First appeared in Blood Brothers (2007), from Gold'n Lily Press
For dearest Jeanne's birthday

On the Wrong Side
K Hanna Korossy

It started stupid and light and comfortable.

"It doesn't have a name, Dean."

"'Course it has a name."

Sam finished cleaning his knife and slipped it away. Just because he didn't have a weapon fetish like his brother didn't mean he didn't take care of his tools. Sometimes they were all that stood between him and death. Or, more pressingly, Dean and death. "You of all people should know everything we fight doesn't have a name."

"Name one thing." Dean's face crinkled comically as he realized what he'd just said.

Sam didn't try to hide his smile. "That blue thing in Rockland."

"That was a…furball." Dean had already put his stuff away and was pulling out clean clothes.

"Right. Would that be the scientific or the common name?"

"Everything has a name, Sam, we just don't know it." A playful side-glance. "Some even have a bunch of 'em, like you, college boy."

Sam rolled his eyes. He was too tired not to stop the inane line of dialogue. "That thing we killed today didn't, Dean. I've been looking all week."

Dean shrugged, careless. Funny how it was these conversations, the stupid, light, comfortable ones, that seemed to bond them the most. When Sam would look at his brother, really look at him, and be surprised all over again by how much he loved the guy, how many good memories he had with Dean that he'd managed to forget at school. "Screw that—we'll make up a name then."

Sam smiled again, nothing mocking in it this time. "Fine, you think of something. I'm worn out."

Dean was halfway to the shower when he stopped, and Sam realized he'd just pushed a button. Dean looked back at him, eyes narrowing in consideration. "You wanna go first?"

Which was awfully generous of him considering the nameless thing they'd killed that night had knocked him, not Sam, into the mud. "I'm all right." Sam shook his head. "I'm gonna go online and look a little more. Maybe you're right and we just haven't figured out what the thing is."

"I'm always right," Dean said automatically, and headed for the bathroom again. "Check my email, too—I put a few feelers out. Maybe somebody bit."

"All right," Sam agreed, turning the laptop toward him. It was one of the few pleasant ties he still had to school, the research, and it unwound him as surely as playing pool did his brother.

Dean turned back at the door. "Oh, my password's—"

"I'll figure it out," Sam said without looking up.

Dean frowned at him. "Show-off," he muttered, and disappeared behind the bathroom door.

Sam grinned and got started. It took him all of three minutes.

His email was full of messages from school friends, most of them old. Dean's read like a condensed version of the contact list in their dad's journal, and Sam couldn't help but feel sad that there didn't seem to be a single message not from a hunter. Half the people on Dean's cell were women, the proverbial girl in every port, but his real communication, real ties, were all business. Sam tried not to think about his own recent waning trickle of email, and pushed on.

Caleb had nothing but some good-natured ribbing. Mr. Clark had a few ideas Sam immediately discounted, and a possible other hunt he made a note to look up. Rooney spent most of his email describing in detail an ex-stripper he'd recently rendez-voused with, a message Dean would doubtless appreciate, and ended with saying he had no ideas. Their dad's email had bounced back, again. The man had completely disappeared once more since Chicago, and Sam wondered sometimes if he hadn't dreamed even that brief meeting.

Sam idly sorted through the messages, noting what might be of use, discarding what neither he nor Dean would care about. Tossing a bunch of spam, because they lived under the radar of everything but demons and Viagra ads. He idly went to sign out from Dean's account and access his own, when an older email from Jefferson caught his eye.

Subject: prophetic visions.

Stomach stirring uneasily, Sam clicked on it and skimmed its contents.

"…unknown source of power, but training can usually control….fully human, but some instances of prophetic visions can be brought about by contact with demonic….greater danger to those around him than to himself…."

Sam silently closed the email.

He didn't realize the shower had stopped, or that he'd just been sitting there staring, until Dean's voice jerked his head up.

"Sam. What's wrong?"

Dean was in the bathroom doorway pulling his shirt on, but his eyes were fixed on Sam. Creased slightly with worry. Sam avoided his gaze, feeling suddenly uncertain about everything he'd been rock solid about five minutes before. "Nothing."

"Yeah, you always look like you just got run over by a truck." Dean's jeans came into Sam's downcast frame of vision, then his chest as Dean crouched in front of him. "Was it a vision?" he asked carefully.

Sam breathed a laugh. "No, Dean, believe it or not, I'm not a total freak. I haven't had any visions since Max, okay?"

Dean immediately straightened. "Okay, okay. Don't have to bite my head off," he muttered and moved away. But Sam could still feel him watching uncertainly.

Sam slid his gaze sideways at Dean, the only way he could bear to look at him, and shook his head. "You said it didn't scare you."

"What?" Dean's frown deepened. "What're you talking about? Did you smoke something while I was in there? That thing tonight was—"

Sam shook his head. "No. The visions. You said it didn't freak you out. I knew it did, Dean, but that was okay because it scared me, too. But you asked around, you told people." He snorted bitterly. "I shook you up that much, huh?"

There was a hesitation, and he looked just in time to see the shift of comprehension in Dean's face. Sam's gut twisted miserably, and he cast his eyes back down to the table, both arms wrapping around his stomach.

He didn't expect the anger in Dean's tone when his brother finally spoke.

"I didn't tell anybody. Or I guess you didn't pry that far, huh? You think I'd do that, just spill our secrets to the world? Geez, Sam…"

He did glare up at his brother at that. "I saw Jefferson's—"

"You saw him answering me about prophetic dreams, Sam, not about you." Dean's arm slashed the air decisively. "I didn't tell him why I was asking."

"But you had to ask."

And there, the flush of guilt in Dean's eyes, told him exactly what he wanted to know. The idea that he scared his own brother, that Dean had inquired about him behind his back like he was something they hunted, talked to someone Sam knew well, was a spear through his gut. The softer tone, the gentle words that followed didn't matter. "Yeah, I had to, man. You were falling apart on me and, for God's sake, Sam, I didn't have any answers! What did you expect me to do, keep winging it?"

"I expected you not to lie to me," Sam snapped, surging to his feet. "If you couldn't deal with this, you should have just told me—I didn't expect you to fix me, or explain me, or-or stay with me out of some kind of…sacrificial duty."

He could feel Dean's flinch. And another time, Sam would have killed anything or anyone that made Dean look like that.

Just as suddenly, Dean's face emptied. "Fine. You want to tear into me for talking to Jefferson, you do that, Sam. For not knowing all the answers, go right ahead. For being a little freaked out by my kid brother suddenly fighting something I can't help with, dude, knock yourself out." Dean stepped up into Sam's space, and his sudden intensity had Sam automatically moving back. "But you don't ever get to say I don't care about what happens to you. I have never stopped being your brother."

Sam flushed with shame at the truth of that, and sudden grief. Because knowing how much Dean loved him only made things worse. "Even when I scare you," he said hoarsely.

Dean made a dismissive noise. "Don't give yourself that much credit, Sam—I don't scare that easy."

"Yeah. Sure." Sam glanced miserably around the room, seeing it with fresh eyes. Their meager wardrobe, half of it torn or bloody. More weapons than any other kind of personal belonging. Lives in limbo with no future and barely any present, only each other, and even he was freaking out Dean. Sam swallowed and shook his head, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. "I can't stay," he murmured, rubbing the back of his head, then reaching for his duffel. "I can't stay."

"Sam, don't do this."

He shook his head again, blind with grief and desperation. He wasn't mad anymore, didn't feel much of anything besides hollow hurt, and the need to flee. He packed by feel, stuffing shirts and jeans and sheathed weapons in with abandon.

"Sammy…"

"I can't stay with you, Dean. Go find Dad and be with him. I'll come back when I'm normal." As if there was such a thing for a Winchester.

"Cut it out, Sam—just listen for a minute."

He knew this progression, from coaxing to vulnerable plea to command. It hadn't worked when he left for California and it wouldn't now. Even if his heart was breaking both times. He didn't want to leave, but if those last months on the road had taught him anything, it was that Dean came first. And Sam scared him. Dean, who was never scared of anything.

Sam rushed for the door, sight blurry again.

And found Dean in his way.

"Sam, stop. Look, maybe I screwed up, okay? Maybe I should have told you I was asking around, but, dude, you haven't exactly been objective about all this. Look at you—you find out I asked a few questions and you're ready to blow out of here like I tried to cut your throat while you slept or something."

It made sense, but what was inside him didn't. It was hard to see past the neon proof that Dean was worried about him, not just for him. Sam swallowed, feeling ragged. "Move."

"Sammy, don't. Please."

It was as near as Dean came to begging. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, felt wetness gather and trickle. "Move."

A beat. Then, "You really are a selfish bastard, aren't you," Dean said low and hard, and stepped aside.

Sam fled before he had a chance to break completely.

And it ended with grief and hurt and a whimper.

00000

Oh, God… What had just happened?

He'd gone into the shower teasing his brother, Sam teasing back, and had come out to find Sam losing it. Over one stupid email Dean should have erased weeks ago?

And then his little brother had walked out. Again.

Dean turned and threw his towel viciously against the bathroom door.

It figured. He tried and tried, and nothing he did was good enough. One slip-up and his family took off like they couldn't get away from him fast enough. One wrong move.

But Sam had been crying. Crying. Dean's anger burned down. Sam hadn't wanted to go, he'd just looked like he was drowning, felt like he had no choice, and Dean…Dean could understand that.

Even if the kid was one hundred percent wrong.

Damn it all, he'd just been trying to help Sam. Okay, yeah, maybe put a little of his own worry to rest, too, because seeing Sam that helpless scared Dean worse than almost anything he could think of. But it was mostly trying to find answers for Sam, answering all the why, Deans, because Sam always expected his big brother to have all the answers. Where was he supposed to get those answers from, anyway?

Dean ran a hand through his hair, trying to figure out what to do next.

But Sam was gone. It was kind of hard to think past that.

Cursing violently under his breath, Dean finished dressing.

Okay, first step was getting Sam back. Tying him up and dragging him home if Dean had to. Sam walking out on him to go to school was one thing and a choice Dean could almost live with. Running out in the middle of the night in the middle of an unfamiliar city with no car, barely any weapons, and only a few IDs and a little cash, just because he thought Dean saw him as some kind of monster: totally unacceptable. He'd cuff Sam to the bed and yell at him until his baby brother listened, if that was what it took.

This wasn't about everyone leaving him. It wasn't. Sam hadn't meant it like that. He wasn't thinking clearly, upset and hurt and probably more than a little scared at the thought he was alone in this. That Dean was afraid of him and…God, how could he even consider that? Dean had to find him and set him straight. That was what he needed to concentrate on right now: Sam needed him, whether he realized it or not.

And if the reverse was just as much true if not more so, well, so what?

00000

Desperation only carried you so far.

Sam's steps started slowing almost as soon as he hit the sidewalk. He was so churned up inside, he could barely think. Seeing that email had been a total sucker punch, something he'd never expected. But was it reason enough to walk out on Dean? Had Sam even understood it correctly?

He was still walking, but his steps dragged with uncertainty.

Dean had been so adamant during the whole Miller tragedy that he wasn't fazed by Sam's visions, even by the TK. He'd been the rock Sam had needed then, something steady in that major seismic shift of his life, just as he had been through Jess's death. Some part of Sam knew Dean was rattled, too, found evidence in the psi books he'd glimpsed among Dean's things, the thoughtful looks he sometimes caught on his brother's face. In a weird way, it had been a relief, that Sam wasn't the only one struggling with this. It hadn't kept Dean from being that rock.

And Sam's secret had remained between them, not laid bare to their dad, not confirmed for Missouri. The only other person who'd shared it had shot himself in front of Sam's eyes. Dean knowing was all Sam could stand. But Dean had only been pretending to be rock solid, and if he was shaken enough to spill…

I didn't tell him it was you. You were falling apart on me and I didn't have any answers.

He had kept asking Dean why, expecting him to know and make it better because he could still remember when Dean knew everything. What was he really mad about, that Dean wasn't omniscient? That he'd been worried about Sam and tried every resource he knew to help him?

That's fair, he could almost hear his brother drawl. Push me into something and then blame me for it. Nice.

And also, what, about twelve-year-old behavior? He hadn't run away from home since he'd been a pre-teen.

…greater danger to those around him than to himself…

Protecting Dean wasn't immature. Considering it was tearing Sam apart, he thought it was pretty darn selfless. Life would be a lot easier for Dean without his freak kid brother tagging along.

Which was why he'd looked so devastated at Sam leaving.

Sam's slowing footsteps stopped, and he glanced back at the motel down the street. Okay, Dean was scared. That made two of them. But he'd never drawn back from Sam, never once showed any sign he was wary or mistrustful of him. The only lies he'd told had been the kind Sam expected from him, the ones that made them both feel better when they knew their lives were a mess. How could he hold that against his brother when sometimes that was the only way they kept going?

Maybe Sam was a danger, but that was something Dean had always been very willing to face. And they were stronger together, there was no question of that. So why had he walked out on Dean? On the person whose worst fear was to be left with no one, who'd worried enough to try to find Sam some answers? How could he have done that?

More importantly, how could he make it right?

Sam turned around completely, took a breath. How could he not?

He started back to the motel.

And, distracted with his turbulent thoughts, failed to notice the movement behind him until it was too late. By the time Sam heard the step and started to turn, the knife was at his throat.

"Take it easy, Winchester, and nobody gets hurt."

Not a random mugging. Someone who knew how to use a blade. Someone who knew him.

Sam didn't take the time to question or analyze, simply acted. He expected the dodge as he threw his elbow back. He also expected the cry of pain as his foot came down hard on his captor's instep. The knife loosened.

Sam grabbed the arm that wielded it and whirled, sending the man hard into the brick wall of the nearest building. He skittered down the uneven surface to puddle on the cement, dazed.

There was a time for interrogation and a time to get out of Dodge and return with backup. Sam ran.

He made it five steps before his leg buckled under him, sending him crashing to the ground.

He stared at it in numb confusion, at the spreading stain of red on his right thigh. No knife or blade protruded, just a round hole. Shot? He'd been shot? He looked up toward the guy he'd dispatched.

The man next to him, probably out of sight before in the cleft between the two buildings, was just lowering his silenced gun.

Sam swallowed bile and reached for his bag, the blade he'd stuffed inside it.

"You pull something out of there, and the next bullet goes through your cheek."

Sam froze, licking his lips. Throwing a wild glance at the motel he could still see down the street, the door he'd slammed behind him. His brother was just out of reach and wouldn't be looking for him. And Sam felt true hopelessness wash over him, far more powerful than the turmoil of minutes before.

The second man had pulled the first to his feet and they were both advancing, in no particular hurry. The street was empty and dark; no one would see what happened next. Even if Dean came looking for him, and Sam had made that pretty unlikely, he probably wouldn't find anything. Except…

Hidden by the tilt of his body, Sam yanked his leather bracelet off, wincing at the snap. He hated losing that, too, but if—when—Dean looked for him, Sam refused to leave without a trace. He dropped the bracelet next to the blood seeping out from under his jeans.

Rough hands yanked him to his feet, pulled his hands behind his back. Sam balanced on one leg and stared furiously into the eyes of the shooter. "What do you want with me?"

The ruthless eyes and the man's flat words sent a shiver down Sam's back. "You just went from hunter to prey, Winchester."

And then he slammed the side of his gun into Sam's leg. All the pain that shock had held at bay came rushing in, and Sam spun into blackness.

00000

Dean had always been good at hide-and-seek. In part because he was an excellent tracker—Dad had seen to that—but also because he'd only ever played the game with Sam, and Dean knew his little brother. Sometimes he thought he knew where Sam would hide before even Sam did.

Dean had seen Stanford coming even if John hadn't.

He'd pleaded with Sam to reconsider for their dad's sake. When unsurprisingly Sam hadn't, Dean gave him his blessing for Sam's sake. And then he'd tried to pretend it didn't hurt for his own sake.

Then Sam had come back—reluctantly—but changed. Dean no longer recognized every look that flitted across that too-expressive face, couldn't always predict the blowups or collapses or moments of joy. He'd learned a lot since then, but Sam didn't come as naturally to Dean as he once had.

Like now.

Two hours—two hours!—he'd been searching for the guy, and nothing. Sam had only had at most a ten-minute head start on him; where had he disappeared to so fast? True, he could've grabbed a taxi, or gone and checked into another room, or could be deliberately hiding somewhere. But Dean had been so sure he'd catch a glimpse of that tousled dark hair on a street corner or the nearest coffee shop, or maybe even behind the Impala, trying to figure out how to swallow his pride and come back. Like Dean wouldn't tease him no matter what. Like he wouldn't take him back no matter what.

But there was nothing. First on foot, then a farther perimeter by car, and no Sam. Apparently, he didn't know his brother as well as he'd thought.

And Sam had gotten good at hide-and-seek at school.

Dean thumped a hand on the steering wheel in frustration. Sam had taken off in such a hurry, he'd left behind half his stuff, including his cell phone. If he were leaving for good, he'd come back for that, wouldn't he? He didn't even have his jacket with him, although the night was cool. If this was Sam's attempt at regaining independence, it was a poor start.

And, yes, okay, Dean worried like a sheepdog about a stray lamb. Sam would've been so amused.

Sam. Dean's mood sank a little more. Where did he go and why had Dean let him?

He lurched out of the car and slammed the door behind him. A quick check of the room revealed Sam hadn't been back, and Dean slammed that door for good measure, too. Then he set out on foot again.

Dawn had crept in while he drove, the light still pale but strengthening. Enough to see that the puddle on the sidewalk down the street that he'd dismissed as oil or tar by moonlight, was actually brick red.

Dean gaze grew hard as he crouched down and ran a finger over the stained cement. There wasn't much; he'd almost missed it this time. But it was definitely blood and definitely fresh. He swept the area around it, stopping when his eyes snagged on something in the shadow of a nearby parked car. Dean reached for it, picking up the broken leather circlet with care and rolling it between his fingers, and felt cold dread splash over him.

Sam.

Dean checked the area impassively, square foot by square foot, but found nothing else besides a few smears of blood several feet away. Drag marks. Then, nothing. Not some random mugging, then, not that Dean believed Sam would've fallen prey to something that weak. No, something had taken him. Something that had hurt him first.

"Geez, Sammy," he murmured. "What did you get yourself into this time?"

Dean jammed the leather tie deep into his jeans pocket. No way he was losing that. Sam would want it back.

And he wanted Sam back.

Dean's face was expressionless as he stood and strode back toward the motel, only his eyes betraying his simmering rage and determination.

He was going hunting.

00000

Pain woke him.

Slow, deep waves of it throbbed through his body from the focal point of his right upper leg. Sam automatically tried to reach for the limb, to somehow make it better.

His arms didn't move, wrists restrained. That cleared the remaining drowsiness from his head fast.

He was on a cot, in a plain room lit by a single light, with no windows and one closed door. His wrists were tied to either side, and his leg… Sam arched his neck up to see it. His jeans were soaked with red from right knee to waist, a blood-crusted swath of white apparently all that had kept him from bleeding out. Sam's head started swimming, and he dropped it back to the cot with a grunt.

Great. Five minutes he was on his own, and he ended up shot and tied out God-knew-where. That had to be a record, even for a Winchester. Dean would never let him live it down.

A jolt of memory made him flinch. Dean. Dean wouldn't even know something had happened to him, because Sam had walked out on him and slammed the door after. For the first time ever, he didn't think Dean would be looking for him, at least not for a while. Not soon enough. The thought shook something deep inside him. If he didn't get out of there…

He had to get out of there.

His fingers curled up toward the ropes around his wrists. They were knotted and too high for him to reach. Next plan. Sam strained again to see the ropes. He ignored the way the room wavered every time he moved his head. Just blood loss, like the nausea gathered in the pit of his stomach and the cold that shivered through him. Unpleasant but not fatal. He dismissed it and paid attention to the task at hand.

The frame of the cot was made up of strips of dark metal, the edges shaved smooth. But where the metal strips joined, the ends were rougher and not flush. There was one joint near his left wrist, and Sam wriggled his hand down to rub the nearest strand of rope against it. Thankfully, it was a thinner hemp, strong but lightweight, and small in diameter. Not impervious to sharp edges, and Sam felt the individual strands unravel against his makeshift saw.

There were footsteps at the door, and Sam froze.

The door opened, the figure—figures—in it only a silhouette at first against the brighter light outside. Sam squinted against the glare but didn't look away as both men came inside and shut the door behind them.

He remembered them from the street, and the gun. The hardened look in both eyes sent a cold crawl up his spine, but he didn't show it.

"What do you want?" he snapped.

The one with the knife, shorter and stockier than his companion, moved forward until he towered above Sam's bed. "We already have what we want. You, Winchester."

There, his name again. That scared him more than anything. "Why?" Sam asked warily.

"We heard something interesting, Waltrout and I." A wave back indicated the man behind him, and Sam's eyes flicked over. A shotgun hung comfortably from Waltrout's hand, and his stance announced a man who knew what he was doing. "We heard you've been having visions. Prophetic dreams."

Sam's mouth went dry. They were hunters. Somehow, that fact scared him even more. "I-I don't know what you're talking about." And damn that stutter in his voice.

The man's eyebrows rose. "Huh. Maybe the rumors were wrong. Maybe it's your brother we're looking for. Dean, right?"

Real panic shuddered through Sam. "Stay away from him. He hasn't done anything." He'd let them kill him before he gave them any reason to go after Dean.

The hunter nodded. "Yeah, I thought so. Well, if you are having visions, young Winchester, you've just become fair game."

Oh, God. Sam forced the fear from his face, the utter terror that swept through him. Not the least part of which was because they were right. He was the supernatural now, and he'd feared from the day Jess died that he would become what he and Dean had always hunted. It was the same fear that had made him keep the secret of his dreams of Jess from Dean for so long, and that had sent him stupidly reeling away from his brother now before Dean came to the same conclusion. As if Dean hadn't proved over and over already that it didn't make a difference to him.

Sam had lost enough to his "shining," though; he wasn't ready to die for what he might become, too. And he needed a chance to make things right with his brother, to tell Dean what an idiot he'd been. Sam's mouth almost slipped into a smile, before he firmed his jaw, glared at his captors.

"So, what, you're going to keep me here until I have a vision? And if you're wrong and nothing happens? Haven't you heard you can't prove a negative?" He slipped his wrist a tiny bit lower, continuing to saw in minute movements he hoped just looked like he was struggling against the ropes.

"Actually, I had an idea about that," his captor said pleasantly, and reached into his pocket.

Sam's heart started pounding at the sight of the syringe.

"Don't worry, it won't hurt you—you're still John's son and we respect that. It's just something to make you a little more…open." The hunter uncapped the syringe, squirted any air out of it.

Sam's skin pricked with awareness, his leg almost numb from the flood of adrenalin through his system. He forced his eyes away from the needle, watching how the hunter moved, mentally noting where his companion was. Giving his wrist one hard twist…

He kicked up suddenly with his left leg, aiming for needle-guy's crotch. It was the most incapacitating blow he could manage flat on his back, but it worked, the hunter going down with a gurgle.

Waltrout barked out a "Simms!" Then he raised his shotgun and stepped forward, the latter a mistake John's boys would never have made.

Sam's fist, trailing snapped tatters of rope, shot out and grabbed him by the top of the jeans, yanking him off balance and close enough that Sam could kick sideways, into the guy's side. It was an awkward blow, but he heard a rib snap, and Waltrout sagged.

Sam wasted no time untying his other wrist, then pushed himself to his feet, nearly falling when his bad leg buckled.

The first hunter—Simms?—was moaning, hands cupped around his groin, but Waltrout was starting to gather himself, his hand firmly locked around the shotgun. Sam only had one recourse and he took it, limping heavily and as quickly as possible out of the room, one hand pressed against his leg, the other leaning against any convenient jamb or wall.

Another larger, equally empty room was just beyond his little prison. A bare kitchen was on one side, a darkened room—bathroom?—on the other. Before him lay a door. It was a small apartment, and if he could just make it out into the hallway…

Sam's hand had barely touched the doorknob when he was rammed from behind.

The agony of his leg striking the floor dazed him briefly. But it was long enough. Sam cleared his head just in time for an uppercut from Waltrout that had him tasting blood and seeing stars. He barely resisted as he was dragged up onto his feet and marched, breath whimpering out of him at the weight on his leg, back into the rear bedroom.

Simms was waiting, still looking pale and hunched but with anger and hatred gleaming in his eyes.

"Fine," he said curtly. "We'll do this the hard way."

Waltrout pushed Sam past the cot, to the only other object in the room, a radiator against the side wall. There, he shoved Sam to the floor. Sam couldn't stop the cry of pain, every jolt shooting electricity up his leg and through his body, leaving him panting and sweat-soaked. He was still trying to catch his breath as his arms were pulled in front of him and handcuffed around the radiator pipe. Sam only had time to give the new restraints a halfhearted tug before Simms was kneeling beside him, leaning into his space.

"I hope they were right about you, Winchester, because I'm going to enjoy killing you." He raised the syringe.

Sam pulled hopelessly away from him, panic momentarily eclipsing the pain. But there was no place to go. He froze as the needle slid into his neck, the drug feeling like ice as it flowed into his blood.

Dean! The silent plea was as automatic as breathing.

But he knew there'd be no answer this time, and the hopelessness and terror followed Sam down into despair.

00000

"You're sure," Dean asked urgently. "About four-thirty this morning?"

The grey head nodded. "'Bout that. I can't sleep past four these days, and I was just sitting by the window watching for dawn when I saw them."

Dean forced himself to be patient. After too much time spent fruitlessly canvassing the neighboring buildings for any witnesses to Sam's disappearance, this was the best lead he had, this elderly black man across the street and two floors up. He could wait a minute more and do this right. "Saw what, exactly?" Dean asked, strained.

"I don't know exactly—my eyes aren't as good as they used to be. But it looked like that young man fell, the tall one with all that hair—and the other two helped him up and into a car. That's about all I saw."

"What kind of car?" Dean pushed. "Did you catch anything—license plate, color, model?"

"Well, now, I don't go around memorizing license plates, but the color's easy—silver. Shiny in the streetlight, you know? And it was one of those boxes on wheels you see on the roads today, the ones they say gulp gas like it was water."

"An SUV? They put him in a silver SUV?"

"Yeah, that's about it."

Not nearly enough, but it gained Dean at least one important piece of information: Sam had been taken by humans. Kidnapped, maybe shot or stabbed first, which meant both purpose and pre-meditation. Who had they ticked off now, though? They'd barely been in town two days. Dean cleared his throat, trying hard not to think about a fallen Sam being "helped" into a car. "The plate—I know you don't remember it, but do you maybe remember anything about it? State, color, something?"

The old man screwed up his eyes, and Dean resisted the urge to shake him. He really was asking a lot from a senior citizen, at night, two floors up. And he was really a nice old guy Dean would have enjoyed shooting the breeze with in other circumstances, maybe swap a few war stories with. Even bent and aged, the man had the bearing of a former soldier.

Apparently the observation skills of one, too.

"Oh, that's right. Blue with white letters. It was one of those cars that has little lights by the plate, so I could see the colors. Blue and white. What is that, Connecticut?"

"You're sure you don't remember any of the letters or numbers?" Dean pressed with a small shake of the head. "Started with a vowel or consonant? Hard or soft sound?"

The man's face crinkled in thought. "Yeah. Yeah, actually, now that you mention it. B-U-Z, I remember now. I had a buddy named Buzz once, maybe that's why it stuck with me. Huh. But I sure don't know what the numbers are, sorry."

"No," Dean overrode him, "that was a lot of help, thanks." He turned away.

"Your friend's in trouble, isn't he?"

Dean jerked to a stop and turned back. All he'd told the guy was that he was a cop, looking for someone. Suspicion colored his words. "I didn't say—"

The old man gave him a wry look. "You didn't have to, youngster. I know worry when I see it. I hope you find him all right—I'll say a prayer for you two."

He was still uncomfortable with that whole concept—God, prayer, belief—but Dean wasn't about to reject any help he could get at that point. "Thanks," he said earnestly, and turned away again.

He waited until he was around the corner, out of the old man's sight, before pulling out his phone and a police ID. Blue and white: that could mean Connecticut, Iowa, or Michigan, but based on where they were, he was betting on Connecticut. Within fifteen minutes, he had a list of thirty-two names of silver SUV owners whose plates started with "BUZ." Dean switched the notepad to his left hand and dialed again, this time a familiar number.

"Pastor Jim?"

"Dean?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry, I don't have time to talk—Sam's in trouble. But I've got a list of names here. Can you tell me if any of them ring a bell?" Jim knew more, and more people, than any other hunter Dean had ever met. He read off his list, stopping when he heard a sharp inhale. Dean frowned. "What?"

"That one, Carter Simms. He's one of us, Dean. What is that list?"

Dean's eyes narrowed, his face tightening. What the—a hunter? Another hunter had taken Sam? "Uh, I'll tell you later, okay? Promise. But right now, could you tell me everything you know about Simms?"

He hung up a few minutes later and stared blindly at the cracked and peeling tenement wall in front of him. One of them. A fellow player had hurt and snatched Sam. Someone in other circumstances Dean might have trusted to watch his back.

But the guy had crossed a line. Dean didn't want to think about why, didn't care at the moment. All that mattered was getting Sam back safe. He jammed his cell back into his pocket and started moving. If he was up against a fellow hunter, he had a little planning to do.

Human or not, hunter or not, Carter Simms had just become fair game.

00000

Reality was starting to wilt around the edges.

Sam watched the corners of the room waver through drooping eyes, his head feeling heavy and hot. Which was weird because the rest of him was freezing, even as sweat dripped off his hair into his eyes. He almost wished the radiator was on, even if it would've probably burned him. Anything was better than this hot-coldness.

His mind kept wandering, flipping through memories of better times: hide-and-seek with Dean, the one school he'd stayed in for a whole year, the stuffed elephant Dean saved up his money to buy Sam after they left his beloved bear in one of the many motels they stayed at, his high school graduation when his family had just been a normal family for a day. Whatever the drug was they'd given him was setting his mind loose in the past instead of triggering a vision.

And then there was now. Sam rattled the cuffs helplessly one more time. They'd stuffed a gag in his mouth when he'd started screaming, but the spike of agony had stopped as quickly as it had started, leaving him spent and dry-tongued around the material filling his mouth. His leg throbbed and his head ached and he was so thirsty.

And screwed. And miserable. And alone.

He wanted Dean. But Dean wasn't coming for him this time.

More memories: Dean breaking Bloody Mary's mirror, Dean shooting the ghost of Constance Welch, Dean killing the skinwalker before it finished choking the life out of Sam. Dean always coming to the rescue. Until now.

The room started a slow spin, and Sam closed his eyes and leaned his head awkwardly against the radiator. That wasn't helping his queasy stomach, but if he threw up now, he'd choke. Better to just sit still and not think. Except, the memories kept coming, his brother playing a starring role in each.

God, he missed Dean. It didn't matter if his brother was mad at him or scared of him, if Sam would have to eat crow and clean the Impala for the next week, if he was twenty-two and a trained hunter and usually perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Right now he was scared and hurt, and he desperately wanted his brother.

"Anything yet?"

The voice startled him, snapping his eyes open to a still Dali-esque version of the room. Sam winced, ready to shake his head and close his eyes and retreat again. But…

He nodded wearily, trying to focus on his captor's wavering figure.

Simms scrutinized him a moment, then bent down. "Guess you can't talk with this on, huh?" He jerked the gag free from Sam's mouth, snapping his head back in the process.

That proved too much for his stomach. He leaned over with a groan and threw up at the hunter's feet. If the guy reacted, Sam didn't hear him. He finally sank, trembling, back against the radiator when he was done.

"Terrific." He could hear Simms take a tentative step closer, and Sam tensed in preparation again. "If you die on me now—"

His voice was close. Sam shut his eyes to limit the confusion of his senses and just listened.

"—know if—"

Sam lashed out like a coiled snake, arms straining to their full length against the cuffs and pipe. It gave him just enough power and reach to head-butt the hunter, hard.

Simms collapsed without a sound, even as Sam hissed and cradled his throbbing head in the crook of one arm.

But there wasn't time. There was no telling where the other guy, Waltrout, was, or if he'd heard anything. Sam leaned forward against the pole, reaching his cuffed hands toward the fallen hunter. Keys: he had to have the cuff keys on him. Pockets…no. But the guy was carrying a knife, the kind with a hundred accessories on it. Sam debated for a half-second on continuing to look for the keys but gave it up. For all he knew, Waltrout had them. This would do.

It took him longer than it should have, but his brain and eyes refused to stay focused, and he had to stop once to close his eyes and swallow hard to keep from heaving again.

One of the cuffs clicked open.

Sam lurched away from the radiator, his body uncoordinated and slow. A quick pat-down revealed Simms really wasn't armed, and Sam suppressed a groan. He pushed himself up from the floor with difficulty, not putting any weight on his bad leg, grimacing at the tightness of his jeans against the swollen and hot skin. The room was roiling confusion, and Sam limped heavily outside more by feel than sight.

The second room, even though he threw himself into it in an attempt to surprise any trouble, was empty. Sam sagged with relief and kept going.

The building was old, decaying. He tripped over mounds of garbage, pressed his face against moldy wallpaper, and gagged at the smell. There were distant sounds of voices, but he had no way of telling if they were friend or foe, and so he fled them. His senses were a riot of overwhelming, misleading information, and Sam fought the crush of terror with difficulty. He was hurt and alone and could well die there, but he didn't want to. Not this way. Not without Dean.

Daylight flared ahead of him.

Sam's eyes watered with gratitude as he reached the doorway and felt the sun and fresh air against his skin. Thank God. Maybe he'd make it out of this yet.

He still couldn't trust his eyes, which had teared up from the bright sunshine and cacophony of color around him. There didn't seem to be anybody around, but the street sounds in the distance were too loud, and Sam winced away from them. Okay, so not home free yet. And Waltrout would still be looking for him, and the other guy, whenever he woke. Sam needed help.

He squinted around, trying to find somebody to ask, some place he could go. Broken and crumbling buildings lined both sides of the street, and the few forms he could make out turned away from him as soon as he looked their way. He staggered toward one anyway, a flashburn of pain streaking up his body from his leg with each step. He murmured a "please," but the ragged figure he was approaching quickly scurried off.

Sam jerked to a stop, weaving in the middle of the street. Where was he again? Besides injured and lost. Dean. Dean always fixed things. Jess had only known about Dean because she'd been around a few times when Sam had struggled or hurt. She'd heard who he'd asked for first, before her. They were the only times he hadn't been able to censor himself.

But Dean wasn't here. Another wave of lightheadedness swayed him, and Sam shivered in the light breeze. He started pushing himself on again until a dark shape in the distance caught his eye, somehow familiar.

It was a large, dark car. He staggered to it, resting his forehead, then the whole side of his body against the sun-warmed metal. His leg was starting to really hurt, his stomach to roll again. He wouldn't make it much farther.

Sam shook his head, too exhausted and sick to fight the encroaching hopelessness. He was at the end of his strength, his tormentors would be looking for him soon, and Dean wouldn't be coming. What was left?

Sam's eyes, resting on nothing, slowly brought the car hood into focus.

Dull black and pitted with rust, windows broken and wheels missing. Classic lines swept down the back to a missing trunk lid. The Impala? Sam blinked; no, the illusion broke. Not the Impala; Dean would never let his baby look like that, and there was something off about it, anyway. Not Dean. His heart sank. For a moment, he'd felt…

Hope.

Sam pushed himself up and forced his feet to start moving.

He walked. Stumbled. Staggered on. He didn't know how far, or how many corners he wobbled around, leaning against walls and railings and cars. His breath came in sobbing gasps and both his legs felt like he was wading through fire. His vision stretched and wavered, and Sam tripped over cracks and steps, not even seeing the people who hastily darted out of the way, pretending they didn't see.

The memories continued: Dean telling him bedtime stories in the dark, Dean's broken look when Sam got on the bus to Stanford, Dean soothing Sam while Dad cleaned up his first serious hunt injury. His memories were full of his brother, and Sam let himself drift in the small comforts of the past. Anything to forget the present.

A gleam down the street caught his eye, the setting sun's light ricocheting off metal. Sam stared at the reflection, willing his eyes to sharpen, then sucked in a breath, blinking to make sure he wasn't seeing things. But no, there it was, a phone booth, looking relatively intact in this decrepit neighborhood. Now if only it worked… Sam pushed away from the pole he was leaning against and stumbled toward it, praying with each step it was still hooked up.

He was shaking with exertion by the time he reached the booth, and Sam rested a moment against the door before he could summon the energy to open it. The walls inside were a relief of supports to lean on, and Sam wedged himself into a corner. Weakly, he picked up the receiver.

The dial tone nearly made him cry.

Sam clung to the molded plastic a moment, then reached out a trembling hand. The numbers swam in front of him, useless, so be went by touch alone, fingers skimming down to the "9" to start 9-1-1.

He hesitated. Memories flickered through his head again like a slide show: Dean showing him how to tie a tie, Dean taking him to Kindergarten, Dean solemnly helping him bury the dead bird he'd found.

Sam felt his way up to the "1" instead. Thank God Dean had a toll-free number.

Maybe he was still hurt and mad and didn't want to talk. But Sam wanted—needed—him. And Dean had never turned him away.

Lips moving in silent plea, he dialed his brother.

00000

Like many hunters, Carter Simms didn't have a permanent address. Sam wasn't the only one who knew how to work a computer, though, and it didn't take Dean long to find that Simms had an apartment in the city. It was an inheritance from a brother who had been killed by a revenant, initiating him into the life. Dean couldn't care less if the guy had killed a dozen people to get the place, as long as he found Sam there.

Fifteen minutes after he found the address, he was jumping out of the Impala in front of the four-storied, decaying tenement.

The halls were filthy, making Dean's gut clench even tighter as he skirted debris and foul-smelling trash. The thought of Sam being there at all was already enough to make him ill; the thought of Sam being trapped there, probably hurt, boiled Dean's blood.

Nearing the door, he pulled out the 9 mil he had tucked in his pocket and slowed.

The door was open.

Dean crept up to the jamb, pressing himself against the wall beside it. He listened tightly, shutting out the whispers and shuffles of the tepid life around him.

A steady stream of curses, rising and falling in volume, came from inside the apartment, but the voice wasn't familiar. As hard as Dean concentrated, he couldn't hear a second voice, nor any noise that would indicate a second inhabitant. Was it possible Simms had taken Sam someplace else? Or, even worse, that Simms wasn't even who he was looking for? If not, Dean had no idea where to look next, no other leads to follow.

No, he shook himself. This was it. It had to be.

Low and silent, he slipped inside the doorway.

The main room was devoid of any furniture, as was the kitchen Dean scanned to his left. The corner of something caught his eye, and his jaw twitched when he took a step closer and recognized Sam's duffel tucked under the sink. The voice was still coming from the room beyond, and Dean raised his gun a little higher as he turned away from the damning evidence, took a breath, and lunged inside.

A man not much older than Dean sat on the edge of a thin cot, dabbing at blood on his forehead. His face turned down, he didn't even notice Dean for a second, then jumped back on the cot with a choked yell.

"Who the—?"

"I'm asking the questions," Dean declared flatly, giving the room a quick skim even as his aim never wavered from center mass of the man in front of him. The room was empty, but there were signs of someone having been violently sick and some blood smeared on the floor. Dean's gaze flicked back to the guy now glaring at him. "Let me guess—Carter Simms?"

"Let me guess—Dean Winchester."

He settled the handgun a little more comfortably into his grip, sure now who he was aiming at. "Now that we've been properly introduced, let's get to the point: Where's Sam?"

"I don't know."

Dean's finger tightened on the trigger.

Simms eyes flickered. "Look, he was here, okay? But he knocked me out and got away." He gestured to his bloody face. "I don't know where he went."

Dean's eyes strayed up to the blood, and he felt an unexpected moment of pride. Sam had done that, had kept fighting. The gun didn't budge. "What did you do to him?" Dean asked.

"He's all right—he's got a bullet in the leg but that obviously didn't slow him down too much. Guy's even more of a freak than I heard."

"What else?"

"Nothing else." Simms' eyes dared Dean to prove him a liar.

Dean's jaw tightened. "Where in the leg?"

Simms' hand strayed for a moment to his own right leg to mark the spot. "Just a flesh wound, Winchester, don't worry. You should be more concerned about having one of the enemy riding—" He broke off with a scream as Dean's bullet left a hole and a quickly spreading red stain on his thigh. Simms fell back into a high-pitched flow of gutter language as he clutched his leg.

Dean's gun returned to a spot mid-chest. "What did you do to him?" he asked again calmly. On the surface, anyway.

"You're crazy! Friggin' nuts, both of you!" At Dean's glare, Simms raised one bloody hand. "Okay, okay. Look, we were just trying to find out if he was one of them, you know? Word is he gets visions, like some sort of damned seer. I wanted to see if it was true—I would've let him go if it wasn't."

If his chest got any tighter, Dean wouldn't be able to breathe. This creep had shot and kidnapped Sam because he'd heard about Sam's visions? And it didn't take much guessing to figure out where he'd heard it from. One of Dean's discreet inquiries had apparently not been as discreet as he'd thought. His gaze grew murderous. "What did you do?"

Simms' face was sweaty and he groaned a little between sentences. "It was just this drug I scored, okay? It's supposed to make you more open to suggestion, you know? Kind of like a downer that doesn't put you out. I figured it might hurry things along a little. I cuffed and dosed him, but it won't hurt him, I swear. It's just a little trip." He leaned forward, both hands pressing on his legs. "Dude, I need a hospital."

Dean could have shot him and not even have blinked. He felt numb inside. The litany of what had been done to his little brother had shut off the part of him that was actively thinking beyond the gun in his hand and the quivering form on the cot in front of him. His voice was also strangely calm. "What did you give him?" He pulled back the trigger to where it would only take an ounce or so more pressure to fire when Simms began going through his pockets one-handed.

A small vial was extended to him. "This. It's not permanent, I swear. We were careful."

Dean pocketed the vial without looking at it, knowing the name wouldn't mean anything to him. Besides, he had more urgent things to worry about just then. "'We?' Great, there's two of you. Who's the other clown?"

If that was supposed to be a glare aimed at him, it lost a lot with all the painful grimacing. "Luke Waltrout. He's out looking for your brother right now."

Fear swarmed through Dean. He hadn't thought to ask Jim if Simms hunted alone, but it shouldn't have surprised him. Hunters often found others to do a job with so they had someone to watch their back. But while Dean would have put money on his brother in a fair fight any day, Waltrout was armed and presumably healthy, while Sam was hurt and defenseless. Well, as defenseless as someone who'd escaped and hid from two trained and well-equipped captors.

Dean shifted, wanting to go but one more question needing asking.

"When?"

"Your brother…'bout an hour. Waltrout went after him about half an hour ago."

Oh, God, he'd missed Sam by an hour? Dean's finger eased off the trigger and he let the barrel drop. His rage had cooled into something hard and even more lethal, and when he crouched in front of Simms, the hunter cowered from him. "You come after my brother one more time, and I'm gonna have better aim."

Dean leveled one more glare at the man, saw the words penetrate. Simms paled even more and reluctantly nodded.

Dean debated shooting him one more time just for the sheer satisfaction of it, but he finally just backed out of the room, out of the apartment. Sam wouldn't want him to kill the guy. And Dean needed to find his brother more than he needed revenge. If Simms didn't bleed to death, he wouldn't be forgetting this little meeting anytime soon.

Dean grabbed Sam's duffel on the way out. Then he was dashing toward the entrance of the building, jumping over and skidding around the litter in his way.

In front of the building, he put the bag with unusual care into the Impala's back seat. Then Dean straightened, looking sharply both ways down the road, then down at the sidewalk. It was dark now, any blood or other trail difficult to spot, but he didn't see anything. Which was probably a good thing if the other hunter was looking for Sam, too. He only had a small lead on Dean, but considering Sam had a bad leg and was under the influence of God-only-knew what kind of drug, Waltrout probably didn't need more than that.

Then again, Dean had something he didn't. Eighteen years experience with all things Sam Winchester.

He looked both ways again, weighing which direction Sam would have gone. Out toward the busier part of town and increased traffic to look for help? Or deeper into the bad section of town, looking for a place to hide? Dean chewed on his lip as he weighed the choice.

And then he saw the car.

He jogged across the street to the black hulk, some corner of his mind taking a moment to admire her lines even under the rust and damage. The '69 Impala Coupe was considerably different from his '67 Sedan, but the resemblance was there. Had Sam seen it, too? Dean approached the car with a keen eye, looking it over closely from grill to fender.

Finding the dark smears on the exposed metal at the edge of the trunk, still fresh enough to wipe off on his fingers.

"Knew you really loved my car, Sammy," Dean breathed, smiling. It was a little thing, but it was a fresh injection of hope. "Keep up the breadcrumbs." Dean kept going past the car.

His phone unexpectedly rang as he reached the corner. Dean nearly jumped, then yanked it out of his pocket and barely spared it a glance—caller unknown. Dean huffed impatiently and started to shove it back into his jacket.

But…

Frowning, not even willing to call the inchoate feeling faith, Dean flipped the phone open and put it to his ear as he glanced both ways down the street. "Hello?"

There was a hesitation. Then, soft and shaky, "Dean?"

He almost tripped over the curb. "Sammy? You okay? Where are you?"

"Dean, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, man, I'm—"

Dean ground to a halt, trying to process what he was hearing. The paradox of fear and relief at the sound of Sam's wrecked voice. "Whoa—Sam? It's okay. Take it easy."

"I'm sorry." It was a whisper now, followed by a groan.

Dean strained at invisible bonds, pulled in a direction he didn't know. "Sammy, listen to me, I know what happened and everything's gonna be fine, okay? I'll come get you and I'll fix this, I will. I just need you to tell me where you are."

An audible breath. Sam was trying to pull himself together. "I don't know. Phone booth. Dean…"

He was biting the inside of his mouth so hard, he tasted blood. "It's okay, Sam, just look around, tell me what you see." So calm, he almost believed his own reassurances.

"It's dark."

Dean rolled his eyes. "No kidding, boy genius. That's why they invented streetlights."

"Blurry." The hoarse whisper sounded defeated. "Can't…see the street signs."

Dean was standing still, but his heart pounded as if he'd been running. He hated that tone of Sam's, the one that had choked his nightmares out to Dean in the dark of night, from furry monsters in the closet to his girl sliced up and dying on the ceiling. "That's okay," Dean soothed, like he always did, and turned back toward the car. "Look at the buildings, Sammy. Like Dad taught us—observation, remember? What's on the buildings?"

A long pause. "Dean…think he shot me."

Dean's heart sank at both the words and the slight slur to them. Hating what Sam had gone through—was going through—to make him sound like that. "I know, Sam. I'm coming. I just need you to help me find you. C'mon, man, you can do this—what else is on the buildings?" He turned the motor over, pulled out to make a u-turn.

A long pause. He could hear Sam's loud expirations, a soft moan as he shifted. Dean felt like his muscles were going to snap from the tension.

"Sammy?"

"Two-two-one-oh."

"Twenty-two ten?" A street name would have been good, but Dean followed his instincts—his brother's instincts—and turned right just after the old Impala. Sam had to be on that street. "That's good, Sammy. You see anything else?" It was enough, but he didn't want to lose the connection with his brother. Sam sounded like he was barely hanging on as it was. "Any good-looking chicks around?"

It took him a moment to realize the soft huff was Sam laughing. "Don't want you…distracted."

"Hey, right now I'm all yours, dude. I'm just sayin', maybe later, after we get you cleaned up…" Just four more blocks—how the heck had Sam gotten so far in his condition?

Sam was suddenly breathing harder, soft scrabbling noises in the background, and Dean frowned even as he kept driving. "Dean…oh, God, he's here."

Waltrout. Ice shot up Dean's spine; he'd been afraid of that. The light in front of him turned red, and Dean didn't even stop to consider, just floored it. He had to swerve to miss hitting a car, a cacophony of blaring horns following him. "Okay, Sam, listen to me—let go of the phone and get down on the floor, okay? Stay out of sight. I'm almost there."

"Dean…"

"Sammy, it's okay. I'm coming to get you."

The phone dropped without further hesitation, clattering against the booth wall. Dean could hear the distant groan as Sam settled on the floor.

And then he heard the distant screech of slamming metal, and Sam's gasp. A hard, unfamiliar voice.

"There you are."

"Son of a…" Dean spat, tossing the cell phone aside. If he clutched the steering wheel any harder, either plastic or bone would snap.

A phone booth appeared down the street on his right, the shadow of a man standing in the doorway.

Dean swerved between two cars, then across another lane of traffic. He wasn't going to let these guys have another crack at Sam. Not while he was there.

He double-parked beside the booth, then jumped out of the car and dashed around it. "Hey!" he was already yelling.

Waltrout—it had to be him with that cold face and the long coat that didn't hide the lines of a weapon behind the flaps—turned to him.

Dean already had his own gun out, and shoved his way between the hunter and the phone booth door. "Back off. Now," he ordered, and spared the briefest glance to the side. It was just enough to see the dark tousle of hair pressed against the glass in the corner, large hands flattened against the walls on either side. Warm relief at the sight of his brother quickly gave way to cold anger. Sam had shrunk away as far as he could go, terrified, and the red haze of fury that evoked in Dean tightened his finger on the trigger. Nobody messed with his little brother.

Something flinched in Waltrout's eyes. "Winchester," he said, his voice gravelly.

Dean planted himself firmly between Sam and the hunter, and kept a close eye on the one hand the man had buried in his coat. "Waltrout." Dean bared his teeth at the hunter. "I'd like to say it's a pleasure, but considering you're stalking my little brother…not so much."

"He's not your brother," the older man hissed. "He's not like us—he's what we hunt."

Dean's expression deadened. There was no joking about this. "Oh, yeah? And what's that?"

"A seer."

"Oh, come on. Sam?" Dean scoffed. "Where'd you get your intel from, a fortune cookie? Guy doesn't even notice when a hot girl's checking him out. You see him spouting prophecies or talking to dead people?"

"Word is—"

"Yeah, well, word is wrong. And I'm declaring hunting season closed."

Waltrout glared at him, and Dean returned the look coolly. He didn't want to do this here, in public, but if he had to he would.

The other hunter seemed to agree. His hand slipped out of his coat, empty, and Dean relaxed his own grip fractionally.

"So, you're protecting him. Just because he's your brother."

"Dude, something wrong with your ears? I'm protecting him because he's one of the good guys. He didn't deserve what you did to him. Far as I'm concerned, that makes you one of 'them.'" Dean took a step closer. "And you know what happens to someone who comes after a hunter."

Doubt flickered in Waltrout's face.

"Besides," and Dean let a smile slide across his face, "from where I'm standing, Sam didn't do so bad against you two on his own."

Dean could see the hunter's face flush even in the dim light, but Waltrout's stance eased. He was rethinking his intentions. Dean watched him warily, not relaxing even when the man gave him a curt nod. "No hard feelings," Waltrout grunted, lifting both hands in mute capitulation.

Dean stood frozen about two seconds, then lunged at him. His gun caught Waltrout in the temple just as the hunter started reaching for his weapon. He was out before he even hit the ground.

Dean smiled grimly as he stood over him. "No hard feelings," he agreed. And then he turned back to the phone booth, and his brother.

Sam was still tucked up against the glass, chin almost touching his chest. His head jerked up at Dean's arrival, and panic flared in his eyes as he recoiled even more, scrambling for a weapon he didn't have.

"Hey, easy, easy," Dean soothed, crouching down and reaching out slowly. "It's me. You're okay."

Sam's head dropped back against the booth wall and he squinted at Dean. His pupils were unnaturally dilated, and fever flushed his cheeks. "Dean?" His eyes darted past Dean, looking for a threat, then back to his brother.

"Yeah. Just me. It's safe." He finally made contact, one hand splayed against Sam's stuttering chest, the other sliding up under the matted bangs to gauge temperature. Warm but not hot. With any luck, infection hadn't gotten a good foothold yet, although Sam's one outstretched leg was obviously swollen and bloody. He was also shivering, and Dean shrugged out of his leather jacket and laid it over Sam like a blanket. "How's it goin'?"

Sam trembled harder at his touch, then relaxed. Swallowed convulsively. "I'm sorry."

The corner of Dean's mouth turned up, but all he felt was sadness. "You can stop with the broken record now, Sammy."

Sam didn't seem to hear him even though he curled his shoulder into the warmth of the jacket. "…I shouldn't've left, Dean. I was gonna go back—"

Dean sighed and let him ramble as he gently checked him out. The fever and injury, not to mention the fear, had obviously taken their toll. Reason wouldn't do much good until he could get Sam someplace safe and taken care of.

Besides the leg, a handcuff dangled from one sliced wrist. Dean quickly picked it and tossed it aside. The pinprick scab on the side of Sam's throat jumped out at him even in the wan light of the booth. And then there were those drug-hazed eyes. Dean felt fresh anger swamp him but pushed it away to be dealt with later. Sam needed him focused now.

Sam went on, exhausted voice breaking and tumbling over his explanation of why he'd taken off. Apparently, making sure he explained that to Dean was more important than being found, than the fact he'd been shot or drugged. There was something very humbling in that. Dean finally winced at the cracking words and craned to look Sam in the eye again, dropping a hand on his good leg.

"Sammy, listen to me." Sam instantly fell silent. "I'm not mad, okay? You were upset, you didn't mean it—man, I get it. But it doesn't matter. What's important now is making sure you're okay, all right?"

Sam stared at him long enough that Dean started wondering how much he really understood what was going on. Then, to his dismay, Sam's head fell back, rolling hopelessly against the booth wall. "Dean, they were hunters."

Of all the things to have sunk in, that was one Dean wished his brother had been spared. He sighed. "Yeah, I know. But you beat them at their game, Sam. Dad would've been impressed."

The dark eyes grew wet. "'S not over. Never gonna be over." He blinked heavily. "I'm a—"

"Sam," he interrupted sharply, not realizing his fingers were digging into flesh until Sam winced. Dean made himself let go, slid a hand instead against Sam's stubbled jaw, just brushing the needle mark. "You're my brother. That's all that matters."

Sam's eyes grew even more watery.

Dean huffed in exasperation. "Dude, no more tearful confessions, okay? This isn't you talking, it's the drug." He paused. "Oh, wait. It is you." Dean snorted, cuffed Sam's head very gently. "Let's get you out of here, then you can blubber all you want."

Sam stared at him, then, to Dean's surprise, gave him a small smile. "Jerk," he whispered, throat working against more.

Dean grinned back at him as he pulled his cell out. "Is that supposed to be news or something?" As his body twisted, he felt something drag at his back, and realized one of Sam's long arms had snaked behind him and he was hanging on to the tail of Dean's shirt. This time Dean was the one who had to swallow hard, and he reconsidered whom he was calling for help. Sam had a bullet wound to the leg, a drug coursing through his veins, and a death grip on his big brother that Dean would have killed anyone trying to dislodge. He cast a doubtful glance at Sam, saw the utter trust in the half-closed eyes, and sighed and dialed Jim.

"Sam all right?" the cleric greeted him.

"No," Dean said flatly. "I need a doctor. Someone who won't ask questions about a gunshot wound or drugs." His elbow bumped the hanging phone booth receiver, and Dean absently hung it up. His gaze paused as it moved over the phone, hardening as he took in the blood-smeared buttons.

There was a brief silence. "Jake. He's got a home office in the suburbs north of the city."

"Another hunter?" Dean asked, and caught the jerk of Sam's head out of his peripheral vision. He shook his head in reassurance and moved his hand to his brother's shoulder to squeeze lightly, palm rubbing over Sam's collarbone. It stuck out; the kid hadn't been eating well since the Miller thing.

"No, just someone you don't have to make up a story for. Can you get Sam there?"

Dean nodded, his eyes still on Sam, who was starting to sag again. Trusting Dean to sort things out. He pulled Sam against his side, the mop of dark hair a tickle at his throat, and lifted his brother's unresistant hand onto his knee. "Yeah." Dean dug out the broken leather bracelet, undid the knot to lengthen it, then retied the cord around Sam's wrist with sure fingers. Sam's hand flexed briefly as if confirming the rightness of its feel.

"I'll let him know you're coming." There was a pause. "Dean, tell Sam it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. He is the way he is for a reason."

Dean started, then realized he really shouldn't have been surprised. If Simms had managed to piece together what was happening, Jim probably had a long time ago. "I will," he vowed, then listened silently a minute to Jim's directions before snapping the phone shut and stowing it away.

Sam was still conscious, but he looked dazed, eyelashes fluttering. Dean had to grab his chin to draw his attention back.

"Sam? You with me?"

A beat. Then a murmured, "Not goin' anywhere."

Dean grinned at him. He loved this kid. "Not without me, you're not," he agreed. "C'mon, let's get you some good drugs this time." He nudged himself under the arm that clung to his shirt so he wouldn't have to break its grip, and eased Sam to his feet by inches, ignoring the grunts and under-the-breath moans of pain.

Dean pulled him closer as he walked-dragged him back to the car, Sam's head slumped against his, Dean's shirt still balled in his hand. Sam resisted getting into the back, and Dean finally gave up and folded him into the front. He ran around to get in on the other side, and pulled his jacket back up over his brother's shoulder before wedging one of Dean's rolled-up t-shirts from the back seat under his head. Sam gave him a wan smile before relaxing into the heater-warmed vinyl.

They weren't in the clear yet. But they were getting there.

00000

The world faded in and out. Sam looked for a constant.

Swaying, a soft growl, familiar stale smell—the car. Which meant, "Dean?"

A hand on his leg. "Yeah, Sam."

His body hurt and Dean was there. Sam let himself drift.

The next thing he knew was antiseptic smells, lying down, cold. Hospital? Sam moaned, thought he got his brother's name out.

"I'm right here." A voice at his ear.

He wanted to hang on to Dean and ask him not to leave, but his leg became agony, and Sam whited out again.

Jostling woke him, and he flung out a hand for something solid to hold on to. It closed around molded plastic.

"Hey, easy." His gripping fingers were gently pried loose and laid next to him, then covered with a firm grasp. "I know the bed's a little narrow, but you're not gonna fall off. Hang off, maybe, with those stilts you call legs…"

He should've relaxed at the sound of Dean's voice, and it was a relief, but he was more awake now and the sense of hospital was even stronger. And that meant strangers and questions and pain and separation. Sam flipped his hand over and grabbed on to his brother, tightly.

"Sam? You awake this time?"

"I don't want to be here," he whispered raggedly. He cracked his eyes open to blinding light and shut them again. He was freezing, trying not to shiver, and his heart was going to break out of his chest any moment, he could feel it.

Dean could apparently, too, because there was movement, then his other hand settled warm against Sam's chest, above his heart. "Settle down, man—we're safe here. You're just a little confused right now."

"They're gonna make you leave. What if…I can't…Dean, I can't—" It was hard to think, his head a heated jumble even as his body ached with cold.

"Whoa, slow down. No one's gonna make me leave. Open your eyes, Sammy—I turned off the light."

Sam winced them briefly open, found the dimness tolerable, and opened all the way. Flower-printed wallpaper greeted him, and framed pictures. There was a ficus in the corner.

"It's not a hospital, it's a clinic, run by a friend of Jim's. See? They're not kicking me out of the ER this time."

Sam tried to focus on him, still feeling weak and confused. He was too tired to figure out who to trust, but with Dean there he didn't have to. Sam sighed, weary in ways that had nothing to do with his battered body, and turned his head a little to bring his brother into sight. Remembering an earlier pain. "I'm sorry."

Dean's expression grew grim. "Cut it out, Sam—if you don't stop saying that, I'm taking off."

And Sam's fragile peace instantly crumbled. "No!" He crushed Dean's hand, trying to sit up, except that his body wasn't cooperating. It ended up more of a flail, threatening to topple him off the bed, banging limbs against the thin padding. Fire flared up Sam's legs, igniting every nerve as it went.

Sam opened his mouth to cry out, and the last thing he saw was Dean's wide, panicked eyes, before everything went dark.

The memories followed him down.

Dean solemnly pulling Sam's very loose tooth after Johnny B. at school got him worried about swallowing it with his food. Dean bringing him home a cigarette when Sam asked about them and telling him why he wouldn't be smoking as Sam grimaced through a few foul puffs. Dean massaging a cramp from his arm after a particularly brutal workout.

No, wait. That last was real.

His brother had the rough hands of someone who did hard physical labor for a living. Sam felt callused fingers and palms rub his arm with incongruous gentleness, easing him out of dreams back into the world. Starting from the shoulder down, his brother's hands worked away the tension and fatigue pooled in his muscles, got his blood circulating, chafed carefully around the torn skin of his wrist. It was a kind of exercise when one of them was laid up, and not the first time Sam had woken to the sensation.

Dean usually stopped as soon as he roused, though. This time, after a minute or so he just said, "You gonna play dead all day?"

"If you keep doing that, maybe," Sam said drowsily. He was on a softer surface now, an actual bed, warm and comfortable. His leg was almost numb, and he recognized the detached feeling of painkillers, but his head was clearer.

Dean chuckled. "Doc said you'd be laid up 'bout a week—I didn't wanna start from scratch getting your scrawny body back in shape."

Sam ignored the jibe, dragged his eyes open to look at Dean. "Doc?"

Dean shrugged. "Figured you'd rather have a professional digging in your infected leg than me. And then there was that annoying little detail of you being jacked up on something." He gave Sam a wary look. "You're not gonna freak out on me again, are you?"

He was too tired to flush at the reminder. His mind was starting to fill in the blanks, and Sam winced, closed his eyes. "They drugged me…wanted to force a vision."

"Yeah, well, Doc said it was harmless and it should be flushed out by now. Your fever's going down, too, so no more psychotic episodes, which is always good." Dean looked up at him almost casually as he worked. "Did the drug work?"

Sam knew better. He shook his head wearily against the pillow. "No, just…triggered a lot of memories."

"Oh, yeah? Hot dates? Law School Girls Gone Wild?"

"You an' me growing up," Sam whispered.

Awkward silence followed. Dean finished his massage but left a hand lightly on Sam's wrist, and he was grateful for that. When Dean finally spoke, his voice was serious. "Sam, you're not a freak."

He opened his eyes. "Dean…"

His brother shook his head, gaze searing. "No, I don't want to hear it. Whatever you thought I was thinking, whatever you were thinking, it's wrong. Yeah, okay, so maybe I wasn't expecting this whole vision gig, but it doesn't change anything. You're still my pesky geek brother, I can still smack you down any time I have to, and I am not scared of you. Got that?"

Sam blinked. Some part of him had been waiting to hear that, and it lightened his heart a little. But, "Even if I'm dangerous to be around?" he couldn't help but ask.

Dean snorted, leaning his hip against Sam's bed. "Yeah, because our life is so safe."

"Dean—"

"Yes, okay? That's not gonna happen, but it still wouldn't change anything. I'm not trusting anyone else to watch my back. Okay?"

Sam swallowed, nodded.

"Good. Subject's closed."

Sam breathed out. "I shouldn't've left. I'm sor—"

His brother held up a hand, silencing him. "Dude, enough already. It's getting embarrassing. Seriously." He glanced away, raised his free hand to rub the back of his head. "Truth is, if anyone should be apologizing here, it's me. I was the one who started all this, asking around. I guess some people connected the dots."

Sam shook his head wearily. "Not just you. I called a few people, too."

Dean's head reared back in surprise. "You did?"

Sam snorted wetly. "You're not the only one who's scared."

"Sam, I'm not—"

"Dean, it's okay. I have no idea what's happening to me—I think we've got a right to be a little worried here."

Dean sighed, head dropping. His grip was as tight as if they were sparring. Dean had always protected him, but this was a battle he couldn't fight for Sam. It had to hurt.

Enough to make him desperate to find answers, to try to protect him with knowledge if he couldn't with skill.

Sam got it now.

His chest felt tight with a different emotion, and he swallowed hard. "Just…don't leave, all right? I can't do this by myself but…I think I can with you."

Dean's head came up, eyes deep with emotion. "I wasn't the one who took off, genius."

Sam winced.

But Dean was shaking his head. "Sam, I'm not going anywhere. I swear, okay?" He kneaded Sam's hand, thumb gently pressing into Sam's palm like he wanted to work that truth into his flesh and blood. Dean's expression shrugged. "After all, look what happens. Ten minutes away from me, and you get yourself shot and bagged by a couple of yahoos."

"I got away from them, too," Sam returned.

Dean smiled at him with obvious pride. "Yeah, you did. Not bad, little brother. Of course," he spread his hands, "then you holed up in a phone booth, 'cause who's gonna find you in a glass box on the street, right?"

"You told me to stay there." Sam stiffened. "Wait, what happened to—"

"Our friendly fellow hunters? Simms—the guy you knocked out—accidentally got himself shot in the same leg as you." Dean shook his head. "Clumsy. And Waltrout met with a little accident."

"Oh." Sam swallowed thickly, both relieved and disappointed the two men were still alive. Although if both hunters had crossed Dean's path, neither could've gotten off too easily. Dean tended to take attacks on Sam…personally.

"You wanna tell me what happened back there?" Dean asked, subdued. His thumb had moved on to the lower joints of Sam's fingers, and he doubted even Dean was pretending this was still about circulation and muscle tone.

Sam shook his head, exhaustion returning with fortifications of reassurance and comfort. The whole thing was still embarrassing and unsettling, but he'd held his own, long enough for Dean to come and save him. Again. And he always would. "Later," Sam murmured.

"Okay," Dean agreed easily. "Get some sleep, all right?"

Sam was already halfway there, but his fingers curled over Dean's, trapping him there more effectively than any bindings or restraints. Stay, in their unspoken language.

And before he dropped off, he felt Dean's weight settle next to him on the bed. I'm not leaving you.

It was better than any spoken promise.

00000

Dean sat for a long time watching Sam sleep before he tiredly rubbed his forehead, then fished out his cell phone. He was way overdue to call Jim back, but with Sam going in and out since they'd gotten there, this was the first time he felt free to do it. Even now, Sam, the tough guy who'd knocked out his armed captor, gotten out of cuffs, and struggled nearly ten blocks with a bullet in his leg, was wrapped around Dean's hand like he was afraid his brother would vanish while he slept. Stupid kid, Dean shook his head. As if he'd ever done any of the walking out in their family. As if Sam could do anything—or become anything—to make him go.

He stared at the phone a minute, then dialed.

"Sam's okay, just sleeping now. Bastards shot him in the leg and drugged him. They thought he was some kind of freak, Jim." He listened briefly. "Yeah, he'll be okay. Thanks for the name—the doc's a good guy." Mostly because he'd fixed Sam and then disappeared and let Dean do the rest. He shook his head. "No, we're leaving as soon as Sam can handle crutches." He glanced over automatically at his brother, smiling a little at his slack-jawed relaxation.

Dean's face only grew hard as he turned away, dropping his voice to make sure Sam didn't hear even in his sleep. "Jim, I need your help with something… Yeah. Sam's secret can't get out—this can't happen again. I think these yahoos were just fishing, and they pretty much shot their credibility going after Sam like that. I'm gonna find this leak and plug it, but I don't think anybody really knows anything. Just…do me a favor and whisper in a few ears, okay? This was all just a misunderstanding, there's nothing special about Sam." Well, except to his brother. Between himself and the furniture, Dean thought the kid was pretty darn amazing. "But anyone else tries to mess with him again for any reason, they're going to find me in the way." Dean nodded tersely. "You do that." At the cleric's final words, he smiled briefly, glanced over at Sam again. "Yeah, I will. Thanks."

Dean flicked his phone shut and stowed it. Idly rubbed the back of Sam's hand. Watched him sleep like he had all of Sam's life.

"I'm not leaving," he vowed quietly to the sleeper. "Nothing bad is gonna happen to you while I'm around."

If Sam believed it, Dean would, too.

The End

Author's Note: This was written before "Hunted" aired.