On day thirty they hit their first major stumbling block. Sophie stayed up late with the brothers running models to be sure they'd covered every contingency in a particularly nasty baba yaga case up in rural Quebec. And the next night, when Sam and Dean got home, there was no smiling Sophie and warm dinner to greet them at the motel-room door. It was dark and silent when they let themselves in.
"Did she run?" Sam asked.
"Her stuff's here," Dean replied.
"Did someone take her?" Sam asked.
"No signs of a struggle," Dean answered.
"There's light under the bathroom door," Sam said, "Just a little. Do you want to go check it out or should I?"
"I'll do it," Dean said, making his way through their room to the bathroom. He knocked first, but got no answer.
"Sophie?" He called through the door, but still heard no response. So he jiggled the handle. It was locked. He fished in his pockets for a set of lock picks and eventually got the handle to give.
Sophie was curled up on the bathroom floor, head in her hands, face drawn.
"What happened?" Dean asked frantically, crouching beside her and searching her body for signs of injury.
"Migraine," Sophie whispered, "Bad, bad migraine."
"You been throwing up?" Dean asked, more gently this time.
"A lot," Sophie said.
No one had broken in and tried to kill her. That, at least, was good.
"We're home now and I'm going to look after you, okay?" Dean said. Sophie nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Can we get you to bed?" Dean asked. Another nod. He gathered her into his arms and carried her to bed, trying to be as gentle as he possibly could. He shushed Sam and mouthed "migraine" before his younger brother could make any startling sounds or turn on the lights. Once she was settled Dean realized carrying her may have been miscalculation, as she was now filthy. He was covered in blood and leaf litter, and after being tucked up against his chest, she was too. They would deal with that later. Pain came first.
"What do you need?" Dean asked quietly, crouching beside her bed.
"Relpax," she said quietly, "I know I have some somewhere but it hit so fast and it hurts too much to open my eyes and find it."
"Okay, what else?"
"That'll be fine…" Sophie started, but Dean didn't let her finish.
"What else helps?" He reiterated.
"Cold compresses, electrolytes, sleep, time," she paused, "not being alone."
"We can do all of that. I will find your meds. I'm going to send Sam to get some Gatorade and we'll go from there okay?"
Sophie nodded, wincing from the movement. Her skin was dry and her lips cracked, dehydrated already.
Dean checked his watch - 2:30AM - and mentally tallied how long he and Sam had been gone. Fourteen hours by his best count.
"When did this start?" He asked, not sure if he wanted to know.
"About one o'clock," Sophie replied.
"In the morning?" Dean said hopefully.
"In the afternoon."
Shit. No wonder she was dehydrated. Alone. Vomiting. In too much pain to find her medication. And for thirteen hours. He shook his head to clear it. Feeling guilty wouldn't help her.
Dean got to his feet and wet a washcloth in the coldest water he could get from the tap. He pressed it against Sophie's forehead.
"I'm going to go find your medication and then take a shower," he whispered, "We're back. You're safe. We're going to take care of this."
Once Sophie got the Relpax into her system she fell asleep near instantly and would likely have stayed like that for the rest of the night and half the next day. She'd carried a towel from the bathroom with her to bed, and had it bundled in her arms again. Dean lay on top of the blankets next to her, hand on her back. He woke her every half hour to give her tiny sips of Gatorade, discovering after the first two tries that yellow and light blue were the only two colors she could actually keep down. By seven o'clock her lips no longer had quite so worrying an ashy tint, and he decided to get some sleep himself. There was light cutting in around the edges of the blackout curtains when he opened his eyes and the glaring red alarm clock on the night table read 11:23. Sophie's eyes were open, the first time he'd seen them since he left for the hunt the day before.
"Why am I all bloody?" She asked, grabbing for the bottle of Gatorade and failing to grasp it.
Dean picked it up for her, held it to her mouth, and tried to do the math and see if she could take more pain meds.
"Because Sam and I had a heck of a hunt last night, and I didn't exactly change clothes before I carried you to bed," he replied.
"You got her, right? No more baba yaga eating boy scouts?" Sophie asked.
"No more baba yaga eating boy scouts," Dean confirmed, "You want to get cleaned up? If you're too shaky on your own I can help you shower."
"That'd be nice," Sophie nodded her assent.