The Hours Between Us 1/2
The Hours Between Us
Summary: Dean returns to an empty motel room. (Sequel to Better Off Forgotten)
Chapter One
Dean hums contentedly to himself as he strolls towards this month's motel, tucking the Impala's keys into his jacket pocket and patting down his jeans for the room key.
He can still taste Sara's strawberry lip-gloss, sweet and sticky, when he licks his lips, and her perfume lingers on his shirt where she had pressed herself against him in the Impala's back seat, breathless and giggling after sneaking out her bedroom window for a night of wild fun. And okay, so she hadn't actually let him go any further than some under-the-shirt, over-the-bra fumbling. It's not like Sam needs to know that. Dean can regale him with whatever x-rated version of the nights events that he wants - something carefully composed to make sure the kid doesn't start doubting his position as younger brother to a straight up sex god.
Dean's pockets seem to be empty. The key must have fallen out in the Impala somewhere. He casts a fleeting glance back across the parking lot but quickly decides against going to retrieve it. Sam can let him in.
Dean raises a hand to begin a round of loud, obnoxious knocking, the kind Sam won't be able to ignore even if he tries hiding his head under his pillow, but the moment his knuckles touch the door, the door moves.
Instantly, Dean is the hunter his father has trained him to be. The world sharpens into high-definition and time slows as he drops to one knee, smooth and silent. He wraps his hand around the hilt of the small silver knife he keeps strapped to his ankle.
The door should be locked. There's no reason - no good reason - for the door to be ajar. Dean locked it when he left the motel earlier that evening. Sam would have checked it before turning in for the night.
Dean rises, keeping his centre of gravity low and his knife ready. The door isn't just unlocked, he realises. It's broken, the wooden frame splintered like a great force has smashed against it.
For a moment - an impossibly long moment that stretches out forever as terror tightens spindly fingers around his lungs and steals away his air - Dean is paralysed by the thought of what could be on the other side of the door. He's seen too much. His brain is a kaleidoscope of different ways to die, of all the different monsters and all the different ways they kill. Teeth and claws and talons and the way flesh tears and blood congeals, and if Sam...
Dean struggles to drag in what he hopes will be a steadying breath, his hand slick and sweaty around the hilt of his blade.
If something got in and if Sam is...
He thinks of the eye-roll his younger brother had directed at him earlier that evening, the long-suffering sigh from beneath that dark mop of unruly hair, deployed as a reply to whatever lecherous joke Dean had been making on his way out the door, and oh God, if Sam is -
Dean swings the door open, and Sam isn't bleeding all over the off-white bed covers. Sam isn't torn to pieces and spread out across the puke-green carpet. Sam isn't anything because the motel room is empty.
Sam is gone.
XXX
Dad sweeps into the motel room, smelling of whiskey and smoke, summoned from the bar down the street by the worst phone call Dean has ever had to make. He barely spares Dean a glance before he begins analysing the scene, searching for clues.
Dean should search, too. He knows he should, but he can't stop staring at the crumpled sheets on Sammy's bed, the blanket that lies in the tangled heap on the floor. Sam should be sleepy-eyed and messy-haired and annoyed at Dean for waking him up. He should be making smart-ass comments or faking vomit noises at Dean's exaggerated exploits, or pressing his hands over his ears and demanding that Dean shut up and let him go back to sleep. He should be here but his bed is empty and Dean doesn't know what to do. He's having trouble remembering how to breathe. Stupidly, he wants to ask his father if there's a way for them to turn back time. He shouldn't have gone on that date. He should have stayed at the motel and watched fuzzy TV with Sam.
“Do you smell something?” Dad asks, sniffing at the air.
Dean inhales, crinkling his nose. “What is that?” he asks. There's a hint of something bitter in the room, like old, spoiled food.
“Hm,” Dad says, inscrutable.
“What are we going to do?” Dean asks, feeling all of four years old. Frightened. Helpless.
Dad takes his cellphone from his pocket. “I'm going to make a call. I want you to search this room again, top to bottom. Look for anything out of place.”
Dean obeys, robotic, and Dad moves to step outside. “Who are you going to call?” Dean asks.
Dad pauses, his hand on the broken door. “I know someone,” he says, without turning back. “A psychic. She might be able to help.”
XXX
Dean turns the motel room upside down and inside out, coming up completely empty. Sam has simply vanished from his bed, the rumpled sheets and fallen blanket left behind as the only sign of struggle. Whatever happened, it was fast. Sam didn't even have a chance to grab the knife from under his pillow.
He repacks his and Sam's duffel bags and remakes the beds, hefting the mattresses back onto their frames. Dad still isn't back. How long does the whole psychic thing take anyway? Can't she scry, or whatever is it she does, any faster? It's already - Dean checks his watch - nearly two am. Dean left to pick up Sara around ten. Whoever took Sam could already have a four hour head start.
Certain that the room holds no further clues and unable to wait any longer, Dean heads outside to eavesdrop, scanning the parking lot for a large, pacing figure.
But the parking lot is empty. There's no sign of John Winchester, or his truck. Just like Sam, Dad has disappeared.
Numb with disbelief, Dean gravitates towards the Impala - the only familiar thing that he has left - and braces himself with both hands on the bonnet, forcing himself to breathe before he ends up passing out. Don't panic. Do not panic.
There's a note. A folded square of paper peaks out from beneath one of the windscreen wipers. Dean snatches it up, unfolding it with shaking hands, and tilts the paper so that he can read by the orange glow of the motel's vacancy sign. There's a single sentence, scrawled messily in Dad's hasty handwriting.
I'll get him back.
XXX
Dean paces.
He leaves his father at least a dozen enraged voice-mails and then a dozen more apologizing and pleading for coordinates. The keys to the Impala press grooves into the palm of his hand but they're useless without knowing where to go.
The hours stretch. The sun rises and drags itself inch by inch across the sky. Dad doesn't call back. Dean doesn't know if that's good or bad. He calls all of his father's friends but none of them have heard from John or know of any psychics. Pastor Jim thinks he remembers Dad mentioning one years ago that lived somewhere in Missouri and promises to look into it but it seems like a long shot. Bobby offers to drive out and meet up, which is tempting, but Dean declines. There's no point in both of them wasting their time wearing down the motel carpet.
He tears the room apart again. He puts it back together again. He cleans every weapon in the Impala's trunk and reorganises the first aid kit, leaving it out on his bed when he's finished, in case Dad gets back with Sammy and it's needed in a hurry. He assures an irate motel manager that his father will pay for the broken door before check out and waits tensely while a grumbling maintenance guy installs a temporary chain lock, then he punches a hole in the wall that won't get paid for either.
He gets hungry but he can't bring himself to eat. Is Sam hungry, too? Is he hurt? Is he scared? How can Dean even think about eating at a time like this?
The sun sinks.
Dean paces.
Chapter Two
A/N: One more part, and I promise there will be comfort in the next one!