THEN

Sam Wouldn't Mind If Dean Would Hurry Up Just A Little

Sam thinks he has been captured for five days when the newest captive arrives, but he is not sure.

Could have been longer, or less, and the malatov cocktail of drugs that he was given when they first caught him kept him muddled and cotton headed for some time.

The basement is a windowless hole, so he is unable to keep time by tracking the passing of night and day. He does, however, count the meals (five visits which result in a bowl of scraps and a bowl of water shoved roughly through the small rectangular slot near the floor). The food is unappetizing, but Sam eats anyway; Dean will come for him (he will) and he refuses to put his brother in jeopardy by being too dehydrated or malnourished to help with the escape. With their dangerous lifestyle, Sam has played both the captive and the rescuer before and one truth remains constant. When one Winchester is caught, the other will find them.

It shames him to admit that he wishes it will be soon.

The newest inmate arrives unconscious, as Sam had, a limp form with hair buzzed shorter than his brother's. With the slightest of sounds, Sam scoots forward on the concrete, the soft sounds ignored by the burly form carrying the unconscious bundle.

A booted foot nudges the barred door open in the cell next to his and the body is casually dumped in a way that has Sam wincing in sympathy. The guy might be unconscious now but he will feel its effects when he regains conscious.

Sam had felt those bruises himself for two meals. Two days (he thinks).

A loud clang when the cell door is closed and faint vibrations are felt as he inches closer to the bars to squint at the prone form.

Footsteps echo in the chamber. There is a sound of a weapon being pulled from a holster, then the steady clank! clank! clank! of a billy-club dragging against the bars and Sam flinches.

It is part of the game, he reminds himself.

(He is just pretending he is scared, playing along until Dean gets here. Sam isn't really scared, Winchester's don't scare easily, but he wouldn't mind if Dean decides to hurry it up, just a little.)

The man walking by finds this amusing and chuckles as he raps sharply on his cell.

"Soon." The man promises, like he does each time he comes in the room. He never explains what will happen, but the dark amusement in his voice promises it won't be anything good.

It is the only word Sam has heard since he first awoke in his cell, disoriented and angry. In the beginning, Sam had shouted himself hoarse, first demanding explanations, then later to provoke a response. All to no avail. Other than the food and water, Sam's existence was hardly , more than anything, he found terrifying.

The sixth meal arrives.

Sam's hands shake as he holds the bowl to his lips but only a few drops spill out. He tries to ration the water, knowing that the next meal will not arrive until long after his thirst is renewed. There is a rustle of movement in the next cell, a low groan and Sam carefully sets the plastic bowl down. The ceiling of the cage does not allow for Sam to stand fully upright, so he scoots to the left side and grasps the bars.

"Hey. You okay?"

His voice is still hoarse from the yelling he did two (three? four?) meals ago and his throat hurts but he keeps trying to speak, consciously keeps the pitch soothing, reassuring.

More movement from the cell as the figure tries to sit.

"Where..?" the word is followed by a hiss of pain and Sam's hands clench around the bars in frustration, hating that he can't do anything but watch and talk.

"You okay?" he asks again and this time, as the head turns, he gets his first look at the person in the next cell.

The kid can't be much older than sixteen or seventeen and Sam can only imagine the terror the kid must be feeling. Not every kid has had the advantage of being raised by a hunter. Say what you will about John Winchester's parenting skills – cuddly the man was not - but he did teach Sam how to handle himself in an emergency.

Assess. Evaluate. Calculate. Bide your time son.

Of course, his capturers must have read the John Winchester guide to raising kids because his initial assessment upon waking had shown nothing but a handful of bare cells. No beds conveniently bolted to the floor (bolts can be removed, frames can be dismantled and used as weapons) and observation of the guards had given him very little information. Sam's multiple attempts to draw the attention of the guard had given depressing results.

Now, Sam was just waiting.

Because Dean would come.

Any day now.

The kid proves to be a surprise.

There is no terror, just a calm resignation as his eyes wander around the bare rooms that tells Sam this one is no stranger to kidnappings. At first he does not touch the food, but Sam soon talks him into eating. Sam is sure that he could walk out on his own, but the kid looks so battered that Sam thinks someone will have to carry him.

(He tries not to think about the grumbling of his stomach, the ache in his back from being hunched over. He worries, that if Sam needs his brother's help to walk out, that the kid will be left. Sam has always known Dean's priorities as surely as he knew how to conjugate Latin verbs.)

They trade names.

Given the amount of time the kid was out cold (at least one meal), Sam calculates aloud that is has been close to a week since he was grabbed outside the bakery in Nevada where he had stopped to pick up a slice of pie for Dean and just over a day since Stiles was taken.

"Not taken." Stiles corrects, his voice low and hard.

"What do you mean?"

Stiles sighs, then rolls to the floor with a grunt. He curls sideways, back to Sam as he draws his knees toward his chest.

"It doesn't matter." He mutters wearily.

It takes two more meals for Stiles share.

He had been on spring break from his sophomore year at Cal Tech, visiting friends. Friends he had said, the word uttered in such a snide tone that spoke of a world of hurt and with just a little bewilderment. Something in the way he spoke told Sam that his friends had something to do with his capture. He mentioned the town where he was taken, which was not too far from where Sam had been taken either. This, more than anything, was reassuring.

Dean would come soon.

Sam told Stiles about his brother and he discovered that Stiles had lost his mom to Cancer when he was nine and his father to a heart attack just the year before.

It would be the perfect opening to tell the kid about his own family tragedies, but he doesn't.

Dean arrives before the next meal, blood smeared across his forehead and dripping from the sharpened edge of the machete, a battered rifle bearing their last name strapped across his back.

From the first muffled thud over their head, Sam knew he had arrived. With a sigh, he sinks back against the bars of the cell and allows a smile.

"What's going on?" Stiles wonders aloud.

"Dean." Sam says smugly.

"Should have known you would be resting, while I did all the work Sammy." His brother says wryly. The relief in his eyes tell a different story though, as he skims Sam's form.

"Kind of locked in, Dean." Sam gestures to the cage door and hates how weak he sounds, as if every tremor in his voice deducts an inch from his height and he feels as small as the child who once believed in Santa Claus.

Dean raises the machete and slashes the lock from the cage door on Sam's cell, then walks to Stiles' cage to do the same.

Not as tall as Sam, Stiles emerges from the cell easily and Sam feels just a little graceless as he stoops out. Both men, however, place their hands on the backs of their hips and arch their back in a stretch. The movement makes Sam a little dizzy and he stumbles. Dean is quick to steady him and Sam smiles shakily.

"What took you so long?" he means for the words to be a joke but Dean's face crumples and his brother pulls him roughly into his arms with a choked apology.

For a moment, Sam sinks into the embrace; it was rare to get this level of emotion from Dean and he selfishly soaks up the attention.

The clatter of heavy boots on the floor above though, pull the brothers apart.

"You okay?" Dean asks apologetically. "We gotta…" his eyes skitter upward and Sam reassures him.

"I'm good, man."

Dean turns to Stiles, all business.

"Try to keep up. If more arrive, you need to hold your own. If I have to choose between you or him," he nods toward Sam, "it's no contest."

"Dean…" Sam chides and Dean tightens his grasp on the machete.

"I mean it Sammy."

He really does.

They go up the stairs.

Sam blinks at the brightness of the sunlight, a painful contradiction to the dimness of the basement. The rooms above the basement were large and not as shabby as he expected. The furniture was old but well maintained as were the appliances in the kitchen. Sam feels a little silly, but he thought he would find home in similar to the Benders' but he didn't.

They step outside and Sam sees that his prision was just an ordinary farmhouse, with faded gingham curtains and a wrap around porch.

The Impala smells like home. Dean pulls an old towel from the backseat and wipes the blood from his face. While Stiles crawls into the back seat, Sam slides into the front seat with a weary sigh and reaches out to pat the dash gratefully. He feels the smug glance Dean shoots his way.

"Shut up." He slurs as he relaxes back into the seat as Dean walks around to the drive's side.

Dean turns the key in the ignition and the impala purrs, the sound is like a lullaby to the youngest Winchester.

"See, Baby, I told you he loves you." Dean coos as Sam slips into a dreamless sleep.

When Sam wakes, Dean is pulling into a diner on the outskirts of Carson City, where Sam and Stiles had been held captive. In the back Stiles stirs and straightens; Sam looks at his brother with an raised eyebrow and Dean shrugs.

"Not far. We have only been driving for half an hour." His voice is rough and he clears his throat apologetically. "Thought you might want to eat, then we can crash." He waves a hand toward a flashing neon sign across the street that advertises cable tv and hourly rates.

As hungry as he is, the lure of a bed, no matter how questionable its history is irresistible.

"Can we get the food to go?" Sam asks the question but Stiles hums in agreement. Clearly the other man finds the appeal of a bed greater than food as well.

"Stay here." Dean slides of the car and sprints into the diner. Through the large plate glass window, Sam watches wearily as he speaks briefly to girl at the counter inside, presses a few bills into her hand then is in the car within moments.

"I'm already booked into the room," Dean explains. "I'll get you settled and then run back for the food."

Dean doesn't say it, but settled also implies some form of clean-up. Each cell had contained a covered bucket and though they tried to take care of business with as much dignity as possible , the lack of amenities made washing up afterward impossible.

There aren't words to describe how filthy Sam feels or the stench that must surround him and Stiles.

He is too tired to care.

They rest up for two days (six meals), Sam and Stiles asleep on different beds while Dean obsessively checks the salt and cleans his guns. When Stiles wakes, he takes in the assortment of well-used cloths, gun oils and tools, he makes no comment, just stumbles into the bathroom to relieve himself and then back into the bed furthest from the door.

Stiles doesn't ask about his clothes when they disappear, just accepts the pair of jeans, t-shirt and button up over shirt without comment. The first time Sam sees the kid dressed, he is a little surprised at how he looks like he belongs. With his buzzed head of hair, just a shade darker than Deans and his delicate features, the kid looks like a younger Winchester.

On the morning of the third day, Sam finds Dean at the computer checking out routes to Cal Tech; Sam doesn't like it, he feels responsible for the kid somehow, but he agrees that the kids has been exposed to their life long enough.

With a lifetime of practice, they have their bags packed and stored in the car in the few minutes Stiles spends in the shower and getting dressed.

On the drive to Pasadena to take Stiles back to college, back to his dorm, they happen upon a job in a small town east of Citrus Heights. They past a sign (Welcome to Gloverdale, Birthplace of Major League Baseball Player Tim Jenkins, population 1,102). Sam and Dean share a look and Sam opens the laptop and runs a quick search, something they do to break the monotony on the road.

"Major League player for the Braves from 1997-1999, impressive batting average and career cut short by a snapped ankle just before they went to the world series." Dean winces sympathetically. "Says here that Tim now coaches his hometown high school team."

Dean hums in a half hearted attempt to be interested, Stiles looks out of the backseat window and says nothing.

They are at a gas station; Dean is in the bathroom while Sam and Stiles are inside the store, picking up a few snacks for the last part of the drive.

Sam doesn't pick up on it at first, but he feels Stiles stiffen in alarm beside him. When Sam looks over, he sees the kid purposefully scanning the interior of the store, an expression that he has seen on Dean more times than he can count. This look is a quick survey of exits, threats, potential victims and weapons.

Casually, Sam inventories the room, searching for the threat that alarmed the kid. He finds in the mirror up in the corner of the ceiling- the kind of mirrors that stores used to keep eyes on the merchandise and to discourage potential shoplifters - and sees the tell-tale flash of silver eyes.

"Hey Sam, look at that!" Stiles' voice is full of excitement and innocence as he slaps the back of his hand against Sam's arm, such a change from the quiet man with whom he has shared a room with over the last week, that Sam turns in surprise. "Jesus!" he continues in wonder and walks over to a barrel as he looks over his shoulder at the man behind the counter. "Are these really signed by Tim Jenkins?"

Reverently, he runs his fingers over the shaped wood of the bats until he selects one and tests its weight. Dean walks into the room and Stiles lights up.

"Hey Dean! Look at this. Signed by Tim Jenkins himself." Then Stiles rattles of the players' stats like any overexcited fan boy.

Dean looks at Sam, who keeps his face impassive, but glances meaningfully at the mirror. Dean selects a bat for himself, testing the weight and holding the handle of the bat with one hand and pointing the bat in a pose reminiscent of Babe Ruth declaring a challenge to the pitcher.

"Home Run." Dean declares easily. A few of the other tourists walking around the mid-sized gas station smile as Dean swings the bat in slow motion and clicks his tongue to imitate the sound of the bat connecting with the ball.

"…and the crowd goes wild…it is a home run folks!" Stiles follows up, adding in sound effects of a cheering crowd.

"I'm going to buy one." Stiles announces. "What about you guys?"

"Nah, I'm good." Dean grins, but his eyes track a few of the people as the line at the register shortens. Stiles nods and returns to Sam's side. When they reach the register, Stiles pulls out his wallet and his credit card but Sam tells him to put it away.

"I got this, man." He throws two twenties on the counter and they leave.

They walk over to the Impala and Sam passes out a few colas; Dean opens the door of the Impala and slides the key in the ignition, but does not turn it.

Stiles and Sam lean back against the Impala and watch the front of the store.

"Don't know what they were, but I counted two." Stiles gestures toward the store with his cola and takes a sip.

"What do you mean, "what they were"?" Dean asks slow.

Stiles puts his cola on the gravel covered ground and picks up his bat to give it a thorough inspection.

"Not human. Could be Fey, but I have never seen a Fey with eyes like that; not a werewolf either." Stiles curls his lip and there is a bitter sadness in his eyes along with something else that Sam can't name.

The two shifters walk out of the store and climb into a battered orange Datsun. Without a word, the trio get into the Impala and Dean pulls out of the parking lot, heading in the same direction. Sam twists in the front seat until he can see Stiles.

"What do you know about werewolves?" he asks, unable to keep the curiosity from his voice. Beside him, Dean flexes his fingers around the steering wheel.

The teen looks out the window, hands sliding rhythmically over the curve of the bat.

"I know enough."