Author's Note: Thank you so much to SendintheClowns for such an awesome beta job. This one of my darker pieces with slight references to non-con and self-harm (not graphic)

Poor Unfortunate Souls

It was seven days after Sam left when Dean first heard from him. Maybe not heard, but it was seven days when Sam called.

Dean knew it was Sam because of the caller ID, it proclaimed Sam's name the moment his shrill ringtone filled the motel room. But when it all came down to it, the caller ID (the newest feature on his cell phone) was not necessary because he knew it was Sam without thinking since he knewhis brother.

Regardless of who was smarter, Dean or his phone, Dean scrambled to answer it. Not because he missed his brother, he could survive more than seven days without the dweeb…or because he thought Sam abandoned him for Stanford, even though it did look that way. He threw open the phone because of the gnawing in the pit of his stomach. The twisting the churning he had been ignoring for seven daysever since Sam walked out the door with a single duffle bag.

It was the type of wrong feeling that made him think something more terrible had happened than the yelling and the fighting and the desertion.

After he picked up the phone only to hear the desperate gasping of his brother, he realized that for how wrongthe feeling was; it had been even more horrifyingly right in the end.

Sam never said a word on the phone. Not that he needed to, the desperate godawful gasping was enough for Dean to grab his keys and slide into the impala without even thinking about the unlocked motel room and his drunken father already passed out in bed. A location would have been nice to have known, but in the end it wasn't necessary thanks to the newest GPS feature on his cell phone (a must for any hunting team).

He found Sam in the middle of nowhere. He simply pulled off to the side of the road, and Sam entered the passenger side before Dean even undid his seatbelt.

One look at Sam's pale face and shaking hands, Dean knew both of them could not get back to the motel fast enough. He threw the car into gear, his own hands fidgeting against the steering wheel.

Under the periodic flashes of the bright streetlights, Dean realized he could pretend everything was normal and Sam just changed his mind about the whole Stanford thing and was ready to come home.

It would have been really easy to do too except for the fact that Sam was wearing the same clothes he had been when he left…that Sam seemed to have lost his single duffel bag…that Sam's hair looked like it hadn't been washed in at leastseven days.

But even those facts could have been easily explained and ignored, but there was also blood splattered on Sam's shirt and strange small rashes on Sam's neck that Dean could not recognize for the life of him.

…And Sam had yet to say one goddamn word.

For some reason, that fact bothered Dean the most.

Dean continued to sneak glances the last ten miles back to the motel room. (And, really, shouldn't Sam have been closer to California? He had been gone for seven days.)

He was pretty sure he was handling the situation well. Sam obviously didn't want to talk, and, right now, Dean wasn't going to push the issue. Something bad had obviously happened but he wasn't going to jump to conclusions until he heard it from Sam. He just needed to get back to the motel room and everything would be okay.

At least, that was what he told himself until he saw the ligature marks on Sam's wrists.

After that, he had the sudden overwhelming desire to punch everything in sight.

Dean wasn't quite sure how he made it make to the motel room. He couldn't even remember driving after seeing the marks (rope burns…something used ropes).

The only evidence of his drive was his stiff hands from where he clenched the steering wheel so tight.

Sam didn't seem to notice, or if he did he didn't say anything (had yet to say a single thing) about it.

Sam appeared strangely calm when Dean pulled in front of the motel room. The same room where the Stanford letter was discovered (If you walk out that door, don't you ever come back).

Dean always thought that if- when Sam decided to come back, he would be the cool and collected one instead of the one sitting in the car trying to untie the knot in his stomach.

Then again he never imagined Sam coming back with blood on his shirt and rope burns- …he wasn't going to think about that. There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for that.

Dean followed Sam towards the seedy motel room, so closely that he almost collided into Sam when he stopped in the middle of the doorway. Dean peered around Sam's eerily still form to see his father sitting at the only table.

John lifted his head and stared at Sam with neutral eyes. "We'll talk in the morning," his voice rough but alert.

It was clear that his father was not as drunk as Dean had assumed.

Sam didn't say anything, just nodded his head and walked to the bathroom.

Dean lumbered off to his (and now Sam's) bedroom, listening to the shower running behind paper thin walls. Without even bothering with his clothes, he crashed onto his bed. As he stared up at the ceiling, part of him already knew that his father and Sam never were going to talk the next morning.

Sam was acting weird.

It had taken Dean thirty seconds to notice it and two days to confirm it.

But it wasn't geek-boy weird or nerdy weird. Just weird.

First, there was the flinching. Sam, while not the smoothest person Dean knew, always had an underlying grace to the way he held himself. A grace that seemed to dissolve in the seven days he was gone.

Now Sam held himself like he was uncomfortable in his own body. It reminded Dean of Sam's first growth spurt when he was fifteen, except this was a hundred times worse. Instead of hitting his head on things (and providing Dean constant amusement), Sam seemed to wrap up inside himself, like he couldn't trust his own body.

Since he had returned, if Sam wasn't actively doing something he'd get this far off look on his face, like he was disconnected from the world. But if there any type of movement, Sam would flinch and then he would get that look. The look that Dean learned to recognize as disappointment.

Disappointment in others, in the world, but most of all disappointment in himself.

The strangest habit Sam acquired over the seven days he was gone was how he sat. He was always learning on an armrest or his pulled up knee. But most of the time, if there was room, Sam just lay down.

Dean couldn't quite figure out why that bothered him so much.

Most of all, Sam had yet to say a single word. Even in his sleep, no matter how restless he got (and Dean wondered how he didn't wake himself up with all that moving around), Sam's mouth was sealed shut.

Of course Dean tried to talk to Sam about it. What awesome brother wouldn't?

He tried five times over the past two days. Every time he brought it up, a disinterested glaze would form over Sam's eyes and he would walk away like it didn't really matter.

Dean had thought about forcing Sam to talk. But Sammy never responded well to force, and, to be honest, Dean was pretty sure he didn't want to know anyway.

"I found a hunt in Idaho. I think it's best if you and your brother stay here while I check it out."

Dean found himself only nodding. He couldn't quite find the energy to do much else.

Sometimes he wondered if whatever caught Sam's tongue had a hold of his too.

His father didn't seem to notice the lack of response anyway.

John paused for a moment with his hand on the doorknob. Dean knew what he was going to say before his opened his mouth.

"I want you to find out what's going on with Sam while I'm gone."

And he left without another word.

It hit Dean when they were sparring.

Well, actually, Sam hit Dean when they were sparring. And Dean hit back because…that was the point to sparring.

Dean wasn't even sure where he hit Sam, the punch was practically a reflex, but it was like he flipped a switch inside of Sam.

Sam barreled towards him, both fists pounding on anything within reach.

The first strike landed directly beneath Dean's eye, almost shattering his cheekbone. Startled and confused, Dean quickly evaded the onslaught of punches, surprised at the amount of speed and force behind each hit. Dean would have easily been pummeled if it wasn't for the fact that Sam didn't seem to bother with aiming.

It became clear that the fight was no longer about physical training to Sam; it was something much more personal.

The moment Sam gave him an opening Dean sprinted into Sam, pushing both of them onto the hard ground. Moving on autopilot, Dean flipped Sam on his stomach and pinned his right arm behind his back.

Dean barely had a chance to catch his breath when he felt the shaking (trembling) beneath him.

He looked down at Sam.

Everything slammed into him at once.

The disappearance, the rope burns, the silence, the flinching. The small rashes on Sam's neck. Hickeys.

Dean swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

Most of all, the way Sam was having a full blown panic attack because of the way he was shoved down with someone on top of him.

Exactly like when he was –

Dean scrambled off of Sam like he was burned.

Why didn't he see it before? All the pieces were there, he just didn't want to see what horrible combination it made.

Dean opened his mouth but no sound came out.

Sam slowly rolled over onto his back. His shaking had subsided except for the occasional tremors.

"Sam…Sammy." Dean whispered, finally finding his voice.

Sam immediately stood up and moved towards their motel room.

Before he missed his chance, Dean leapt forward and grabbed Sam's arm. The moment his skin touched his brother's, Sam whirled around and shoved Dean with more force than necessary. Stunned, Dean fell back down and watched as Sam stormed back to the motel.

For the first time in his life, Dean felt completely useless.