relief when it actually worked. Then, he whirled back around to head for the alley, yanking his knife out of his boot as he went. Anne opened her mouth, but Dean beat her to the punch, holding up his hand.
"Stay here, Anne. Don't call the police. I can handle this myself," he ordered brusquely, not bothering to explain further before taking off outside.
"Police? Dean! What—" Her voice cut off when she realized he was already sprinting down the alley. She had half a mind to follow him, but he didn't seem eager for company. Besides, despite his demands, she was absolutely going to call the police. Sam was gone, Dean looked on a mission to kill with that knife, and both of them were just children.
Anne scrambled for the phone hanging on the wall, hoping this was all just a false alarm.
Dean wiped water off his face, irritated at the hindrance to his vision. The rain mixed with his lack of a jacket didn't make for comfortable conditions, but he hardly cared about that right now. His only mission was to find Sam and kill the son of a bitch that took him. He'd gone two blocks already, pointing his light in every direction in hopes of seeing some clue as to where his little brother had been taken. Shifters tended to dwell in sewers, but he needed a more exact location before he went wandering down below the streets.
"Sam!" He shouted, anger and desperation leaking into his tone as he paused, turning in circles. "Sammy!" As expected, there was no response, but something else caught Dean's attention and had him bolting down a thin alley far from the main road.
It was Sam's shoe.
Dean snatched it up, dumping out the small amount of rainwater that had collected. His breathing sped up as dozens of possibilities ran through his mind. He pushed down his fear, trying his best to focus on the hunt and not the stakes.
Heading farther down the alley, it wasn't long before Dean came across another shoe. The realization that Sam was leaving him a trail to follow energized Dean, and he couldn't hold back his small smile of pride.
"Atta boy, Sammy," he murmured, shining the light in front of him. The rain was pouring down now, and shivers wracked his body, but he was hopeful. His brother was fighting back.
Dean searched the area around the second shoe, eventually coming across an open sewer grate. Instead of relief, he felt only suspicion. The shifter wasn't even trying to cover its tracks…so, what? Did it want to be followed? He pondered that for a moment, feeling the urgency of the situation but also knowing how stupid it would be to go in guns blazing—sans guns.
If the shifter intended to be followed, that meant this was a trap. It would be waiting for him down there. Despite that glaring fact, Dean still couldn't bring himself to go back to the apartment for a better weapon. His little brother was so close, probably waiting for him. The idea of leaving now was simply repulsive.
Mind made up, Dean took in a deep breath, then began the descent down the ladder. He hopped off the bottom rung, knife poised at the ready as he turned to face the darkness. There were two directions he could go, so he chose one and hoped for the best. If his dad were here, he'd probably be able to find Sam in no time…
You can handle this, Dean chided internally, shaking away any thoughts of his father. He needed to focus on the present hunt, not on what ifs. Sammy was depending on him.
Dean could see the faintest signs of where Sam and the shifter had gone —some muddy footprints here and there, as well as drag marks in dry spots of dirt where moonlight shone through other sewer grates. The evidence of his brother being hauled like luggage set his teeth on edge, and he renewed his promise to make the creature suffer for ever daring to lay eyes on Sam.
As Dean finally approached a larger source of light, he slowed his steps, walking along the wall so he wasn't splashing in any water. When he rounded the corner into an open space, his gaze immediately fell upon Sam tied up in the corner. His grip on the knife loosened unintentionally, and he quickly reminded himself that the shifter was most likely nearby, though at the moment his priority was getting to his brother.
"Sam!" He called worriedly, running over to the young boy and sliding onto his knees beside him. Dean's hands moved to palm the sides of Sam's face, lifting his head so he could see him properly.
Sam mumbled incoherently through the duct tape covering his mouth, his eyelids fluttering groggily as he attempted to respond to his name. It was obvious that he'd been knocked unconscious. There was already a bruise forming on his temple.
"Sammy, come on, man. Open your eyes," Dean cajoled, softening his voice against the rage that was nearly blinding him. Nurse first, soldier second. He ran his thumbs soothingly over his brother's cheeks, trying to coax him back to the waking world.
After a few more seconds of encouragement, Sam managed to open his eyes completely, and his gaze instantly found Dean's. He made a noise, but was unable to speak. As if he'd been struck by lightning, his entire expression morphed into panic as he remembered his current predicament and he began thrashing against his bindings.
"Woah, buddy! Calm down," Dean instructed, holding his shoulders so he didn't hurt himself. Sam was shaking his head, refusing to heed the older boy's advice. "I need you to stay still so I can cut the ropes, okay?" Dean pressed. Sam was breathing so fast that Dean was afraid he'd pass out due to lack of oxygen, but he did seem to listen this time. He stopped struggling, though his eyes flitted around the room in search of his attacker.
Dean moved around to the other side of the pole so he could reach Sam's wrists, then began sawing through them with the knife. They were knotted tightly, so he was extra careful with the blade. The last thing he needed was to slip and cut Sam.
It took longer to get through the thick ropes than he would've liked, but a few minutes later they snapped, and Sam brought his hands around to start working on the duct tape. It was wrapped around his entire head in multiple layers, so it wouldn't be a quick and easy job. Dean kneeled in front of him to help.
They'd almost torn it all off when Sam started screaming through the tape, pointing over Dean's shoulder. Dean spun around and stood to his feet in one motion, raising the knife defensively as he took up a protective stance over his little brother.
The dark, looming form of John Winchester appeared from the shadows, and Dean's mouth fell open in shock. That was the absolute last face he'd expected to see tonight. The word 'Dad?' was on his lips, but he just managed to reel it in with the realization that this was just the shifter playing games. All the same, it hurt like hell to come face to face with the perfect image of his father. He'd worked so hard to bury his grief over the past year, and now it was rushing to the surface like the wendigo hunt had been yesterday. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep his guard up.
"You're gonna regret that," Dean growled, referring to the shape the shifter had chosen.
It held up its hands in mock surrender, smartly not stepping any closer. "I'm shaking in my boots." Its lips twitched in amusement, but its eyes held only hostility.
God, it sounds just like him…
"How'd you take his form anyway?" Dean questioned tightly, hoping to keep the shifter talking so Sammy had time to regroup. He could hear his brother moving around behind him, presumably still trying to get the rest of the duct tape off.
"Oh, your dad and I were old pals," the shifter answered slyly. "I met him last year. You, too. Don't you remember?" It said innocently.
Dean immediately sifted through all their hunts last year, the obvious one popping up half a second later. His eyes narrowed, and he adjusted his grip on the knife. "No. I…I saw my dad kill that shifter—" Dean started to protest, but the shifter in front of him tensed and stepped forward, suddenly furious.
"That shifter was my son!" It roared, still somehow lacking the intimidating quality that the real John Winchester always possessed. Dean waited, hesitant to attack until the right moment. He only had one shot at this.
The shifter paced back and forth, eyeing him like a lion watching its prey. Eventually, it calmed down enough to continue. "I admit, I didn't take my son's death very well—took me a whole year to find the motivation to hunt all of you down. And then, I laid such an obvious trail, I couldn't figure out why John hadn't picked up on it and come after me." It laughed a little maniacally, gesturing wildly as it spoke. Dean heard Sam stand up behind him, but the creature didn't notice. It just kept pacing.
"Then I find out good ol' Johnny is dead and gone. How disappointing," the shifter remarked, finally coming to a halt a few feet away. It sent Dean a malicious smile, tilting its head. "But, silver lining…I found you. And now—" It inched closer, and Dean could easily sense what was coming next. Hopefully Sam could, too. "I'm going to make sure you feel the same loss that I felt."
Three things happened all at once. Sam ducked and rolled to the side, out of harm's way; Dean side-stepped in the opposite direction, extending the knife out in a slicing motion; the shifter lunged forward where both boys had just been standing, arms outstretched. Its momentum sent it right into Dean's knife, and the blade cut through its side like butter. The shifter let out an inhuman screech of pain, whirling on Dean with renewed fury.
Dean made an overhand stabbing motion as the shifter charged him, but it caught his wrist and sent them both tumbling back into the concrete wall. His arm was slammed into the hard surface three times, and he grunted with the effort of keeping hold of his weapon. He threw out a left hook to throw the shifter off balance, and it was strong enough to make his enemy stagger back a step.
Dean took the opportunity to swipe out with the knife again, this time catching the shifter on the cheek. It showed no signs of pain as it retaliated with a punch to Dean's exposed ribcage, which the boy absorbed with as much grace as possible even though it hurt like hell. The damn thing had five times the strength of his dad, and it wasn't holding back.
Dean managed to block the next hit with his forearm, and interlocked his arm with the shifter's as another punch was thrown his way. He used the opening to send three solid right hooks into the creature's jaw before it broke his hold and shoved him back into the wall. He winced as his head bounced off the concrete, and he had to brace himself so he didn't fall over.
Right when he looked up, he saw a fist flying toward his face. His eyes widened and he dodged under it, hearing the wall break where it impacted. The shifter threw its elbow back before Dean could get any distance, and it struck him on the cheekbone. He hissed in pain, kicking the side of the shifter's leg with as much force as he could muster. It collapsed onto one knee, reaching up at the last second to catch Dean's arm as he once again attempted to stab it through the heart. For a few seconds it was a battle of wills, and the only sound that could be heard was their heavy breathing. Dean pushed down with all his strength, using his other hand to add more pressure. The shifter's hands shook as it pushed back, its enraged gaze flickering between Dean and the knife. Slowly, the blade got closer and closer to its target. It barely pierced the shifter's skin, causing a bubbling hiss to escape.
The shifter screamed, using a newfound energy to pull Dean's grip sideways, throwing him off balance. It let go of Dean's hand in order to punch him in the jaw, and Dean went flying to the floor. Ringing immediately filled his ears, and he blindly felt around for the knife that he'd dropped. It took a few moments of patting around until his fingers closed around the familiar hilt, and he groaned in preparation for round two.
Get up, Winchester!
Dean steeled his expression, using a pole to drag himself back to a standing position. He turned, already in a battle stance, fully expecting to be attacked the next instant. Instead, to his horror, he found the shifter at the other side of the room. It had Sam in a deadly headlock, squeezing the young boy so tightly his face was turning red. Sam tried to gasp for help, but his breath was entirely cut off, and his feet were nearly lifted off the ground.
Dean was torn between fury and panic.
"Enough! Drop the knife, now, or little Sammy pays the price!" The shifter demanded.
Dean was frozen in place, his focus drawn to the horrible wheezing sounds his brother was releasing. He hated the helplessness that was enveloping him. There were no good options. Either let the shifter win and Sam dies, or make the shifter lose and Sam still dies.
The shifter squeezed even tighter in warning, and Dean threw up both hands in surrender. "Okay, okay! Just let him breathe, asshole!" He shouted.
The shifter eased off a fraction, but didn't let go. "The knife," it repeated coldly.
Dean cursed internally, slowly lowering his only weapon to the ground. His eyes met Sam's, and he was surprised to see no fear there—only unrelenting faith. Sam fully believed that Dean would get them out of this, even as he ran out of air. Dean could practically hear the words that his brother would speak to him if he could— You got this, Dean.
And suddenly, Dean found his perfect solution. He gave Sam a pointed look, hoping he understood the silent message: I need a distraction.
Sam's tiny smile was all the answer he needed.
The younger boy slammed his foot down on the shifter's with so much force that Dean was sure it would've broken any human's bones. The shifter's grip loosened, more out of surprise than any sort of pain, and Sam dropped to the ground out of reach. Dean couldn't tell if his brother was exhausted from going so long without air or if he was simply trying to get out of the way.
He didn't take too much time to ponder it. Instead, he rose up, flipped the knife so he held it by the blade, then chucked it right at the shifter's heart. His aim was true, and the blade imbedded itself hilt-deep into the shifter's chest. The creature's eyes went wide in shock and anger. Those were the last emotions it would ever express.
"There's your fucking knife," Dean muttered, satisfied that the monster was finally dead.
The next second it was slumping to the ground, empty-eyed and no longer a threat. Sam scrambled away from the fallen body, crawling over to Dean on his hands and knees. Dean met him halfway, sinking to the ground and automatically scooping his little brother into his arms.
"Sammy!" He said in relief, taking a few moments to simply hug the boy. Sam's quiet whimper of pain made him pull back, though. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Dean fretted, quickly giving him a once-over. His gaze immediately latched onto Sam's swollen ankle. Not just swollen, but completely black and blue. It was the most fucked up sprain Dean had ever seen—if it was indeed just a sprain. He didn't know how he hadn't noticed it before. He must've been too deep in hunter mode.
"I'm gonna revive that bastard just so I can kill it again," Dean growled, adjusting his hold on Sam so he could further inspect the injury. Though his touch was feather light, his brother yanked his foot away as soon as contact was made, and Dean rubbed his back apologetically. "Sorry, Sammy. I'll have to look at it back at the apartment," he decided.
Sam grimaced, trying to conceal just how badly he was hurting. He was a true Winchester if Dean ever saw one. "Piggyback ride?" Sam guessed, leaning his head to rest against Dean's chest.
Dean sighed, running his fingers soothingly through Sam's hair as he glanced at the motionless creature a few feet away. It was disconcerting how much it looked like his real father. It was as if his dad had died all over again, and he grit his teeth to force down the flood of grief. He wasn't sure if the shifter had done more physical or emotional damage tonight.
A few minutes of distracted silence passed before Dean realized Sam was crying. He wouldn't have even realized it if he hadn't felt the wetness through his shirt. Sam sniffed, further alerting him to the fact.
"Sammy?" Dean whispered, ducking his head in an attempt to meet his brother's gaze. Sam hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly lifted his head. His eyes were red around the rims, and he seemed to be actively avoiding looking in the shifter's direction. He tried to act stoic, but a ten year old was hardly built to keep such strong feelings under wraps. One second later, his entire face crumbled, and he curled against Dean.
"I miss him, Dean!" He sobbed, shaking in the older brother's arms. "I miss Dad!"
Dean's heart broke for his little brother, as well as himself. They both had tried so hard to forget the pain of losing their father, but Dean now realized that it would never fade. It would follow them for the rest of their lives. All they could do was learn to live with it.
"Me, too, Sammy," he replied softly, resting his chin on top of Sam's mop of hair.
For a long while, he just let Sam cry it out, rocking him gently every now and then. He knew he should get them out of the dirty sewer and back to their slightly safer apartment, but for now, he just wanted to hold the little brother he'd nearly lost.
Bobby shifted his car into park, sitting back and glancing across the street. There was a single cop car outside the small mom and pop shop, and he could see the cop speaking to a woman inside through the large, clear windows. He'd heard a call over his very own police scanner about an alleged missing person while he'd been scouring over his notes back in his motel room. Apparently some woman was concerned about her employee, Dean, and his brother Sam—no last name given. Bobby had practically run out the door, only pausing to catch the address and don his FBI outfit.
The woman who'd made the 911 call certainly looked panicked, but even from his position, Bobby could tell that the cop was bored with the entire situation. Seeing the opportunity presenting itself, Bobby hurriedly checked his tie in the rearview mirror, snatched up his badge, and exited his car. There was no traffic, so he crossed to the opposite side of the road quickly and entered into the store. A little bell dinged overhead, alerting the two strangers to his presence. The cop immediately stood up straighter, suspicious of the new arrival.
"Can I help you, sir?" He questioned authoritatively, hooking his fingers into his belt. Bobby nearly snorted at the supposed intimidation tactic, instead flashing his own badge. The cop stopped short, surprised at the turn of events.
"Agent Willis, FBI. The station sent me over to deal with this. You're free to go, officer," Bobby stated bluntly.
The cop raised an eyebrow, but was clearly thrown off by the older man's confident manner. "This is a bit mundane for the FBI, isn't it?" He pointed out, then laughed condescendingly, gesturing back at the woman. "I mean, she doesn't have a last name or an address, and can barely give me any information about these 'missing boys,'" he scoffed, using air quotes. "I'm starting to doubt they even exist," he added under his breath.
Bobby's jaw ticked, but he luckily refrained from walloping the dumbass.
"Be that as it may, I'd still like to question her myself. She may have important information pertaining to a larger case," Bobby replied tightly, clenching his fists.
The cop shrugged. "Whatever. Have at it. Let us know what you find out," he said, already brushing past Bobby to head out the door. It was more than obvious how relieved he was to get out of there.
Bobby watched him pull away with a glare, then turned back to the woman. She was sharing his look of disdain for the useless cop, but her expression changed to cautious hope when she met Bobby's gaze.
"You can help?" She asked, stepping toward him as she wrung her hands together worriedly.
"I know I can," he answered firmly, and her shoulders dropped in relief. "I need to know exactly what happened," he told her.
She nodded, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "Dean's only fourteen, but I let him work here part-time. He needs the money, you know? He always comes in with his little brother Sam—he's ten. They're always together," she insisted. Bobby hid a smile, unsurprised that the two boys stuck together like glue. They'd been that way for as long as he could remember.
"Dean had the evening shift today. I didn't see him come in because I was next door delivering some items, but I ran into him outside—I think he'd just taken out the trash. He looked so surprised to see me…" She trailed off, eyebrows pulling together at the memory. "Next thing I know, he's bolting inside with more panic on his face than I've ever seen, and Sam was nowhere to be found. You have to understand—Dean would never leave Sam behind anywhere, so Sam was supposed to be here," she emphasized.
"But he wasn't," Bobby finished, rubbing his beard with fresh concern. The woman shook her head grimly.
"Dean just took off down the alley without any explanation, and he was carrying a knife. He told me not to call the police, but how could I not?" She defended.
Bobby rested a hand on her shoulder, hoping to put her at ease. "You did the right thing. Can you show me which direction Dean went?" He asked.
"Sure. This way," she said, waving for him to follow. She led him through the store into a back room, then pointed at the open door. Bobby walked over, peeking outside into the darkness. "He ran a few blocks, then turned right. I don't know where he went after that, I'm sorry," she murmured guiltily.
Bobby pursed his lips. What trouble had those boys gotten themselves into? The shifter must've gotten to them first.
"Balls," he mumbled quietly. Louder, he spoke to the woman. "I want you to stay here in case they come back."
"Where are you going?" She wondered.
"I'm gonna find 'em," Bobby declared resolutely, pulling out his gun to check the magazine before slapping it back in place. "And those idjits better be alive when I do," he added to himself.
