Thank you so much for all the feedback for this story! I was a little unsure about posting it, but it's grown to be one of my favorites. I was going to split up the last part, but I think I've tortured you all enough! I added an epilogue just to tie it up a little more and as a thank you for the support. Please let me know what you think.

Chapter 3

Wintry wind plucked at the sleeping bag. The door clanged loudly against the frame. Sam knew somethings were broken and torn up inside and that there should have been considerable pain, but he was placidly and gravely numb. Snow flakes filtered in from outside, glittering in the dark like frosty fireflies. It was pretty, peaceful.

The phone was heavy in his hand. He'd forgotten his lifeline.

It was a cheap burner. A variation of the kind Sam had used hundreds of times on the job. He relied on muscle memory, opening with the phone with a flick his thumb and dialing blindly. The SEND button was large and raised and he pressed it hard. The beckoning voice was tinny and wolfish but it was definitely Dean. Sam's head swiveled towards it. His attempt to speak angered his malfunctioning throat. He only managed a ragged sound, like the scraping of metal over rocks. Sam punched the keys instead. "444" was Winchester code for "COME NOW" or "HELP."

"I'm on it, Sammy, you hear me? I'm coming."

A tear of relief dribbled down his cheek and Sam closed his eyes, wounded and weak, but waiting.

"Sammy! Jesus!"

The edge of the bag, that the wind had pushed over Sam's face, lifted hesitantly, like Dean expected to find a corpse. Sam eyes were open and they refused to focus on his brother's face. The hands on his cheeks were warm and gentle and Sam was so thrilled that it was finally over that he nearly passed out again.

"No, no, Sammy, eyes on me. Stay with me, okay?" A hand left his cheek to grope the chain still looped around his neck. "What did those sick freaks do to you? I'm gonna get this off you and we're gonna go, okay, Sammy?"

Sam tried to speak, but Dean shook his head. "Not yet, Sam. We can save talk therapy for later."

Dean grimaced, hissing in sympathy, as he tried to untangle the chain without moving Sam. It took patience and a steady hand-something Dean didn't seem to have. He was unshaven and jittery, and Sam knew he'd been subsisting on caffeine and terror for the past few days. He tossed the chain aside and put his hands on Sam's shoulders. "Let's get you up, huh? Can you walk?"

The agony Sam hadn't missed earlier returned, tenfold. Sam grabbed Dean's collar, eyes widening, throat locking down on the consequent screams. When Dean turned back to him, Sam mouthed one word: SHOT.

"They shot you?! Where?" Dean whipped back the sleeping bag and cursed sight of Sam's mangled leg. "All right, looks like you get the cavalry."

He pulled off his jacket and bundled Sam in that, then replaced the dirty sleeping bag to keep him warm. "I was going crazy when they snatched you, Sammy. I'm so sorry I couldn't get here sooner. You're doin' good though, got them running scared. Bet you tried to escape, huh? I can take it from here..." Dean's hand raked through his dirty, half-frozen hair. The motion was gentle and comforting. Sam smiled with his split lips. The world was small again so it only contained the one thing Sam always needed: his big brother.

-SPN-

Dean had memorized all the times Sam had been hospitalized.

Being born into a family of hunters who'd opted to duke it out instead of hug it out, the list was ridiculously extensive.

But he never got used to seeing Sam swathed in a gown, hooked up to monitors, restless with pain even the drugs couldn't touch. It took a slightly larger piece of him each time, especially since he'd been snatched under Dean's nose.

Dean stood outside of Sam's hospital room cracking his knuckles and almost twitching from his last triple red eye. He watched as the nurses examined his airways, and administered more drugs to combat the infection from the gunshot wound that had festered for two days. At least the doctors weren't toying with the idea of taking the leg anymore.

"Poor, pitiful Moose. I can't remember the last time I've seen him look this side of craptacular," Crowley tsked, suddenly standing next to Dean. "No, wait, it was last Thursday."

Dean turtled, shoulders hunching up to this ears. Crowley's voice was always like nails on the world's evilest chalkboard. Nurses walked by, frowning at the fluorescent lights flickered above him, never knowing he was The Prince of Darkness. Crowley carried a rather extravagant bouquet of flowers—black roses, naturally—and had a fluffy, stuffed moose tucked under one arm.

"You called, Peaches, and I came running. It's been a while since I've been in hospital. Should I go all 'Terms of Endearment' on the hot nurses? Make sure Sammy gets his morphine?"

Dean set his jaw and crossed his arms. "Are you done?"

"No, but do go on. Lemme guess, you need a favor?"

"Yahtzee, and you might like this one."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "You must have me confused with the traitor in a trenchcoat. I only heal people when I get payment, but darling, your soul's as black as mine."

"I'd sooner put Sam in Gitmo before I'd let you heal him. You might give him antlers or something. I want you to get the sons of bitches that did this to my brother."

Crowley perked up a bit. "Outsourcing your revenge? My, how corporate we've become."

Dean tamped down his rage and stepped closer to Crowley, speaking lowly as an orderly walked by, checking on the broken light. "If you want us to take down Dick Roman, we don't have time to be kidnapped and tortured by whackadoo hunters."

"Simmer down, killer. You had me at hello. Can I kill them, pretty please with sulfur on top?"

"Do what you want. Their souls are yours for the slashing." Dean shrugged. "Leave the kid, Luke, to me. Otherwise, go nuts. Here's the info," Dean handed out an envelope.

Crowley rolled his eyes and pushed his hand back. "Please, Dean, I'm Crowley."

He vanished in a twist of red smoke only to reappear at Sam's bedside. Dean powered into the room, pulling the blinds shut with a perfunctory snap. His breath blew silver and his chest seized with color. The air beside Sam's bed warbled and wiggled until the blue-gray specter of Bobby Singer appeared, face twisted into outrage that seemed more menacing from the other side of the veil. "Take one more step, Crowley, and I'll Swayze you all the way to 'Nam."

Crowley lifted his eyebrows. "I'm paying my respects to my favorite Moose, you old sod. I can't believe you don't trust me after the tender moment-and the beard burn-we shared." Crowley spouted theatrically. He turned to Dean, "and you...figures you'd have a ghost hauntin' your brother."

Dean fondled the flask of holy water in his pocket and perched himself by Sam's beside. He was running on fumes and out of cards to play, but anger always made Winchesters wickedly creative. "Run along and torture like a good lil' demon before I exorcise you and let the interns go ballistic on your meatsuit. There's a few things I'm pretty sure you're partial to." Dean seethed so intensely, his face twitched.

"Since you asked nicely. Make sure he reads my card." He shoved the flowers into Dean's arms and set the stuffed moose at Sam's feet and materialized into the ether.

Dean deflated as soon as he was gone, setting the flowers on the table. Flinging them out of the window or setting them on fire might get him banned from the hospital. Sam was still unconscious beside him, injured leg elevated and puffed with beneath the blankets.

Sam's face and throat looked like a Monet, painted in hues of blues and burgundys. He shifted in the bed, jerking sharply. The painkillers may have eliminated the physical pain but it stirred up the emotional, leaving him locked inside vicious nightmares. Dean winced in sympathy.

Bobby spoke before he could. His voice gritty voice as soothing as sandpaper, but it had been the same voice who read Sam bedtime stories and cheered him on at soccer games. "Hush now, son, you're all right. Just rest."

Dean didn't look up. It was easier to pretend Bobby was alive if he didn't.

Sam sighed and stilled, breathing evenly.

"His temperature's comin' down." Bobby said to Dean.

"Doctor thinks it'll break in the morning. Maybe then he'll finally wake up."

"How's his leg? I heard...worried about...the circulation?" Bobby's was flickering and staticky and Dean looked up to see him trying to grip the blankets.

Mastering all things spectral took time and concentration, as a virgin ghost, Bobby hadn't learned to channel his agitation into anything useful. Whenever he got angry, he fritzed worse than his ancient television set. "Bobby, chill. You're gonna blink out again."

"Whatdya think I'm...do, boy?" He spat, voice fading as he flickered. "Feel like...friggin' Christmas lights."

"Well, wax on or somethin'." Dean snapped back.

"...useless...dead..." He muttered before fading completely.

Dean dropped his head into his hands. Even though he still thrummed with frenetic energy borne from the past days of fear and chaos, he was exhausted to the point of pain. His head ached and his stomach was cramped and tight from his steady diet of spiked coffee and belly-burning worry. Sam had barely recovered from being institutionalized and now, there he was seriously hurt again.

When his body began the slide into sleep—something that happened the instant he was still for more than a minute—Dean jerked himself awake. He knew the routine, knew that he should sleep while Sam was, like a mother would with their newborn, but Dean wouldn't find peace in slumber. He'd be haunted by Sam's abduction and the horrors of finding him in a storage shed of an abandoned fair grounds, beaten, filthy and a barely breathing.

The smell of curdled blood and the frozen mess bucket alone had put him off food.

Dean checked the monitors again, and kept his eyes trained on the arching lines of Sam's steadier heartbeat. It had been jagged and broken in the ambulance and in the ER while the doctors tried to warm Sam up before taking him to surgery.

Dean crumbled the paper in his hand. And opened the floodgates on his anger. He'd never be able to leave if he hadn't.

"Bobby," Dean uttered into the soft light of the room. "I know you're strugglin' right now, but you need to ghost up and be here. I have to leave. I have to make sure this doesn't happen to my brother again, but I can't do that if he's not safe. Do you understand? Bobby, get you ugly ass out here."

"Get goin', you idjit," Bobby gruffed from the corner of the room. "I'm not goin' anywhere."

-SPN-

When Lucifer rose, hoards of demons were sent topside for his coronation: the immediate and deft slaughtering of hunters, which made hunters bars quickly became as safe as Pearl Harbor. A few had popped up again in recent years though their locations were harder to find than some of the rarest lore, but thanks to Garth, Dean always ha the right intel. The Armory was a hunters' bar disguised a trendy gastropub. Dean Winchester strutted in, all popped collar on his new leather jacket and pitbullish focus.

He bellied up to the bar, easily picking out which of its patrons were on the job and which were just hipsters rockin' flannel and beards because of the irony. Dean made eleven, possibly twelve.

The bartender was clad in her own crimson flannel shirt, though it was barely buttoned at the breasts and cinched tightly at the waist. She also had cherry red lipstick to match. Dean turned on the charm as he approached.

Her suspicious brown eyes warmed slightly when he smiled at her. "What'll it be, Dean?"

"Oh you've heard of me? I'm flattered."

"They said you were pretty and I just didn't believe them," she remarked tossing a pile of black curls over her shoulder. "Thought you'd be taller, though."

"M'brothers' the sasquatch. I'm just right."

The bartender, Rae, didn't seem impressed, which was fine because Dean was running out of niceties and patience. "What'll it be?"

Dean leaned forward to utter, darkness in the edges of his tone. "I'll have a whiskey neat and Luke Mankoff...please."

Rae's face hardened. She stomped away, poured him a tablespoon of whiskey, slammed it on the bar. "Drink it and get out," she barked.

Dean downed it with a roll of his eyes. Rae tried to walk away and Dean grabbed her arm lightly. "Oh miss, I didn't get my full order." He slammed the glass on the bar. "Luke Mankoff, now."

"He's not here!" Rae said firmly.

Dean drew in a cleansing breath to keep him from becoming unglued too early and popping her one. "The building that houses this bar was constructed in 1923, meaning there are probably tunnels and secret rooms all over this place. Judging the size of the building versus against the of this room, I figure they're on the east side and beneath the floor," he stomped twice, creating a hollow creak. "Bianca Ramone Miller, you're not directly related to Luke Mankoff, but you're connected through your girlfriend, Lena, his sister. Get me the kid now, or so help me God, I will burn this place to the ground and come back for his ashes with a shovel." He said viciously. "If you heard of me, you know I'm capable of this and so much more."

Rae's eyebrows climbed in shock, and she took a step back from Dean in fear. Now that she was thoroughly terrified, he attempted softness instead of steel. "Do you know what his family did to my brother? They drugged him, hustled him out to the country and threw him in his dark shed in the cold for two days. Then beat him with chains, shot him and left him for dead. Your girlfriend and her father masterminded it. Luke helped them."

Rae looked stricken. "Lena saved me from a berserker two years ago. She loves the job because it helps people. She does it to honor her mother, she would never..." Rae trailed off, remembering something she was unable to hide. "There's only one reason Lena would do any of that. I'm afraid I can't help you, Dean."

Her eyes flickered to the right. Her head canted slightly to the darkened hallway, surrendering the information or at least pointing him in the right direction.

Dean stalked down the hall, undeterred when he reached what looked like a blank wall, a dead end. He whipped out his zippo light and lit it with a smooth flick of his hands. The trusty flame illuminated the hallway. There was hunter green wallpaper on the top and exposed cream brick at the bottom. Dean squinted, inspecting wall. The flame danced a bit, revealing the exchange of air. Dean pocketed the lighter, took two measured steps back and launched himself at the wall. A splintering of wood and brick and one jammed shoulder later, Dean was inside what appeared to be an old office. He coughed at the stale air and the stink of body odor. There was a thump and a shuffle to the right of the hidden door. Dean hurdled a cluster of boxes that must have been piled in front of the entrance, and slid over the mahogany desk to corner the small flailing occupant.

Luke Mankoff was not what he expected. He was slim-framed, baby-faced and wore honest-to-goodness Dockers. He looked more like an extra from "The Big Bang Theory" than a hunter. Sam could have torn him apart without breaking a sweat. No wonder they'd kept him chained. Dean stalked towards him, emitting an actual growl.

"Wait, wait wait!" Luke cried, flinching with every step.

Dean picked up the first thing he could get his hands on, a crystal ashtray, and backhanded him with it, feeling the impact ripple up his arm. Luke dropped with a whimper, clutched his dented face. Dean snatched him by the collar to snarl in his face,"Do you know who I am?"

Luke blinked, his eyes tearing. He nodded exaggeratedly. "You don't understand. My dad just needed answers! My...my mother was in Carthage. She died there, the g-grief twisted him and festered in him, and he lost his way," he cried. "He never said he'd shoot him!"

"And you let him," Dean said and threw him against the wall. Luke collided with it and toppled to the floor.

He kicked him a few times, a few sharp jabs just to burn off some volatile tension before it morphed into something he couldn't control. He'd gotten texts from Sam after he'd called, a transcription of his attack in broken, gruesome phrases, and it had made Dean sick to read what they both thought were his last words.

He snatched Luke to his feet by the scruff of his neck, arm wrenched behind his back, and marched them both into the light of the bar. Unsurprisingly, there was a litany of shifting and clicking as ten guns appeared from underneath coats and flannels and ankle holsters.

The four men and two girls who were in the bar, and weren't hunters, screamed and ducked in their booths. One man, with horn-rimmed glasses and a pork pie hat, fell off his chair trying to duck for cover. "Hey, Mumford And Sons, beat it." The kids scrambled through the door, bolting to their cars...and vintage bicycles.

Dean turned to men and women in the room, towards their distrustful faces and the barrels of their guns. "I'm Dean Winchester. You may have heard of me," he smiled but it felt ferocious and crooked. "Inform young Luke here about my number one rule."

A man in a corner, who was slumped in the chair in dirt-splattered boots, chimed in. "Don't touch his lil' brother, no matter how big that kid is." He didn't bother raising his gun and seemed to be enjoying the show.

"I'll say this and you can get back to your drinking. There are some nasty rumors about my brother that refuse to die. I'm going to shut them down, so no one will ever feel they have to right to come after my kin again. There was an apocalypse. Lucifer rose from his cage. Sam Winchester, my little brother, put that bastard back in it. You are all drawing breath and drinking watered down whiskey because my kid brother took on the devil and won. He sacrificed everything to do it, too." Dean announced. "For that, this little bitch and his clan chained him in a shed, shot him and left him to bleed to death in a hovel."

Three guns lowered. A mouth dropped open in shock. Outrage shifted from Dean to Luke.

"My father's dead," Luke sniveled. "He was torn apart by hellhounds. My sister...she just vanished. He had them killed!"

"Crap happens," Dean said innocently. "Especially to hunters. Just ask my brother." He pointedly snapped. Dean regarded the hunters again. "We're up against too much to keep fighting each other. Spread the word. I'm lettin' the kid live, and this is the last bit of mercy I got in me. If anyone so much as makes bitchface in my brother's direction, there will be nowhere to hide."

Guns were lowered one by one. The adrenaline and the anger was failing him. Dean wished he had the energy and the stomach to tie Luke to the bumper of the Impala and hit the highway like he'd imagined on the drive down. All he wanted was to be by Sam's bedside when his fever finally broke, and spend what time left he had with Bobby.

-SPN-

Sam wasn't sure what tossed him out of the nightmare and into consciousness, just that hand dashed over his mouth a second before his eyes flew open. The sunlight was blinding and the Impala skidded to lopsided stop on the shoulder. "Shh, dude. You're okay. Screaming would probably tear up your throat, though, so chill. It's okay, Sammy."

He blinked at Dean's earnest face, and felt the fear immediately abate.

Sam wiped at his sweaty neck with the edge of the blanket tossed over his skewered leg.

The car pulled back onto the road with a bump and glide, and Sam curled up in the seat angling his aching body towards Dean.

A prism of light drew his eyes to the Impala's keyring, and he noticed the trinkets were gone. He stared at the shining metal, tears welling up in his eyes. For the first time since he'd gotten his soul back and regained his sanity, Sam felt safe. And just like that, Sam didn't want to carry it alone. He wanted to talk about Lucifer and the cage; Kit and his chains. He was compelled to unburden himself about how it felt to be constantly hunted and hated by his own kind and how he just wanted it all the stop. How sometimes he thought, just for a second, about eating his gun or stepping into traffic.

Sam just wanted to talk.

Except his larynx was broken, and he couldn't create more than guttural, rusty sounds, and wouldn't be able to speak properly for weeks. He was isolated in an entirely different and maddening eyes welled at bleak realization.

Dean glanced at him, short and cursory at first, then worried and prolonged, when he saw tears. Sam's leaking eyes met his for a long moment.

Dean reached out, gripping Sam's shoulder hard enough to hurt. "I know, Sammy. I know. It all seems so big and impossible, but it'll get smaller, Sammy, I promise." He wiped his eyes, but Dean didn't let go. Sam knew he never would.

Fin.

Epilogue

Dean Winchester was grinning.

Because Sammy had finally regained his stride that was one part lethal, one part grace. Dean, squinting against the afternoon sun, watched his brother stride across the parking lot at his full, sun-blotting height, the slight limp looking more like swagger than injury. He wasn't hunched over from the pain of broken ribs or sullen-faced because he had so much to say but was unable to speak.

Sam leaned in the Impala's window, his face light with smugness. "It's not our kind of case. Autopsy showed Evelyn Weimer died of natural causes. She had an anneuryism. It was only a matter of time." Sam's voice was still raspy from the chains, deeper than Dean's now.

"I told ya, Sammy. Always listen to your big brother," he started the engine, waiting for Sam to fold himself into the Impala, and toss his suit jacket in the backseat.

"Dude, I told you! You don't get to twist his one around!" His smile came smoothly. Dean had suggested that Sam kept a journal while he was non-verbal. Sometimes he wrote in notebooks, others he typed online. Sometimes he sent Dean the link.

Dean ignored him. "After a hard day's work, it's time to eat."

Sam huffed a laugh, that was adorably hoarse. "We worked for twenty minutes."

"I know, I'm exhausted, aren't you? I know a place nearby." Dean steered the Impala to The Armory.

Sam dutifully followed him in, manhandling him through the door to prove that yes, his most of his strength had returned. Once Sam saw the men inside, the telltale bulges beneath their coats and the weariness in their eyes, and he stiffened, grabbing Dean by the arm. "This is a hunters' bar. We can't be here."

Dean planted his feet and shook his head. "Don't you like all that fancy, gastropub food? Come on, Sam. Can't pass up the best wings in three counties." He gestured to the chalkboard highlighting their specials.

Sam shook his head, hair swinging like a Pantene commercial. "I think I'll manage if it means I don't get darts thrown at my head."

"Would I ever put you in a dangerous situation?" Dean asked seriously. "Trust me, Sammy."

They slid into a booth and waited for the waitress. Sam immediately began murdering the paper napkins to burn off his anxiety. Rae approached them, setting a glass of beer in front them. "On the house, guys," she smiled at Sam, and offered him a friendly a wink.

Sam seemed baffled.

They ordered and immediately after, a hunter came up to the table, hat in hand. Sam entire body tensed, preparing for a fight or at the very least, insults.

A hunter had kind dark eyes and close shaved hair. Dean recognized him as the one who didn't raise his gun when Dean made his announcement about Mankoff. "I just wanted to shake your hand, Sam, and show my thanks. Wyatt and me, we paid for your dinner and your next round, so uh...eat up!" He shook Sam and Dean's hands enthusiastically and ambled away as quickly as he came.

Dean raised his beer to Wyatt in gratitude. Sammy seemed baffled, finally glancing around the bar to recognize that the faces there were friendly, not hateful. He looked at Dean, touched and gobsmacked. "What did you do?"

"What I should have done a long time ago, Sammy. I told the truth. We got enough on our plates without worrying about hunters. No one will ever touch you again. Not on my watch and now, not on theirs."

Sam rubbed his hands together, clearly moved by the silver glinting in his eyes. He'd been a lightning rod of emotion ever since Kit and his torture. "But if you start bawling like Taylor Swift in a bar full of hunters, even I can't protect you from what'll happen next."

Sam laughed, loud and happy and hoarse. Dean leaned back and enjoyed the sound.

Another hunter approached, a woman with short black hair and an epic leather jacket adorned with studs and chains that chimed merrily as she walked up to their table. Dean felt something festered and hateful release inside of him when he realized Sam never noticed.