I've always been a Bobby gal, love the crusty old man and miss him dearly. Sniff-snuffle and sob. And of course, I adore Cas, but I usually leave him out of any story because it's too easy to let him be Mr. Fix-it-all. So if he appears out-of-character, it's because:

I've tweaked and twisted and ignored an issue/fact or two and created a few of my own which led me astray a wee bit from the way it appears Season 8 is being written. Whew!

*Totally, completely, utterly, absolutely, unabashedly, quoted, word-for-word: In other words, I done-did stole it!

*Band - Airbourne - Song – From the Bottom of the Well - Writers, Ryan and Joel O'Keef.

The ground was damp, rocky, unyielding and uncomfortable. The air hung heavy with a nauseating odor that impeded his ability to breathe deeply. The darkness surrounding him, cloaked in shadows and images, danced and darted at him with dizzying speed that left him unable to determine if he were sitting or lying down.

He extended a hand, fingers walking until they encountered slime and squishy - God, he hoped - squishy mud. Eyes opened, he waited until they adjusted to the gloom, then lifted his head to look around. He couldn't see much, it was dim, nearly dark but he could ascertain he was lying on his back.

He let his eyes wander as he took mental inventory. His head ached, but didn't hurt so he was pretty sure he hadn't suffered a head injury. Both hands flexed and fisted and each arm raised at will with no pain. Encouraged by his apparent mobility, he placed a palm flat on either side of his hips and pushed himself upright. No pain in his shoulders or his belly or his chest; a twinge or two, but nothing he couldn't shake off.

Reaching into one of his many pockets, he withdrew a lighter and a flashlight. Switching the LED beam on, he flashed it around, up, down and back around. Nothing but dripping water on wet walls made of rock, covered in slime and mud. He flashed the light upwards but couldn't see the distance to the top of what might be an old mine shaft or - he aimed the beam at the wall, slowly swinging it back and forth, a roundish wall - a long forgotten well.

A well, a mine shaft. Did it matter? It was a fucking hole in the ground and he was at the bottom of it with no easy way out.

He swallowed. Great. Walls made of stone laid by hand and worn smooth over the years from water. There were neither hand holds nor tree roots or convenient protruding rocks to use to climb out. He pointed the beam at the ground; slime, moss, puddles of water and mud and - and he didn't want to know what else. Everything was wet and rock and mud. No leafs or twigs with which to light a fire. Just the broken, rotten pieces of timber from the lid he had fallen through. The majority of the lid remained intact somewhere above his head, so no wood to keep a fire going should he manage to get one lit.

Great. He turned the flashlight off and searched his pockets for his cell phone. It came out in pieces. His watch, which had an alarm, a compass, a calendar and was water proof was still attached to his wrist and smashed.

Okay, bright side! Hand-dug wells laid with rock weren't deep and it appeared this one no longer filled with water. Further proof his deduction the well wasn't deep was while he was stiff and sore and bruised; he hadn't suffered broken bones or serious injury from the fall. No, he couldn't see day light, but perhaps it was dark, the time of day being night. Besides, what was left of the lid somewhere above his head had been overgrown with weeds and grass and bushes so really, it could be any time of day or night.

Well, time to gain his feet and explore his temporary prison cell. Maybe there was another way out. He snorted, yeah, right. When had anything ever gone his way? He pulled his knees towards his chest to push to his feet by using his heels only to find his left foot had grown independent of his body. His right foot obeyed and sat positioned where he wanted it, but his left leg remained stretched out in front of him.

Huh, well, that was odd. He turned his flashlight back on and illuminated his foot. It was there, at the end of his leg, but…..he rotated his ankle, well, he tried but it wouldn't obey. What the fuck was that? Did that hurt? That should hurt. Why didn't that hurt?

The top of one's foot shouldn't sport an adornment of rebar. He bit his lip and concentrated on moving his foot closer to his body so he could grab it with his hands. The age-old dilemma of doing what one should, what one thought best and fighting one's natural instincts ping-ponged in his head. He managed to flex his knee and draw his leg up slightly but got no further and had to lay down before he became overwhelmed with dizziness.

Leave it in or pull it out.

His toes twitched and the darkness around him exploded in white bursts and he had to fight to keep from passing out. As far as he could remember, there were no vital veins or arteries in a foot so while he may suffer some blood loss, it was doubtful he would bleed out. He could make a bandage with his socks and use his knife to tear his flannel shirt into strips.

Whether it was rebar or some other piece of steel or iron or metal, it was no doubt rusted and covered in bacteria and germs from being exposed to whatever over the years and to leave it in risked major infection.

He didn't expect immediate rescue. It would take Sam some time to locate him but he had no doubt his brother would find him. If nothing else, the kid was determined and stubborn. Question was, would it be in time? Pulling it out would be a gruesome task and would hurt like hell and he probably wouldn't be able to stop himself from passing out but leaving it through his foot could cause worse problems. All he could hope for was he didn't pass out and if he did, he woke up coherent enough to bandage his foot before he lost too much blood and succumbed to shock.

He thumped his head against the ground in frustration until it hurt. Decision made, he sat up, shrugged out of his coat, removed his flannel shirt, re-donned his coat, withdrew a knife and a roll of duct tape from yet another pocket and began to make bandages. Removing his right boot to get his sock was easily done. Putting his boot back on minus warm, cozy sock had him grimacing.

Using his right foot and his hands, he pushed his ass backwards until his back was against the wall. Maybe if he wiggled and jiggled his foot, the length of bar would fall out? Worth a try, right? Yeah, all that accomplished was him breaking out in a heavy sweat and gasping for breath.

Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, he pulled his left knee towards his chest until he was able to curl his foot towards his thigh. He had to pause and rest, and give his breathing a chance to catch up and even out. It also gave him a chance to consider his situation.

Maybe he should leave the boot tied tight. Might help with the bleeding, but – no. No, his foot might swell and then he'd never get his boot off unless he cut it off and he was neither strong nor coordinated enough to cut the leather and not his foot as well. If all went as he planned, he'd be able to untie his boot, remove the rebar, bandage his foot and replace his boot.

"Right." he muttered hoarsely, throat dry and reminding him it would like some water. "When does anything go as you planned?" he untied the laces, worked the tongue of the boot loose, carefully lifted his foot from laying on its left side and put his heel down with his toes up. Next thing he knew, he was gagging on bile that would've choked him had he been lying down. "Never do anything half-assed do ya Dean." he let his foot fall to its side and switched on his flashlight to verify what he should've already guessed. His foot hadn't been simply stabbed with a length of rebar, it'd been impaled.

His breathing increased until he was panting and sweat beaded so heavily on his brow, it dripped into his eyes, causing him to drag the back of his hand across his forehead. Knowing he had an iron or steel or whatever kind of rod through his foot wasn't the same as seeing it confirmed. The rebar protruded through the bottom of his boot that had near a 2" sole. It had taken some force to accomplish that.

Like a band-aide Dean. Just rip it out.

Vision now white, his head spinning, he bit his lip, grabbed the rebar with both hands and knowing he had to yank it out the first time for he wouldn't have the stomach to attempt it a second time; pulled with all the strength he possessed.

It wasn't how difficult it was to tug the entire length of rebar through the sole of his boot and not stop when he felt it slide through his foot and scrape bone; it wasn't the pain; it wasn't the stomach-churning scent or feel of blood; it wasn't the flood of warmth that surged through his body nor was it the dizziness that exploded in his head, that gave him his last moment of coherency.

It was the sound.

The sickening sound of protesting muscle and tendon reluctant to relinquish its hold on the foreign object that had dared to invade where it didn't belong. The squelch, heard despite his boot, when the rebar popped out of his foot and his skin attempted to suck it back in, is what caused his eyes to roll and his heart to flutter.

The rebar fell from numb fingers and he slumped sideways. Dimly he knew he should fight the pull of blackness and tend to his foot but he had neither the strength nor the desire and he sank into thankful, painless oblivion.

He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, having no way of knowing the passing of time. He woke up groggy and thirsty, foot bare and throbbing and pulsating, the pain felt clear to his hip. By scratching and crawling his way up the wall, he gained his feet. By bearing all his weight on his heel, he hobbled to an opposite wall where water trickled steadily down the rocks.

It was time-consuming, painstakingly slow and he blacked-out several times, making the process even longer, but he soaked one sock and several strips of flannel and cleaned both wounds on his foot best as he could in the dark with shaking hands. He cupped his hands and slurped water, not as much as he wanted but enough to quench the worst of his thirst and then exhausted, let himself pass out.

After waking up the third or fourth or twentieth time, he bound his foot with his make-shift bandages, replaced his boot, tied it as tight as he could and struggled to his feet. He tested his weight on his bum foot, concluded it wouldn't support him and resumed hobbling on his heel as he explored his prison.

The only way out, was up. He was searching for the driest place to lie down so he could get some rest before attempting a climb when he swore he heard a squeak. He forgot why he was hopping and hobbling, put his weight on the wrong foot and pitched forward, landing on his face. Okay, here was good.

Lack of decent water, pain, infection, shock and loss of blood conspired to keep him floating in and out of consciousness with no knowledge of how many days he'd spent at the bottom of the well. He dreamed, he hallucinated, he envisioned and he wrote a song and he was quite sure as some point, he sang it.

I gotta get out I gotta break free

Ain't gonna live in misery
My minds made up I'm leaving today
Come hell or high water I will break these chains

Gonna scratch my way, claw my way,
Dig my way, back to the top
Cause I never say die, I never give in
I never stop giving it all that I got
I'm breaking out of hell

From the bottom of the well
It's a long way down
From the bottom of the well
I gotta get out
From the bottom of the well

It's so dark and cold down here
I'm all alone but I got no fear
Cause I Have the will to beat this fate
And get back up to the light of day

Gonna scratch my way, claw my way,
Cause I never say die, I never give in
I never stop giving it all that I got
I'm breaking out of hell

From the bottom of the well
It's a long way down
From the bottom of the well
I gotta get out
Diggin and clawing and scratching and kicking my way
Back to the top I will fight for the light of day
Gonna find the way yeah

I made a death wish and it came true
I'm under water black and blue
But if you think I'm done you better think again
You better think again cause I don't know the meaning of death

I'm gonna scratch my way, claw my way
Never stop givin it all that I got

I'm breaking out of hell*

When he was conscious, he didn't know where he was or understand the situation he found himself in. He thought himself back in hell, back in purgatory, lost and alone drowning in grief at Lisa's, hurt and betrayed wandering through heaven. He grew weaker, his periods of waking up and knowing he needed to move and satisfy his bodies needs or try to climb or find another way out grew further apart until he finally submitted and knew no more.

***000***

"My, my, he's a handsome one, isn't he?"

"Hey, didn't know you were on tonight." Diane, the nurse going off shift, glanced at the wall clock. "You're in early, thought you were still on vacation?"

"Oh, those young ones these days." Beth, the nurse coming in for the shift change, chuckled. "You know how last night being Friday leaves her today; she's hung over so they called and asked if I wanted to pick up an extra shift. I only cut my vacation short by a day. So, how long have we had the pleasure of this one?"

"Came in Wednesday evening." Diane had her arms crossed on the bedrail. "Rangers found him out in the canyon near the foot of the Big Horn range."

"Any idea what he was doing out there?" Beth asked. "Rather odd place to be. There's nothing out there. Well, unless he was hunting?" she questioned but Diane shrugged. "Anyone come in with him?"

"No, and he hasn't been awake since he came in. The doctor says there's no reason for him not to have woken up by now other than the fact he's chosen not to."

"Huh, that doesn't make sense. Can't the rangers who brought him in answer some questions?"

"They found him unconscious on a hiking path. He had no identification on him, no cell, we don't even know his name." she paused. "Rangers found no campsite, a permit hadn't been issued and he wasn't exactly dressed for hiking either. Dunno, remains a mystery."

"I'm telling you, someone is missing this man."

"You would think."

"Have the police been contacted?" Beth questioned. Diane, still leaning on the bedrails nodded with a sad smile. "And no one has reported him missing? You mean he's been here three days and no one has come to see him? Not once? No one's called?"

"No one." Diane pushed off the rail. "I like to come in here and just talk to him, you know? So he hears a voice. It's not much, but no one should be alone like this. Maybe if someone he knew were here to talk to him, he'd want to wake up. I feel sad for him."

"He appears healthy. Someone has taken care of him. I mean, he doesn't have the look being homeless or an addict."

"Dr. Simone believes he's just exhausted. Mentally, physically and emotionally, exhausted."

"Huh." Beth gave it some thought. "No wedding band. Finger doesn't look like it's missing a ring."

"He wakes up, well, opens his eyes, looks around but it's like he doesn't see anything, you know? There's no head injury, they had him for an MRI. Dunno what kind of job he does, but it seems it's something physical. Poor guy has scars all over. He's been shot, had broken bones, stabbed."

"Odd tattoo, never seen one like it before."

"He'll need a bath and a shave…"

"For once, I won't mind you leaving that chore for me." Beth peered closely at the pale, still, seemingly sleeping man on the bed. He looked relaxed and peaceful yet she swore she detected a slight hitch in his breathing. Yes, yes, in fact, she was quite sure his eyelashes fluttered the tiniest bit.

"Ladies?" an orderly popped his head through the door. "Need you in room 312. Good to see you back Beth, how was vacation?"

The nurses were still visible in the doorway leaving the room when Sam's eyes popped open. Three days? Three days? He'd been here three, no - wait, four days? Wednesday and today was Saturday... Really? Seriously? Dammit, where the hell was Dean? He'd been here three days and Dean hadn't come to get him or at least called? Oh hell, something was wrong, something was definitely wrong. Sore ribs and aching head and battered psyche aside, it was time to quit lounging around and go find his brother.

"Okay handsome, time for that bath…" Beth stopped in the open doorway. "What the hell?" upon seeing the bed empty, Beth checked the bathroom, the immediate hallway and the public restroom just down the hall. "Now, where the hell did he go? DIANE!"

Sam walked away from the hospital with literally, the clothes on his back. He had no money, no id, no wallet, not a credit card, not a cell phone. All he had was his watch, pocket knife and lighter that had been in the dresser drawer along with his shirts and jeans. He didn't even have a coat warm enough against the biting chill in the air.

He didn't like to steal or pick pockets and he wasn't as good at it as his brother was, but when one was desperate, one found a crowded public place, picked a mark and helped themselves to both a wallet and a cell phone. Dean could pick the pocket of anyone, Sam preferred people in a social setting who tended to be careless and distracted and though it was still early for a crowded happy hour, finding a bar with a throng of afternoon drinkers was never hard.

Taking only the cash from the wallet, he left it on the bar and quietly left the pub and walked down the street, calling all the cell phones he knew them to have. All five went to voicemail. Cursing, he entered a café and ordered a bagel and coffee while taking advantage of the phones capabilities and connected to the free Wi-Fi. He needed to find out exactly what town he was in and how close it was to where he and Dean had booked a motel room.

After he finished eating, he called a cab, left the phone on the table, bought a packet of aspirin from the bathroom vending machine and walked out. He was in a town ten miles away from the motel and he didn't have time to dawdle. If today was Saturday than Dean had been missing since Wednesday and Sam couldn't afford to delay trying to find him any longer. Why had Sam been found but not Dean? Where the hell was he?

The room was as they had left it with no signs that Dean had been back. Sam's duffel with his clothing along with his razor and toothbrush were there. So was Dean's. The bag of various weapons they kept with them in the room was not. The laptop was. The car wasn't. Of Dean's five cellphones, two rang within the motel room before going to voice mail. Two others rang before going to voicemail but weren't in the room. The fifth, the current one Dean kept with him, went directly to voicemail. So, it was either turned off or wasn't receiving a signal. Tracking by GPS was not an option.

They'd been in the forest searching for an old, barely marked, hand dug grave from the previous century. They must have been close for old Harold had made an appearance. The last thing Sam remembered was distracting the spirit so Dean didn't go over the side of a cliff.

He frowned, playing with his phone. Surely Dean hadn't gone over the cliff? Sam's head had made contact with a tree and he'd woken up in the hospital with two nurses discussing how he'd come to be there. He could easily get back to where they'd been but could he easily find Dean on his own? And if he did, would he be able to get Dean out?

He made a few friendly phone calls. No John Doe's in jail and other than himself, the hospital. Their contact at the police department they'd been working with on the case hadn't seen Dean since Wednesday morning when both he and Sam had left the station. Neither Garth nor Sheriff Mills had heard from him. He let them both believe they'd had yet another argument, exchanged a few pleasantries and allowed his frustration to show only after he'd hung up. He sat and stewed; if he found out Dean had gone home with some bimbo from a bar, he'd break his fucking jaw.

As quickly as he'd considered it, he discarded the thought. It was doubtful Dean would have spent the last three nights playing house with some girl with Sam alone in the hospital. No, not doubtful, unimaginable. So, then, where the hell was he?

Sam called a few hunters from Bobby's contact book, asking around for information on either himself or Dean, but no one revealed they'd spoken to or heard anything about either of them. "Dammit Dean." he tossed his phone on the bed and decided on a hot shower. "Where the hell are you?"

The hot as he could stand it, twenty-minute shower didn't alleviate the sick feeling churning in his belly. No matter how he looked at it, there was no way Dean would have just walked away from him. If for some reason he'd felt it hadn't been safe to visit, he would have at least called the hospital until such time he deemed it safe to remove Sam from its care. The fact he hadn't been heard from confirmed Sam's worst fears.

Dean had been taken or injured and was unable to communicate. Sam flat-out refused to consider any other alternative.

He stepped from the shower, dried off and with a towel around his waist, sat down on his bed, wrists supported on his knees, Dean's spare phone dangling from his lax fingers. He flipped it open, thumbed through its contacts then closed the phone. He set it aside, picked up the TV remote and turned the boob-tube to a station airing the 6 o'clock local news but his attention returned to the phone.

"Screw it." he snatched it up, flipped it open, scrolled through the contacts, highlighted the one he wanted and thumbed dial before he could change his mind. He was exhausted and emotionally torn apart but when his brother was missing, he'd call anyone for help. Even if it was someone, or something he neither liked nor trusted.

"Dean. What's up?"

"It's Sam." his announcement was met with silence and he pulled the phone from his ear to make sure he hadn't been hung up on. "Hey?"

"What do you want?"

"Aah, I'm…" maybe this hadn't been such a good idea. "I'm looking for Dean."

"And you think I have him?"

"Have you heard from him?"

"Why are you calling me Sam?"

""I, ah, ended up in the hospital during a hunt." Sam said tersely, he hated having to explain himself. "I haven't seen him since."

"He's probably shacked up with one of your nurses. You should know him well enough to guess where he is."

"Yeah, I do." Sam snapped. "And he's not."

Silence.

"What do you want from me Sam?"

"Have you heard from him or not?"

"No, I haven't."

"Fine." he pulled the phone from his ear a second time, intent on hanging up when he heard his name called. "What?"

"Look, you wouldn't have called me unless you were worried. You said you were in the hospital. Were you hurt?"

"Not seriously."

"When?"

"When what?"

"When were you admitted to the hospital?"

"Wednesday."

"Wednesday? You waited three days to call around looking for him? What the hell's the matter with you?"

"I was unconscious." Sam said defensively. "Woke up a couple of hours ago."

"You just said you weren't seriously hurt!"

"I wasn't." Sam huffed, scowling at the phone. "Just…sometimes my head….."

"Concussion? I mean, are you thinking straight?"

"Yes." he snapped. "And I'm fine."

"Where are you? The hospital?"

"No, soon as I heard Dean hadn't called or come in with me, I left. I'm at our motel room. Our stuff is here, but there's no sign of him. Car's gone and his cell is either turned off or isn't getting a signal."

"You, uh—you okay?"

That stumped Sam and it took him a moment to regroup. "Yeah, I…yeah, I'm good."

"So, where are you?"

"Why?"

"Because Dean is missing and apparently not of his own free will. If you called me looking for him, then you've reached a dead-end in your search for him."

"I haven't begun to search for him yet."

"But you've called around."

"I didn't call for your help."

"You don't have to take it and I ain't offering it but I'm gonna come looking for him. Save us both some time and tell me where you are. We both want to find him; we might as well do it together."

Sam was silent. "Cowley, Wyoming."

"I'll be there tomorrow."

"I'll….let you know, I get a lead." Sam flipped the phone closed and pushed to his feet. He might have been asleep for three days but he was weak and tired. He needed to eat and get a decent night of natural sleep so he'd be able to think straight. Maybe then he'd be able to come up with a perfectly acceptable explanation as to where Dean was.

Ten minutes later, vending machine package of cupcakes in one hand, bottle of caffeinated cola in the other, Sam was walking in search of a car he could 'borrow'. Sleep and dinner would have to wait. It was dark and cold outside and his brother had spent the last three nights out in it. If Sam had anything to say about it, he wouldn't be spending a fourth.

Benny disconnected. Good thing he didn't require sleep the same way humans did. He had a long drive ahead of him.