AN: For disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

Much love to all readers (and especially reviewers 😚 😚 😚) I hope you enjoy.

Losing My Religion

Previously:

Dean: "I'll check in as soon as we get settled."

Sam: "Whatever."

ℼ

John: "Whatever happens, I'll make my excuses and come into town at sunset. I'll meet you back at those first buildings we passed."

ℼ

Dean tried to drag himself out of the memory, back to the here and now. The problem was he had no idea where he was or when it was, so the here and now was elusive.

ℼ

Chapter 3: Choosing my confessions

Arriving at the place Sammy was staying, John burst into the room with unnecessary force, causing the door to bounce off the wall and nearly hit him in the face on the return. Caught off guard, Sam, who had just been finishing a geography essay that his last school had assigned, jumped, knocking his glass to the floor where it smashed sending iced tea everywhere.

John's eyes were searching the space frantically, lingering briefly on the untouched second bed, then the untouched pile of lore books, and finally on the homework Sam had been working on.

Sam scowled, bracing for the lecture he was sure he was about to get.

"Where is he?" John demanded angrily.

"Who?" Sam was thrown. What was Dad accusing him of now?

"What do you mean who?" John snapped as if it was the stupidest question ever. "Your brother, of course."

Ignoring the uncomfortable twinge in his gut, Sam gave his father what he hoped was a withering look. "How would I know? He was with you."

John searched Sam's face intently for a long moment then looked around the room again and took a long, deep breath. "Samuel, this is important," he said, approaching his son. He was clearly forcing himself to be calm and there was an intensity that chilled Sam to the core. "Tell me Dean has been here." He already knew the answer before Sam shook his head. "Or checked in at least?" There was a subtle note of desperation now.

Sam shook his head again as he felt that uncomfortable twinge in his stomach for the second time. An image flashed into his mind's eye; Dean climbing into the Impala the day before as he left on the hunt with Dad, trying to hide the hurt in his eyes at Sam's surly attitude.

John's gaze was examining the room again, as if he expected Dean to suddenly be there after all. Sam watched as his father closed his eyes for a moment, taking another deep breath. A large hand rubbed down John's stubbled face, then discouragement moved to action.

"Pack your stuff Sammy," he said, walking to the phone and punching in a number.

John said nothing more to Sam, as the boy packed his gear.

Sam buried his worry about Dean most of the time. Even knowing what he was doing when off with their dad, there was something about his brother that seemed indestructible. Dean faced every nightmare with a smirk, never seemed even the slightest bit phased when he got hurt, and still saved enough energy to torture his little brother with teasing and noogies.

So, there was nothing to be worried about now, right? Dean took off all the time, but he always came back eventually. Sam had given up trying to keep track of what he might be up to, and long gone were the days when he'd wanted to shadow his big bro's every movement. Chances were, by the time they got back to wherever Dean and Dad were staying, his brother would be there waiting for them, oblivious to the worry he'd caused.

"I don't see what the problem is," Sam said casually as his father drove at an uncomfortable speed down the highway. He felt the need to verbalise the thought, solidify his confidence. "Dean's always wandering off, it's his thing."

John, who had been focused on the road ahead, suddenly turned to look at his youngest. In the small space, Sam felt claustrophobic.

"What are you talking about?" John demanded, glancing between the road and Sam.

"Like that time in Duncan Falls when he didn't come back from school because he'd decided to go to six flags and was gone for two weeks."

John blanched, Dean hadn't decided anything and he hadn't been off enjoying himself either.

"Or that time in up-state New York," Sam continued practically. "When he ran off on a hunt and it took you two months to find him." John's jaw was hard but he didn't respond. "I don't see why this should be any different," Sam pressed.

It's different this time, John thought furiously, because this time I don't know where he is. This time I didn't send him away. But with Dean gone, John couldn't bear the look he knew he'd get from Sam if he confessed.

"It just is," he growled.

Once the sun got low, John had made his excuses to Hank and left to meet Dean at the arranged time. He'd waited longer than he probably should have, before he accepted that Dean was a no-show. He'd spent the whole night searching for him, finding the salt encircled space with Dean's bedroll but no sign of his boy. By the morning he'd maybe been less cautious than he should have been when making enquiries in town. It didn't take him long to figure out Dean was not there.

Then he'd had a thought, the only reason Dean was ever not where he was supposed to be, was if he felt he was supposed to be somewhere else. In other words, if he thought Sammy needed him. John had clung to the hope he'd be at the motel, that he'd be reaming him out and they'd be back on the road to the case in no time, even though his gut was telling him otherwise.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter. He knew, he knew, he should have trusted his gut, but hope was a dangerous thing. Now he had to watch Sammy, and find Dean, and kill this sonofabitch. This sonofabitch that was not only an evil fucker but a stupid evil fucker. Stupid because it had dared to mess with his family. And he had sworn, to his beloved Mary, that no evil fucker was ever going to do that again.

Sammy's trusting eyes were burning holes in his soul. He could not promise that they could get Dean back, but he refused to accept any other outcome. He wasn't leaving Sam alone and he couldn't take him to Jim's or Bobby's, time was against them. Which meant, as much as Dean had been blocking it, as much as John had been allowing Dean to block it, Sammy was in the game now. He would try, he'd try so hard, to keep Sam in the outer field, but he couldn't stay on the bench, not with their first baseman at risk of being taken out.

John drove Sam to a run-down area just outside of the town where there were several abandoned buildings. He led his youngest inside one, his gun at the ready, keeping the boy behind him. Inside there was a small nest in one of the rooms, Dean's bag and a sleeping bag were laid out in a hidden corner. But Dean was not there. Nor was there any sign he'd been there recently.

Sam looked at a discarded sock on the floor, the remnants of a fast-food meal and a crumpled magazine. His stomach knotted uncomfortably again. For all his casual comments, he hated it when his brother ditched him and just took off. Every time it happened, he worried that this time, Dean wouldn't come back.

"When did you last speak to him?" John asked, staring at the Deanless space.

"He called after you got here," Sam said. "He checked to see if I had the information to research the town history and said he'd call again when he had more information."

John raised an eyebrow, it was highly unlikely the conversation had been that on point but it was probably the gist of the outcome. "And he didn't say anything about … anything that might indicate where he's gone?"

"He said you were working the suspect angle and grumbled about being left with research, but he never tells me details of cases if he can avoid it." It had been a bone of contention at times. "He's probably stuffing his face at a burger joint or with some girl," Sam said, unsure if he was trying to convince himself or his dad. It didn't work on either. He couldn't say what it was, maybe it was just his father's unease, but though Dean had wandered off plenty of times before, something felt different about his absence this time, it just felt very wrong.

"Check for any notes, signs, messages he might have left, or anything out of place. I'm going to check the rest of the house. Do not leave this room, keep this on you and if anything comes in," John handed Sam a pistol, "You know what to do." His father left without waiting for a response and Sam glanced around again before approaching the corner to sift through Dean's stuff.

Perhaps it was just unfortunate timing, or perhaps it was a subconscious effort by Sam to make his father's head explode, but he had put the pistol down as he unzipped Dean's sleeping bag to see if anything was hidden within it. And this was the moment that a very large, very smelly, and very drunk man bounced off the doorframe into the space. Crouched behind the boxes, in the hidden corner, Sam had some cover but the man, despite no doubt seeing in triplicate at least, spotted him immediately.

"Heeey!" he slurred. "Hey yous."

Sam scrambled backwards, only realising after he had done so that he had moved further away from his gun.

"Yous ssshouldn't be here!" The man was filthy, a tangled beard hid most of his face, his eyes bloodshot and wet looking. "Yous needs to go!" he yelled, coming closer to Sam.

Sam was nodding frantically. He'd agree to almost anything right now. But he couldn't get his tongue to work.

"Yous hear me boy!" The man peered blearily at him.

Somewhere, beneath the dirt and the drink and the yelling, Sam sensed this man was not trying to hurt him.

"Thissss no place for yous. Get out! Get out now!" A grubby hand came forward and Sam was terrified the man was going to grab him.

But suddenly the drunk stumbled backwards with a startled yell instead.

John Winchester, larger than life, was holding a pistol to the man's head.

"Youssleave that boy!" the drunk man tried bravely.

"You touch my son, and it is the last thing you will ever do," John said with cold calm.

The drunk man blinked at him.

John grabbed one arm and dragged the man from the room. Sam could hear the drunk's incoherent complaints, along with stumbling, all along the corridor, and then down the stairs. Finally a slam of the front door muted them, before hurried steps heralded his father's return.

"Sammy?" John came forward, the sharp tone in contrast to the darting eyes. "You ok? Did he hurt you?"

Sam shook his head. "No. I think …"

"Think what?" John had grabbed the pistol Sam had discarded and with a tut was tucking it into his belt.

"I think he was trying to warn me."

"Warn you? Of what?"

Sam explained what he'd been able to make out of the drunk's slurred words.

"Could just be that he's claimed this territory," John said.

Sam didn't argue but his gut told him there was more to it than that.

"We need to move," John said. "It might not be safe here. Pack everything, then you're going to check in with Bobby. Dean mentioned him on the way over and might have called him." John stood to leave.

Sam shot his father a look. "You know Uncle Bobby can't shoot you down the phone."

"No, but he can hang up and we need to know if he knows anything."

"What if Dean comes back and we're not here?"

"He knows how to find us."

ℼℼℼ

Dean's head hurt. He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. It didn't help much. Wherever he was, it was dark, almost pitch black and he was only able to make out rough shapes, slightly darker shadows in some areas compared to others. He checked his pockets, both his gun and his knife were gone, damn it. Dad was going to be pissed at him.

He tried to recall what happened. He had been making his way back to town, following a well-travelled route. As he walked, he'd spotted a couple of signs and symbols migrant people left to advise or warn their brethren. He knew some of these. He remembered his dad pointing out a triangle with hands once and explaining it means the landowner is armed. But he couldn't remember what the ones on the trail back from the compound were. He was drawing a blank at the two arrows with a circle over the top which was repeated often. There was another one, somewhat different to the others, which he thought he'd seen before but he couldn't place it. Then … then … he'd become woozy … drifting between reality and memories or dreams.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been out in the woods but he thought it was a long time, hours at least but maybe days.

Lifting a hand in the darkness, he felt his head. There was a sore lump that was slightly sticky. He remembered feeling a blow at some point but he was sure that the wooziness had come before the blow. That didn't seem right though, surely …

He tried to sit up, felt dizzy and lay back down. He had a vulnerable, naked feeling. Of course, waking up in a dark unknown place with a head injury and no weapons will do that to you. The fact that his coat and shoes were gone did not help.

He felt around the immediate area. He was on a blanket or sleeping bag of some sort. Shortly after becoming aware of this, he also became aware of the stale smell emanating from it.

Cautiously he let his fingers crawl further. He found a candle and a book of matches. Though he knew the light could make him an easy target, the darkness was suffocating so he lit it. It was little more than a stub and probably wouldn't last much more than an hour at most. There were more matches. He would do best to conserve the light. But first he needed to get the layout of his location.

His captor had left a bottle of water and a pre-packaged sandwich along with the candle but there was nothing else that Dean could see. He was in a cage of some sort. It looked sturdy and he hadn't yet the strength to test it. Beyond the bars there seemed to be only darkness, the light from his meagre candle not strong enough to penetrate far.

Two sides of the cage seemed to be against rock walls, a cave of some sort?

It made sense, the stifled feeling he'd had since waking, the tang to the air, it was familiar. His stomach clenched. He'd always hated caving, though his father insisted it was a vital skill and had no patience for Dean's discomfort. He took several careful breaths and tried to focus on his predicament instead of the walls around him.

Perhaps it was because he was staring so hard at the wall, convincing himself that it was not closing in on him, that he saw it. The small but distinct symbol that had been painstakingly cut into the rock. Three mostly vertical - but slightly diagonal - lines. His memory took him to another time he'd seen it. Just before he'd been jumped by a rabid werewolf. (Seriously, because apparently a regular werewolf wasn't bad enough.)

The claw-mark scars he'd ended up with, matched the symbol almost perfectly. Which was why he always remembered what his dad had told him about it – while laughing that it was perhaps fitting that Dean had been marked with it – 'Unsafe area'.

"No shit," Dean mumbled to himself. The warning might have been more useful before he was locked up. Of course there had been symbols, he just hadn't been able to remember what they all meant.

Something about the symbols, or one particular symbol, kept prickling at his thoughts but he couldn't quite seem to follow the thread. His head was spinning again. He blew out the candle and lay back down, breathing carefully. He missed the small warm fidgeting ball that years ago used to sneak close and snuggle in the dark, yet he was grateful it was absent. Much as he wished he were back with Sammy, he would rather never see his brother again than have him here in this cage.

ℼℼℼ

Mari settled herself comfortably on the edge of a crag that overlooked the valley. The view was breath-taking but she mostly liked this spot because the rocks behind her hid her from view. She liked to see without being seen. Perhaps it was the artist in her.

Picking up her sketch pad she flicked through, looking for inspiration. There were several landscapes, her father always wanted her to focus on landscapes, but she preferred portraits. After years of staying within a few miles, the landscape never changed. Faces did. Or they did if you were prepared to step out of bounds.

Mixing with outsiders was frowned upon. Some members of The Family, like Don who had dragged her away from the interesting young drifter, would probably prefer it if she never had access to anyone outside. Like all teenagers, she rebelled where she could, but opportunities were limited within the confines of The Family. It seemed to her that Don valued the exclusivity of being within the circle of the chosen, more than the gift the chosen had been given. Mari worried about the gift. Or more, she worried about the effect of the gift on her father. He seemed strained and tired of late, especially since the visit from the police.

A few pages from the back she paused at the half-drafted pencil sketch of a young man, Keith. She'd liked Keith. He would come up the trail from the town and they would explore together; the woods, the caves; each other … But he was gone now. Just like Jeremy. Jeremy had been her first love and a member of The Family. But young men liked to go out and explore the world when they came of age, so no one was too surprised when her father told The Family that's what Jeremy had done.

Turning to a fresh page in her sketchbook she started with an oval. Like any new face, the young drifter had piqued her interest. But there was more to this one, something undefinable that she was drawn to. Her pencil danced across the page.

"Mari, what are you doing out here?"

The voice startled her and she dropped her sketchpad. "Wanda?"

The woman had her hands on her hips and that condescending look on her face that drove Mari nuts. "You know your father doesn't like you to leave the Family land."

Mari huffed and stood. "Just because you are happy to live your entire life within the confines of the Family, doesn't mean I have to be."

"The world beyond is not the Candyland you believe it to be," Wanda smirked, giving that annoying 'knowing' expression.

"I just want to see something of the world, meet normal people."

"I think keeping you away from outsiders would be more in everyone's interest, don't you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I know what you've been getting up to. I know about Keith and about Jeremy."

Mari flushed red, though whether in embarrassment or anger it wasn't clear. "You know nothing about me. Being my dad's stalker, doesn't mean you know me, got it?"

"I know more than you think." Wanda moved closer, staring intently at Mari. "I think, perhaps, I know more than you."

Mari sneered. "Is this going to be another sycophantic sermon about how my dad is the chosen one, here to cleanse the earth?"

"Look you little slut, your dad is not cleansing the world, he is corroding it."

Mari's eyes flashed dangerously. "Don't talk about my dad like that!"

Wanda's laugh was bitter. "Oh so now you want to defend him? You? What would you know about being clean, being pure?"

"What?" There was confusion and some fear in Mari's eyes now.

"I think it's time you got to see exactly what I have learnt."

Wanda had come close, looming over Mari, her muscles tense, her eyes cold.

"Stay away from me," Mari shoved Wanda, hard. "I swear, if you don't back off, I will …"

The blow came before Mari could finish. The young girl collapsed at the older woman's feet.

Wanda looked down at the unconscious form, her expression more curious than anything else. This wasn't how it was supposed to go, but she would make it work.

ℼℼℼ

AN: FYI – in my Shadows series Dean goes to Sonny's when he is fourteen (according to the commentary on the DVD boxset this was how old he was in the original script) - not sixteen.

Thank you for reading and if you have a mo, please do drop me a line. All feedback helps me improve and even a quick thumbs up can really make my day xx

Love and hugs to all.