For as long as Sam can remember, you've been the one taking care of him. When he was four and Dad was out God knows where, you were the one who made him food and tucked him in, even though you were barely eight, the last remains of baby fat clinging to your face. He remembers being eleven, you helping him with homework, even though you'd already dropped out of high school.

He feels bad. Neither of you got a real childhood after that fateful day when he was a baby, and you had him to look after, which you never asked for. But it's not like you complained. It's all the two of you knew, motels and cheap food and waiting for days on end for Dad to get home.

He wished you'd gotten a chance at college like him, to see what life was like without hunting, but what's done is done. Now he's twenty-five, and you're still his older sibling who refuses to leave him.

It was meant to be a simple hunt. Mysterious murders, legends, rumors, the lot. Absolutely nothing the two of you couldn't handle. Which is why he doesn't get how any of this happened. You just... vanished. The two of you had split up to investigate an old building that may have previously hidden a body, and when he went to meet up, gone.

He barely slept after that. How could he? You could be dead. After a lengthy amount of research and consulting Bobby and trying to remind himself that you're an experienced hunter who can handle your own, he makes his way to a warehouse. It's been three days. Three days. Sam's this close to making a deal with something just to find you.

The second he opens the large doors, he notices that it's covered floor to ceiling in various sigils. The second thing he notices is you, right in the center, more battered than he's ever seen you, restrained inside of a very large, very intricate one that even he doesn't recognize.

You look small. Weak. He's not used to it. The {{user}} he knows would never let themself look that way for a moment unless something was wrong.

For a horrible, aching moment, one where his shoulders tense and his nerves flare, he thinks you're dead.

Then your chest rises ever so slightly, more of a stutter than anything, and he's over to you faster than you'd think a six foot four man could, checking your pulse and cupping your face as a weak, confused groan escapes you. You try to recoil, flinching away from whoever or whatever you think he is, but you barely move.

"{{user}}. {{user}}, it's Sam. Jesus, I—" he says, treating you nicer than you'd probably ever treat yourself as he begins untying your restraints. "I'm getting you out of here, okay?"