Originally appeared in Blood Brothers 6 (2012), from Gold'n Lily Press
For Jeanne for her birthday, and her zine

Land of the Lost
K Hanna Korossy

The one positive, by Dean's calculation, in waking up to a hood over his head, arms tied to his sides, and no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there, was feeling Sam's broad back pressed against his. While he would always prefer his brother safely somewhere else when Dean was in danger, feeling Sam breathing next to him always beat not knowing where he was or if he even was alive.

That was about the only plus he could find, however.

The ground beneath them felt like concrete, cold and rough but too solid for dirt. It was hard to tell through the burlap sack—gotta love the classics—but it felt like they were indoors, the air still and quiet. His head pounded in a way that Dean depressingly knew from experience meant drugs, not injury, but otherwise he was just sore, not hurt. Rope was wound around his ankles and from his breastbone down to his belly, holding him and Sam together tightly enough that breathing wasn't easy and that it would take some serious contortions to get free, loose enough that someone obviously didn't want them dead…yet. Sam seemed to be in the same situation behind him, back expanding as Dean's lungs contracted, breathing unconsciously in synch. Their bodies, their instincts still cleaved to one another even when their minds and hearts weren't so sure.

Dean pressed back, just a little, feeling Sam's ribs more sharply than he expected to. "Sam?"

Through one burlap layer and, probably, another, his query was doubtfully more than a muffled noise, but Sam's reaction was immediate. He stiffened, then twisted behind him. "'Eee?"

Close enough. They wouldn't be having any serious conversations that way, but they had others. Dean wiggled one hand back until it brushed Sam's, managing to hook pinkies like some preteen pact. I'm here, I'm okay.

Sam's shoulders caved, lungs bellowing a little less sharply against Dean's spine. Tangible relief.

Yeah, that didn't twist Dean's heart, not even a little bit.

The floor suddenly began vibrating faintly against Dean's cheek. He felt Sam go back on the alert behind him at the same moment: someone was coming. Someone probably not friendly.

The sack was yanked off so abruptly that Dean's head collided with the floor before he could catch himself. His grunt was echoed by Sam, who also sounded uncovered now. Dean squinted against the sudden light, trying to focus on…bars?

Dean twisted his head around to bring their captor into view. His vision swam, more drug-hazed than light-sensitive, but cinder-block walls and iron bars were starting to come into focus. An old-fashioned jail cell? The face—no, three faces—sharpening into relief in front of the scenery, however, were definitely not cops.

Hunters.

Dean didn't know them. Or at least he didn't know them by name; two looked kinda familiar, like maybe Dean had nodded at them in passing at the Roadhouse, or watched as they'd picked up his dad for a hunt. But they had the look: the worn but practical blue-collar clothes, the scars, the old eyes. The rifle one had casually propped against his hip and another wore over his shoulder.

"Boys," drawled the third man in front, about their dad's age if John were still alive. He crouched in front of his captives as he looked them over. Dean, about to utter an angry demand, was momentarily thrown at realizing what he was seeing in the man's eyes: regret.

He ignored it. "Who are you?"

Okay, so it came out more like a single slurred whoryu, but the hunter seemed to get it. His mouth quirked without humor, and Dean was surprised again as one worn hand reached up in a respectful one-fingered salute. "Name's Mike. These two're Jesse and Rail. Rail and I knew your pa—good man, John was."

"So, this is your way of paying your respects?" That was Sam, sounding a little more clearheaded than Dean, which was so not fair considering Dean had roused first.

He approved the sentiment, however, and added his own glowering punctuation.

"Not exactly." Mike shifted. Discomfort: he didn't like this situation, either. Dean had some suggestions as to how he could fix it, but Mike continued. "It's out of respect for your pa—and for your years of doing the job—that we didn't just snuff ya outright, but… Look, I'll make this as easy as I can." With that, he half-turned and nodded back toward them.

The hunter on his right—Jesse?—set the rifle down while Rail casually pointed his weapon at them, and stepped around Mike. Even as the Winchesters tensed for some kind of attack, the hunter just hooked his hands in the ropes that bound them and, with a huff, pulled them up to sitting.

Mike shuffled back a little, cautious without being nervous. They were good at what they did, Dean grudgingly acknowledged. Made it all the harder to just sit there like a spitted pig and wait for whatever these three had planned. Snuff didn't exactly sound like they were going to throw the Winchesters a party.

"So here's the deal," Mike went on. "We've been hearing a lot of rumors about the two of you being the ones to let Lucifer out." He must have seen something in their faces, because one steely eyebrow cocked. "Oh, it ain't a secret. Demons are practically lining up to gloat, and signs of the Apocalypse aren't exactly subtle if you know what you're seein', know what I mean? And that was before we came across Hull and Janklow."

Sam turned to stone behind him; he clearly recognized the names. A surge of anger welled up in Dean—more secrets, Sam?—before he realized abruptly that those were the hunters Sam had mentioned, the ones who'd tried to turn him back to demon blood while he and Dean were apart.

"You're gonna believe those two?" Dean went on the offensive, because at this point he was pretty sure Sam wouldn't. "Two cowards who threatened an innocent girl to punish Sam for something demons said he did? Seriously, who believes a demon, anyway? Oh, right…"

Mike didn't seem to take offense, and his calm was unnerving. "I wasn't born yesterday, son. We asked Bobby, and what that codger didn't say was pretty damning right there. Then there's that crazy girl, Tamara, who rambles on about you two whenever she gets drunk. And the guys who heard from Sam himself that you were dead, and the ones who talked to folks in a war zone of a town called River Pass. Where there's smoke, there's flame, boys, but this? This was more like a brushfire gone crazy."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Dean said low and hard, voice almost shaking with intensity.

"Maybe," Mike conceded with a nod. "Maybe. But tell me you ain't hunted more with less."

Dean narrowed his eyes.

That was when Sam, that idiot, opened his mouth. "Look, Dean had nothing to do with any of that. If you want to punish someone—"

"Shut up, Sam," Dean growled.

Sam twisted in a vain attempt to look at him, only managing to grind the backs of their heads together. "No, Dean, I—"

"You gonna talk all day, or you gonna get to the point?" Dean spat at Mike.

"Right." Mike thumped his hands on both knees, and stood. "Point is, we can't just let you go. I think you two know that. But out of respect for your family's reputation, we'll give you a fighting chance." He reached to his side and pulled out a wicked-looking Bowie knife. Dean braced himself for a blow, but Mike just laid it on the floor inches from their hands. Then he stood back again. "You got one hour. You're in a ghost town, middle of prairie country, 'bout a hundred miles from anywhere. You make it out of here, past the three of us, and you win. You don't, and you go down fighting, honorably. We'll even give you a hunter send-off." He tipped his head toward the knife. "Up to you now."

Dean gave him a grim smile. "That what it take to ease your conscience, Mike? You want a fair fight, you untie me and then give me that knife."

Mike's answering smile was equally severe. "One hour, boys. What you do with it's up to you."

He turned and walked away, the other two following him without a glance back.

Dean muttered a curse and stretched for the knife. "Roll a little, I can't reach it." After a second, Sam tilted with him, and Dean's fingers brushed the hilt of the Bowie. He quickly started massaging it closer.

Sam was leaving him to it, which was fine; they couldn't both go at the ropes. It wasn't until Dean had the knife firmly clenched in his hand, blade facing backward, and was sawing at the ropes, that he realized Sam hadn't said a word since the hunters' departure.

"Nice guy," he offered with a sneer.

Sam flinched a little as the knife caught skin, and shifted his wrist to give Dean a little more room.

"'Course, we had a much better chance of talking our way out of this before you practically confessed to ending the world. What's up with that, Sam?"

Sam huffed. "You saying now I didn't?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Dude, we are so not doing this right now. You wanna go all martyr on me? You do it when someone isn't planning to kill us for being stuck in the middle of this crapfest." One rope gave way, loosening the others. "You hear me?"

There was a pause. Then, "You're right. You need to get out of here."

Dean swore again. "We, Sam. We need to get out of here. We're all we've got, remember?" Another rope. Dean quickly shimmied his way free of the rest.

"Yeah. Okay."

Sam didn't sound so sure. They'd deal with that later, though. For now, Dean thought as he leaned forward to saw his legs free, they were together, relatively in one piece, and had almost an hour to figure out a plan. Piece of cake.

And then…then he'd figure out what to give Sam, a beatdown or a pep talk.

00000

It had only been a matter of time, he knew that.

First there'd been Gordon and his half-baked but not untrue suspicions about Sam. Then Isaac and Tamara, bitter about the opening of the Hell Gate but still willing to help them, and paying dearly for it. Steve Wandell's buddies. Reggie Hull and Tim Janklow and the late Steve Bose. Not to mention the several other hunters they'd crossed paths with along the way who'd ranged from suspicious to homicidal in their reactions to the Winchesters. To Sam. It had just been a matter of time before another of their supposed allies decided to screw them; Sam had pretty much been expecting it.

He'd just kinda hoped Dean wouldn't be caught in the same volley.

"Here." Dean had finished freeing himself, and he pivoted around to cut the ropes tying Sam's feet.

Sam watched despondently. "You should just leave me here."

Dean's jaw bunched but he didn't look up or stop sawing.

"Maybe if they have me, they'll leave you alone."

"Yeah, 'cause they seem so rational that way." One rope sliced through, Dean set the knife aside and started unwinding the loops of the rest. Conserving a potential tool, Sam knew.

"And say we get out of it this time, Dean, what about next time?" he pushed on. "They're gonna keep coming for me, you know that."

Dean lunged forward, and Sam started back, but his brother was only grabbing the rest of the discarded rope from behind him. Dean gave him a withering look as he sat back in his crouch. "Yeah, Sam, that's because it sucks to be a Winchester, not because of you. Get over yourself, dude." He rose to his feet, moving each limb to test mobility even as he coiled the rope.

"He didn't say anything you haven't already," Sam quietly pointed out, still on the floor.

Dean's glare should have frozen the words in his mouth. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

"I don't know why," Sam confessed.

"Sam, if you don't shut up, I swear to God…"

"…you'll kill me?" Sam's mouth twisted.

Dean searched for words for a second, then shook his head sharply. "I told you, I'm not doing this now. You want to give up, just sit here and wait for them to come back and put a bullet in you, fine. But you're gonna have company. You go out, we both do."

Sam looked at him, dismayed. Dean was furious; that was clear. He didn't trust Sam, hadn't forgotten what Sam had done, probably didn't even like Sam very much right now. But he was also obviously concerned, and desperate, and not leaving. They would sink or swim together.

And he wasn't dragging Dean down with him, not again.

"What do you want to do?" Sam sighed.

The lines in Dean's face eased a little. "Okay. So, one hour." He glanced at his watch. "Middle of nowhere—running's not gonna help, not with them coming after us." Dean reached a hand out to him. "Wanna play Mousetrap?" he asked with a tight grin.

Sam couldn't help smiling just a little at the memory of tattered board games with makeshift pieces and Dean-style directions, played in a series of rundown motel rooms. "Yeah," he said as he took Dean's hand and let himself be hauled to his feet. "We can do that."

Outside, the air was dry and hot, the sky a clear blue bowl above them. Nothing stirred in the empty main street of the town except the breeze. Sam half-expected a tumbleweed to blow along the dusty dirt road. There were about a half-dozen storefronts along both sidewalks, petering out to nothing at each end. There was no sign of their captors.

"What do you think, 1950s, '60s?" Dean asked from next to him.

There'd been a rotary phone in the otherwise empty sheriff's office, and bare, broken electric fixtures on the walls. "Yeah, sounds about right," Sam agreed. The level of decay indicated decades of abandonment.

"Okay, so we're not gonna find anything newer than maybe a radio. Awesome." They'd already checked; their pockets had been emptied, weapons and electronics gone. Sam still had a few packets of salt and herbs, and Dean his flask, for all the good that would do.

Sam studied the storefronts, then nodded at a building two lots down on the opposite side. "Hey. Over there."

Dean looked over at the Hardware and nodded his approval. He led the way across the street.

The building had been emptied, leaving only dusty shelves and a few broken remnants in the storeroom: a torn tarp, rusty nails and lengths of pipe, dried-up cans of paint and a shovel with a splintered handle.

Sam and Dean grinned at each other.

"This is where the A-Team montage music would be playing," Sam remarked as he sprinkled dirt over the tarp he'd just laid. He glanced up at Dean, who was testing a spring trap.

"I do love it when a plan comes together," his brother said cheerfully.

"Yeah, I bet you've been saving that one up for a long time." Satisfied, Sam stepped back and grabbed the two cans of paint, tying a length of rope to one.

"Dude, you have no idea."

They ended up setting a good dozen traps in the hour they had. Dean rigged wire from an old piano they found into hidden tripwires. Loose boards, paint cans on ropes, and pipes made good swinging projectiles. Nails littered dark patches where they were impossible to see on the floor, and Sam had removed the brace from the stairway in the basement of the church they finally retreated to when their time was almost up. Dean had booby-trapped the door, too, but it probably wouldn't be enough. All they could do now was hole up and wait.

"How many you think the traps are gonna take out?" Sam asked, hushed, in the dark quiet. The high, small windows were too crusted with dirt to let any real light in.

"I dunno, one, maybe two if we're lucky." There was a soft sound Sam recognized as Dean running a hand through his hair.

"Somehow I don't think one of those is gonna be Mike."

Dean shifted, his movements and the direction of his voice the only clues Sam had where to look. "Yeah."

Sam swallowed, rubbing nervously at a splinter that had lodged in his pointer finger. "What're we gonna do with them?"

That pause was longer. "Sam…"

"I'm not…I'm not defending them, Dean. I'm just…I thought I was doing the right thing before, too, you know? Didn't exactly end well. And they're just doing what we do, hunting something dangerous."

"You're not dangerous."

Sam snorted softly. "You seen the news lately, man? The earthquake in Rome? The tsunamis? The tornadoes? Think the folks living there would disagree with you."

He could hear Dean moving again, but Sam still jumped when something brushed against his side. Dean, sitting down on the floor next to him, shoulder to shoulder. "Did Azazel give you a choice before he hauled your asses out to Cold Oak?"

"That—"

"Or before he bled in your mouth when you were a baby?"

"Dean, I don't—"

"He killed our parents, Sam, and Jessica. I went to Hell, you went through Hell, but we killed the bastard, closed the gate, and ganked Lilith. Yeah, okay, so we made some mistakes along the way—" He ignored Sam's snort over starting the Apocalypse being a "mistake." "—but I'd like to see anyone else do better with the crap hand we were dealt. You think those self-righteous sons of bitches out there would've made it through half what we did?"

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again as he actually thought about Dean's words. He'd had his moments of self-pity, of anger and despair over what the supernatural—and sometimes the natural—world had done to him. But recently he'd been so consumed with his terrible mistake, he'd forgotten everything that had led up to it. Not destiny, maybe, but more than his share of tragedies and tricks. It was hard not to believe that their dad would have done better in his shoes, or their mom, or Bobby. He had no doubt Dean would have. But Gordon or Reggie or Tim?

Sam sighed. "I don't—"

In the distance, there was a muffled scream.

They both sat up. Dean gave a low chuckle. "Which one do you think, huh? Tarp? Paint cans? Five bucks says it's the paint cans."

Sam rolled his eyes.

Several tensely silent minutes passed.

The floor creaked overhead.

They held their breaths, waiting as heavy boots crossed the floor. They seemed to avoid the patch of nails, not slowing, moving cautiously but deliberately toward the cellar door.

Dean's arm rose a little, and Sam knew he was clutching their one knife. He himself had a length of pipe in both hands.

The door knob jiggled a tiny bit, then there was a pause.

"Crap," Dean whispered. The hunter suspected a trap. There was no way to disarm the wire that Dean had pulled taut from the inside of the door, but the pipe that would come smashing through when the door opened was easy to duck if you were expecting it.

The door was suddenly yanked open, pale light outlining the frame. There was the whistle of the released pipe…but no sound of impact.

Dean breathed another curse. Sam rubbed his sweaty palm against his jeans before gripping the pipe he held more tightly.

"So, I'm guessing you two are down there."
Mike. His voice came from the left of the doorway; he was smart enough not to silhouette himself against the light. Sam glanced over at his brother and just made out Dean's taut profile in the meager illumination.

"Good try—you took out Jesse. John trained you pretty well. But it's the end of the line now, boys."

They didn't talk, didn't move. No reason to give Mike confirmation of what he only suspected.

"I'm not stupid enough to come down there—much rather you two come upstairs. But if you don't, well, we can do it the hard way, too."

A small flame flared to life at the top of the stairs. Dean's under-the-breath swearing became a steady stream.

Sam swallowed a sudden lump of fear. They hadn't been stupid enough to go to ground somewhere without a back door, but in this case it was those high, tight windows, and Sam wasn't at all sure they could get out that way before the whole place went up in flames. The church, like every other building in town, was made of a combination of brick and wood. It would burn, and they'd be trapped inside the fire pit.

"I'll go," Dean murmured next to him. "He's not sure we're both here—I'll tell him you went ahead. You can come up behind him."

Sam caught his arm before he could step forward, and took the decision out of his hands. "We're coming up," he yelled up at Mike.

"Good. Make sure your hands are empty when you do."

"You stupid son of a—" Dean sputtered at the same time.

"Dean, listen. Listen! We go up one at a time, he's got control. But if we go up together, he can't take us both at the same time." At Dean's angry look, Sam put his free hand on his brother's shoulder. "'You go out, we both do,' right?" He offered Dean a tiny smile.

Dean clearly didn't like it, fighting the idea hard. But Sam was right and they both knew it. He breathed out a harsh breath. "Dude, we're having a serious talk about your issues when we're done here."

Sam's smile spread, melting in the warmth of his brother's unflagging devotion. "Yeah, yeah, you're always about the caring and sharing, man."

Dean tried to glare at him and failed.

"You got ten more seconds, boys."

They both looked up the stairs. Then, as one, they set down their weapons, squared their shoulders, and started up, Dean in the lead.

They had to step over the weakened steps and push past the gently swinging pipe, but they reached the top before the ten seconds were up. Sam noticed Dean continued to stay between him and Mike, but he didn't try to get around him. They'd fought each other long enough; time to focus on the real enemies. Because it had become kill or be killed, and while Sam might have sacrificed himself once for that cause, he'd never been willing to sacrifice Dean.

Mike stood a good six feet away from them, too far to reach to disarm. He held his rifle with deceptive carelessness, half-raised and pointed at Dean.

"You did a good job with what you had," he said, seemingly sincere. "Jesse never knew what hit him, and Rail's fixing up a busted ankle. Your dad was a good teacher. I sure hate to have it end like this."

"Yeah, I don't exactly see anybody pointing a gun at you," Dean sneered back.

"No," Mike said, making a regretful face, "but I know my right from wrong. Shame you boys lost your way on that one." He sighed, then nudged the rifle up. "Step out, Sam."

Dean fairly thrummed with tension; Sam could feel it where he stood. He wasn't surprised when Dean's hand shot back, pressing against his hip to keep him tucked back. "No."

Mike just looked exasperated now. "You know this gun'll punch right through—"

Dean's hand contracted, and then Sam was launching himself after his brother.

Mike, for all his hunting experience, had made a mistake. You never brought a rifle to a close-quarters showdown; it took too long to re-aim and was extended enough to easily be shoved aside and avoided.

The shot he tried to take anyway was deafening in the tight space of the sacristy; Sam instantly went deaf, watching the action unfold through the ringing in his ears.

Dean darted left as Sam went right, then his big brother threw himself at Mike.

Mike immediately recovered from the lost advantage, dropping the rifle and pulling a handgun and knife as he fell back.

Dean wasn't in a position to grab the gun, but he had enough reach to slam an arm into Mike's, sending the gun flying, while Sam went for the hand that held the knife. But Mike was already swinging it around toward Dean, fury finally breaking his calm.

Sam was a step back, thanks to his overprotective brother. He couldn't grab the knife in time to stop the determined arc toward Dean's chest. He wouldn't make it to Mike.

But he could reach Dean.

Dean hadn't expected to be jumped from the side. His feet went out from under him, and Sam saw his face balloon in a surprised oof! as he went down under Sam's weight.

It felt to Sam like he took a punch to the side as he went down. But Sam knew that was the knife sinking into his flank.

He hit the floor next to Dean's feet as his brother jumped back up. Looked up in time to see the horror dawn across Dean's face.

The snarl penetrated even the buzz in his ears.

Mike knew what hit him, but he was no match for the juggernaut that was an enraged, protective Dean. Sam saw the moment of realization and true fear on the older hunter's face before he went down.

Dean landed on Mike, his full weight on the man's chest, pinning him. With his back to Sam and the echo reverberating in his ears, he couldn't see what Dean was saying, but he could guess. And then he saw his brother stretch to the side to grab the handgun. Sam didn't even try to stop him.

He heard the gunshot just fine.

A moment later Dean was kneeling next to him, hands ghosting over Sam's face, his chest, then, gently, his side.

"Damn it, Sam… You're gonna be all right, okay? Just hang in there. It's gonna be okay."

His voice still sounded a little tinny to Sam's shell-shocked ears, but the panic in it was clear. Sam finally rolled his head to see what his brother was so worried about, and dispassionately took in the hilt of the knife that was sticking out of his side just under his ribs. Huh. That really didn't look good.

Dean was yanking his jacket off, stripping and tearing his shirt. Sam's hand wandered seemingly of its own direction to his side, curious about the object impaling him, but Dean caught him, palm to palm, before laying his hand on his chest. "No, leave it alone, Sammy. You're gonna bleed out if I pull it. Crap, this is… You're gonna be fine, all right?"

Come to think of it, it was a little hard to breathe. Sam tried to pull in a lungful of air and winced at the feeling of pressure in his gut. "Dean…"

"We're gonna get you out of here soon, okay? Just gotta…" He became distracted as he worked.

Sam watched the play of emotions over his face: anger, terror, resolve, pain. "H-hey," he finally said, gasping a little as Dean pulled something tight and a jolt sizzled through Sam's middle. "'S okay. I'm ready—I des-serve—"

"Shut up, Sam," Dean ordered gently, looping fabric around him. "Don't you even think about finishing that. You don't deserve this, and you are definitely not dying today, you hear me? I'm not ready for that." He detoured briefly back to Mike's body, cursing when he returned. "He doesn't have a cell on him."

"'S my fault…"

"It's not your fault. It's not—" Dean broke off, rubbing at his face with a red-stained hand. It left a streak of blood like war paint across his cheek. "I wasn't there for you. I left you alone to deal with all that crap Yellow Eyes and Ruby and Lilith threw at you. And then I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to see what Ruby was doing to you. It's my freakin' fault, okay? All of this was my fault. I just…I couldn't live without you, Sam," he finished with a helpless shrug.

Sam found himself smiling. And smiling wider as Dean looked at him in bafflement. "You called 'cause…you missed me," Sam whispered.

Dean groaned. "Oh, don't give me that." His hands never stopped moving, lifting Sam's legs and sliding something underneath them to keep them elevated.

"Admit it—you missed me. Not just 'cause…keep each other human." He felt stupidly happy at the realization. But the euphoria was interrupted by the pressure that kept growing in his side. Sam groaned faintly, trying to shift away from it, only to find Dean holding him in place.

"Okay, fine, you giant girl. I missed you. You're m'brother. And you're not dying on me because of some douchebag hunter. You got that?"

Sam nodded, trying to be serious but still feeling his mouth curl despite himself until a sharp pain stabbed into his gut. He grunted, twisting.

"No, no moving. I got the knife stabilized, but you move and it's gonna do some more damage." Dean was spreading something warm—his jacket—over Sam. "Listen to me, you gotta wait here for me. I haveta check on the other two guys and get some help, and you need to lie here and not move, you hear me? Promise me, Sam."

"Promise," he said breathlessly, head jerking in a nod. "Promise. Jus'—God!—hurry."

Dean's face twisted. "I'll be back soon. You wait for me."

"'Kay." Where else would he go, anyway? His fists clenched around air, then around a leather sleeve in one hand, the handgun grip in the other.

"Just in case," Dean was saying, his voice more distant now. "I'm gonna lock you in here, but you hang on to that just in case."

Sam's head bobbled in what he hoped was an okay.

"Hang on for me, Sammy," he thought he heard faintly.

Then Dean was gone.

00000

It was probably just one more sign of how screwed up he was that his survival instinct only completely kicked in when it was Sam's life at stake.

Dean checked around the corner before he ducked out, staying low.

Not that he'd been ready to just roll over and die or anything. The way they'd been captured, the arrogance of the three hunters, the unfairness of a life where literally everyone had become their enemy, all filled him with outrage and defiance. Dean had set up those booby traps and weapons with relish, and hoped each one found its mark.

He peered into the doorway of what had once been a beauty parlor, checking the one untripped trap there before slinking on.

But that frantic, clawing need to survive, that hadn't really hit until he'd seen his little brother lying in a pool of blood with a knife sticking out of his side.

There. Behind the half-partition wall in the tiny empty library, a pair of boots protruded, on the floor and barely moving. With a nasty smirk, Dean slipped inside the building.

Jesse stared at him with desperate eyes from underneath a heavy wooden bookcase. The paint can Dean had rigged there—Sam owed him five bucks—had been even more successful than expected, apparently knocking the hunter hard enough into the row of bookcases to knock one over on him. Sam had nearly suffocated once under a similarly solid piece of furniture. But that wasn't what would kill the youngest, and probably most inexperienced of the three hunters. It was the shelf that had splintered and speared through the kid's gut on the way down.

Dean scooped up the rifle that was just beyond Jesse's reach, eyeing him critically. The dude wasn't older than Sam, had the same big eyes and longish hair. And gut wounds were an agonizing way to die. Once the initial shock wore off, the pain was incredible. Dean could see it in every line of Jesse's face.

The same lines that would soon be carved into Sam's if he didn't get help.

"You got another piece?"

The milky pale throat bobbed and Jesse nodded. His one free hand arched feebly toward his side.

Dean found the Beretta 92 in the blood-soaked waistband. He inched it out, clicked off the safety, and chambered a round. Then he put it into Jesse's hands, folding the kid's cold fingers around it.

They stared at each other, Jesse swallowing convulsively, Dean trying to feel…something. The younger hunter finally jerked a nod.

Dean returned it, feeling respect despite himself. He stood and walked back around to the other side of the partition.

He couldn't help flinch at the sound of the gun going off.

He hadn't when he'd shot Mike between the eyes. That son of a bitch had just put a hole in Sam, and even once Dean got the upper hand, sitting on the barrel chest and staring murderously into the older man's eyes, the guy had still kept trying to argue how he'd been doing the right thing, how the Winchesters were the ones who'd gone off the reservation.

The kick of it was, he wasn't wrong. Dean just didn't care. He could live or die at this point; neither option sounded less unappealing. But wherever he did end up, nobody was taking his brother from him.

Expression and body stiff, Dean circled back into the rear of the library, avoiding looking at Jesse's head as he patted down the body.

Phone. Thank God.

Reception was poor, just one bar. Dean pushed to his feet, hesitated, then bent again to retrieve the dead man's Glock. He wiped the blood off with the hem of the jeans just barely sticking out from under the shelves, before safing it and tucking it into his own waistband.

It kinda bothered him that that didn't bother him more.

He couldn't afford that now, however. Mike had said the other hunter, Rail, had hurt his ankle. That still made him dangerous. And Jesse's shot had just pinpointed Dean's location. He glanced back toward the rear of the library, remembering they'd seen a back door there earlier, and hurried that way.

There was nothing behind the stores: no alley, no other buildings, just prairie as far as the eye could see. Dean didn't even know what state they were in, he realized, although it was clearly the Midwest. The phone he held in his hand didn't have a GPS on it. But he still hoped to God—or whomever—that the authorities could get a location off it. Even if he found the hunters' vehicle, Dean still had no idea where to take Sam.

Another bar appeared on the phone. Heart hammering, Dean dialed 9-1-1.

The dispatcher was in Oklahoma; she wasn't sure where he was. But if he stayed on the line, they would be able to get a fix on him. Dean promised he would, then carefully slid the open phone under a moldering pile of cut wood and headed off in the opposite direction.

Dean had Jesse's rifle and Beretta—he'd left Mike's older rifle stashed in the library—backup presumably on the way, and evened odds. But he still didn't know where Rail was or what shape he was in, and he couldn't take the chance the other hunter would try to take him out—or Sam—before help arrived. He needed to find and neutralize the predator, fast.

Dean peered out from between the library and the building next door, an old feed store. The street was empty and silent, no sign of life or even of where Rail had been. Dean glanced both ways, eyes lingering on the feed store. He and Sam had done recon through it, too, but there hadn't been anything except some very old bags of seed, a few rusted tractor parts, and an ancient iron stove. He could always set a fire, but that could quickly flame out of control with most of the town made of dry wood and Sam trapped in the middle of it.

That did give him another idea, though. Ghostlike, Dean slipped back to the rear of the buildings.

Starting a fire in the potbelly stove would have been a lot easier with his lighter; he should have taken Mike's. As it was, he had to make do with rasping a piece of iron file he found against the open stove lid and hoping the desiccated tinder inside would catch one of the sparks. It took about a dozen tries, and a lot of noise that made Dean cringe and constantly check the doorway behind him, but it finally caught.

He set up the rest of his lure, then hurried to hide behind the door in the front of shop and wait.

A minute passed, then another. Maybe the seed was too old? Or maybe the fire wasn't hot enough? He couldn't afford to just sit there indefinitely until—

There was a startling pop. Then another. Then a steady stream of them. White kernels of popped seed corn started exploding out of the can he'd left on the stove top.

Smiling grimly, Dean pressed back even harder against the wall and clutched the Beretta hard enough to feel the pattern on the grip imprint on his skin.

The uneven clopping was the first sign Rail was coming. Dean barely let himself breathe, even though the continuing popping would have hidden any casual sound. He could hear the footsteps limp closer, then pause in the doorway.

Rail knew it was a trap. Dean had expected no less.

But the older man also would know they couldn't keep avoiding each other forever. Maybe he didn't know Sam was down or maybe he did, but he had no way to be sure Dean wasn't halfway to the horizon going for help. And, like Dean, the man was a hunter. He would track his prey down, not hide from it. With any luck, though, he would expect Dean to be in the back room where the racket was coming from.

A few long seconds ticked by. Then Rail shuffled into the store.

Dean slammed the door into the other hunter, hearing a satisfying bleat of surprise as solid wood connected with solid flesh and bone. Wood won, the door swinging shut as Rail went down.

Dean wasted no time going after him.

The older man was no novice; he'd managed to keep hold of his rifle. Like Mike, however, he'd run out of room to maneuver it. Dean grabbed the barrel as it tried to swing toward him and shoved back, hard. The rifle's stock hit Rail in the throat, stunning him and making him sputter and cough.

The popping was starting to die down, a faint air of burnt corn rising in its place as Dean stood above his vanquished enemy, rifle claimed and aimed.

Rail stared up at him. Unlike Mike, there was no fear in his eyes, only anger. No, hatred. It was probably the same look Dean had leveled at a thousand different things he'd hunted in the past.

"You know what the funny thing is?" he asked the downed man, continuing a conversation they'd never had.

The man glared silent defiance at him.

"Sam might be all the things you said, but he's still a better man than you."

Something flickered in Rail's steel eyes, maybe a moment of doubt.

Or maybe it was a tell, because the next moment, Rail's left hand had a knife in it, swinging upward.

Dean fired just before the knife would have reached him.

There was no way anyone could survive a rifle shot that close; a chunk of Rail's head was gone. Dean knew he should probably check anyway—dead didn't always mean dead in their line of work—but he couldn't seem to make himself do it. He just let the rifle sag in his grasp with a quiet "huh."

Maybe the hunters hadn't deserved to die; maybe they'd just been trying to do the right thing, too. But they hadn't known the whole story, how screwed he and Sam were no matter what they did, how much they'd already fought and sacrificed. Hadn't known that no matter how badly Sam had messed up or how ticked Dean still was at him for it, Sam still hadn't deserved any of this. What they had known was that they were going after two of their own who had nothing left to lose except each other, and had done it anyway. And when it was Sam versus anything else on earth or in Heaven or Hell, there would never be any contest for Dean. He was pretty sure now that it went the other way, too.

Dean stood there a moment, waiting for the regret, the guilt.

Feeling only the fear that had him turning heel and dashing back toward the church, and Sam.

00000

Something was very, very wrong.

It was cold, so cold, but his face felt hot, burning. He couldn't move, muscles jerking this way and that when he tried to sit up, move his pinned legs. And all the time there was this awful, molten pressure in his side that kept growing until it felt like it would crack him open. He tried futilely to twist away from it one more time, and whimpered at the feel of flesh and muscle tearing.

"Just say the word, Sam. One word, and I can make this all go away."

Dean—where was Dean? He would figure this out, fix it. Sam's eyes darted around the darkness. "Dean?" No, too quiet. He braced himself, barked out, "Dean!"

God, that hurt. He dropped back, panting, as it felt like someone shoved a hot shard of glass into his side.

"Big brother left, remember? Just like you left him in that motel room. You told him to go, save himself and—you know what? He did." A shape, fuzzy but familiar and foreboding, leaned into Sam's view. "Guess he finally got tired of sacrificing himself for you."

"No." Sam rolled his head, squeezing his eyes shut. Lucifer. Lucifer found him in his dreams, but what was he doing there? Sam wasn't sleeping…right? Or dead? But then where was…?

Another stab into his side made him cry out. God, it felt like he was being gutted, and the pressure was crushing his lungs. What was…? Sam's hand drifted down. There. That was what was causing it. Feebly, he pulled at the metal impaling him.

Oh God, oh God, oh God that hurt. Was he in Hell? He hadn't said yes. But then where was Dean?

"I told you, he left. He was just doing what you asked, Sammy."

But…Dean never left him. Not when Sam had nearly beaten him to death, or when Sam let Lucifer out, or when Sam had died. Sam was the one who always left, not Dean.

"Dean?" he groaned, straining to hear the voice, feel the touch that always made things better and assured him he wasn't alone.

But he was alone. Dean had finally left.

The pressure had eased, and the pain seemed to be drifting away. It didn't matter. Dean was gone, and it had all been for him, Sam had done it all for him, even if Dean couldn't believe him, even if he left…

Sam felt himself melting into the hot, sticky ground and didn't fight it, didn't even hear when Lucifer started whispering in his ear again.

00000

For one awful, heart-stopping second, he thought Sam had bled out.

"No no no," Dean moaned as he dropped next to Sam—into the lake of blood his brother lay in—and pressed shaking fingers to the underside of Sam's ashen, clammy jaw. "C'mon. C'mon, Sammy."

The beat felt like a weak trip hammer, heart laboring to pump too little blood around that humongous body. It sent an equal jolt of relief and panic through Dean.

He swore even as he stripped off his final layer of t-shirt. "Sam, can you hear me? Sam! Wake up for me." He tore the material in three, started frantically putting pressure on the seeping wound in Sam's side. "Crap. You just had to pull the friggin' knife, didn't you?"

It wasn't Sam's fault, of course. Dean had left knowing his brother wasn't firing on all cylinders. If he'd been confused enough, he could have easily thought he was saving himself, pulling the knife out. Dean should've bound it better, or restrained Sam, or found another way instead of leaving him, or…something. Something that would keep Sam from finishing the job the hunters had started.

"Hey, I'm here now, okay? I took care of Mike and his men, and help's on the way. Just hang in there for me, Sam."

Sam's forehead wrinkled, a faint breath of complaint passing over his lips.

Dean bent low to hear it, to no avail. He pulled back, patted Sam's cheek with blood-soaked hands. "Okay, you've lost a lot of blood but we're gonna take care of that. I'm gonna put some pressure on so you stop leaking. It's gonna hurt, but I'll go as easy as I can."

One strip of t-shirt folded into a pad, he tied the others into a tourniquet and threaded one end under Sam's limp body. Then, watching his face, Dean pulled the bandage tight and tied it off.

Sam bucked weakly, letting out a small, curdled sound of pain.

"Easy, easy. You're doing great, dude, doing fine. Gonna get you some of the good stuff soon, okay?" Dean eyed the pad critically, gauging how fast it was turning red. "Top you off, knock you out for a couple of days, be good as new." The material wasn't saturated yet; that was a positive sign. "All right. Let's see what else we've got."

Dean moved down his brother's body, pulling the leg back up that had slipped off the old chair he'd propped it on, re-covering Sam with the jacket that had slid down with his brother's struggles. Then he darted over to Mike's body, fully prepared to scavenge what he needed for Sam.

"I bet you're cold, huh?" he kept talking to Sam over one shoulder. "See if we can warm you up a little." He rolled Mike's body to get its jacket off, then the thick flannel shirt that was mostly unstained. He'd have to figure out a whopper of a story to explain the three dead bodies in town and the hole in Sam's side, but that wasn't a priority right now. Dean quickly sidled back to Sam. "I know how much you love secondhand clothes, but Mikey doesn't need 'em anymore. Figure that's the least he owes us, huh?" Dean lifted his own jacket to thread the flannel shirt over Sam's arms and torso in reverse, back to front, then spread both coats over him. "There, that should help. Next time we get kidnapped, what say we ask for some blankets, too?"

His attempt at a smile dimmed at Sam's lack of response. The kid's face looked almost translucent with blood loss, his lips faintly blue.

That reminded him. Dean quickly felt through his jacket pockets for his flask. "It's holy water, so it tastes like crap, but I figure the salt and the blessing's only gotta help, right? Here, kiddo, drink a little for me."

He slid a palm under Sam's head and eased it up a few inches, tilting the flask to those cyanic lips. The water dribbled over them and down his jaw, but when Dean pulled at his chin with one thumb, the lips parted enough to admit some moisture. Sam spluttered a little but swallowed.

"Good boy." Dean wiped his mouth with a hand, then used that wet hand to rub a smear of blood off Sam's cheek. "Would've been better if you'd listened to me before, but, hey, fresh start and all that, right?"

Sam groaned faintly, eyelashes fluttering.

"Sammy?" Dean leaned in, patting Sam's cheek again, flattening a palm against his chest. "You with me? Hey, talk to me."

It was so faint, at first he couldn't hear. But the end came through just enough.

"…'ill 'ere…"

He didn't know if Sam meant himself or Dean, but it didn't sound like a question. That was enough for Dean. He pressed down a little harder on Sam's chest, willing his brother to feel him even if Sam couldn't see him. "I'm here, Sammy. So are you, you hear me? You're gonna be fine—I'm gonna help you."

To his surprise, Sam's eyes cracked open, slivers of glassy, muddy green. But they were looking right at him.

" 'ready did," Sam whispered.

Dean's heart felt like it skipped a couple of beats. His hand knotted in the fabric of Mike's jacket, over Sam's own tenaciously beating heart, and he had to clear his throat before he could talk. "Yeah," he said gruffly. "Okay, Anakin."

Sam's huff could have been a laugh or a moan, or both.

The rescue team found them like that a few minutes later.

00000

There was a voice in the background, rising and falling over the drone of the machines. He kept surfacing to it, dragging it back down with him when he sank, returning to it when he rose. When the rolling growl started to resolve into separate words, Sam finally made the effort to open his eyes and look at…

"Bobby?"

That was what he'd meant to say, anyway. It came out more as a mash-up of letters, followed by a weak cough that brought tears to his eyes. Sam sank back into the pillow with a grunt.

"Stay down, Sam," Bobby admonished. There was a creak of a chair, the pop of protesting joints, and then footsteps. Wet and cold soon prodded Sam's mouth. "Let's get some of this ice in ya."

It helped. It was amazing, actually, soothing his throat and waking up his brain a little more. Enough that Sam ventured to open his eyes again and peek around the room. The room that was empty but for him and Bobby.

He deflated into the bed. Had he imagined Dean's return, his fevered mind seeing what it needed to? Dean had had every reason to leave; some part of Sam had just been waiting for it. Wouldn't take him long to realize Sam wasn't the one who kept him human, and that Sam was beyond—

"Well, Dean said it, but I didn't believe it."

Sam was yanked out of the train-wreck of his thoughts to blink at Bobby. God, he felt exhausted, cottony from drugs that no doubt held worse discomfort at bay.

"You really think he left you, boy?" Bobby's lips thinned in reproof, his eyes narrowed under his ever-present baseball cap. He looked tired, too, Sam realized absently. "After everything that's happened, you think he'd walk away from you now?"

Sam let his head sag to the side, too drained to wonder how the other man had known. "Bobby…"

"Let me tell you about the call I got day before yesterday, kid. Dean calls me from a helicopter, a medevac they brought in because you'd lost about half the blood in your body. Your brother's just barely keepin' it together, and is that because he's a couple hundred feet up off the ground in a metal bird that's shaking so hard I can barely hear him? No, you moron—it's because his kid brother, the one who followed him around like a hitched-up car from the moment he learned how to army-crawl, is circling the drain, and Dean thinks you don't even know how bad he needs you to hang on!"

Sam felt the blood leach from his face until he was lightheaded. He opened his mouth to say…something, then shut it again at the piercing glare Bobby gave him.

"So of course, being your marriage counselor, I told him he was an idjit, that you think the sun rises and sets over your big brother, and it's gonna take more than a few self-righteous bastards to make you question that. That you're gonna know if you wake up and he's not here that it's not because he doesn't want to be, but because the police tend to have a few concerns about finding three men dead and another bleeding like someone turned on the faucet, and want to have a little chat with the one guy left standing."

Three men dead? Sam sucked in a breath, and started coughing again.

Bobby muttered something and reached to the side. The ice was back seconds later, but it wasn't as soothing as before. Something was pressing painfully into his side, and Sam blindly reached down to see what it was.

"Don't touch, son." Bobby's hands reminded him of Dean's, rough-skinned but careful. "You don't want to mess with that—you've got a lot of stitches keepin' you together. That's where the knife got you, remember?."

He…sort of did. Three hunters, hunting him and Dean. Mike, and a knife. And Dean, first there, then…

Three men dead?

Sam swallowed again, and it wasn't his dry throat that hurt this time.

"Sam, boy, you listen to me now." Bobby sunk down on the edge of the bed, his voice changed, bled dry of sarcasm, crusty with emotion. "You hung on to Dean when he couldn't see straight for missing your dad, when he was facing Hell both before and after, when I happen to know he couldn't even crawl out of a bottle or a bed some days. You did that because he's your brother. So, yeah, you've made some mistakes—okay, even some big mistakes. But you came out sorry the other end, and Dean forgave you because you're his brother. You really got your head so far up where the sun don't shine that you can't see that?"

Sam's eyes darted away, his only escape from Bobby's keen gaze.

"Or…maybe you think he hasn't really forgiven you? Because the guy who demanded I get my ass down here from three states away just to sit with you until he could get back, didn't sound too shades-of-gray on that part."

Sam breathed wetly through that thought, hands curling into impotent fists. He got it, he did, but it wasn't that easy.

Bobby made an impatient sound. "Sam, you almost killed your brother and he got over it. You really think you've got more to forgive yourself than he did?"

Yes. Or maybe not, but he'd always been more objective about his faults than Dean ever was. Dean looked at him and saw the kid who'd worshipped him, not the man who'd maybe ended the world.

But…Sam also was still that kid who worshipped his big brother. Maybe Dean was the one who saw things more clearly. Maybe…

He was so friggin' tired.

Bobby's hand patted his shoulder, unexpected but needed comfort. "Get some sleep, boy. You can write sad poems in your diary and listen to Sarah McLachlan later."

And with that disturbing image, Sam was gone.

00000

Dean was rubbing gritty eyes as he watched the sun set out the window, when a dry, quiet voice behind him said, "Hey."

Dean turned, a smile cracking through the weariness as he saw Sam looking back, sleepy but aware. "Hey, look who finally decided to wake up."

"I was awake before." Sam frowned. "I think." He fumbled beside him for the bed controls. When he squinted at the little box, Dean stepped over to take it away. "I got it," Sam whined, uselessly trying to evade him.

"Don't want you catapulting yourself out the window or anything," Dean amiably shot him down. He found the right button and raised the head of Sam's bed. "How many of me you see, anyway?"

"Too many," Sam muttered.

"That's my boy," Dean said, more fondly than he'd intended.

There was silence for a moment, laden but not uncomfortable.

"So, no cuffs," Sam said, nodding at Dean's hand where it still held the controls.

"Nope. Seems like Mike and Rail had a few warrants outstanding for assault and attempted murder, and Jesse'd been seen with them, so with the rope burns—" Dean raised his shirt enough to show the lines of bruising across his forearm from the ropes they'd been tied with. "—and you bleeding like a stuck pig, along with the arsenal the unholy trinity had in their trunk, suddenly my story was making a lot of sense."

"That story being…" Sam tilted an eyebrow questioningly.

"…that three sick son of a bitches drugged and kidnapped us to play some twisted version of Hide-and-Kill. Which, for once, is pretty much the truth."

"Is it?" Sam asked hesitantly.

Dean narrowed his eyes at him. "We're not starting this 'I deserve this' crap again, are we? Because if we are, let me know so I can leave first."

"No, I…" Sam plucked at the blanket. Dean knew if they were having this conversation in the car, he'd be worrying at his jeans. "Whatever. Look, I'm pretty tired…"

Twenty years ago, this would've been Sam asking him to promise there weren't any clowns under the bed. Fifteen years ago, it was Sam fishing for a promise that the monsters out there wouldn't get them. Eight years ago, it was Sam refusing to ask Dean to promise everything would be okay if he left his family behind to go to school. Four years ago, it was Sam silently needing a promise that he would get past Jessica's death. And now, Sam wouldn't dare ask him for a promise that they would be okay.

Which was good, because that wasn't a promise Dean could make. But…

"Sam." He waited until Sam looked up sideways at him. With his hair limp and in his eyes, he looked about five again, but his eyes…they were old and sad. Dean swallowed. "We're in it together, right? All the way down the line?" He said it less certainly than he'd intended.

Sam's eyes filled even as he watched. But just as Dean cringed inside, his brother sniffed and sucked it up, nodding. "Yeah. Okay. Down the line."

Dean suddenly found it easier to breathe. Maybe this wouldn't be as hard as he'd expected. He was even able to handle another smile. "Good. So, uh…" He looked around. "What was Bobby reading you, anyway?—He's sleeping at the motel, by the way, says hi—He said it put you right to sleep."

Sam yawned. "Think it was a Latin grimoire."

Dean grimaced. "That'd do it. How 'bout I just sit here and watch some TV instead?" He found the remote on the nightstand and made himself comfortable—relatively—in the stuffed chair beside the bed.

Sam's mouth curled, his eyes already shut. "Sounds good."

Yeah, Dean thought. It did.

The End