Summary: For quickreaver's prompt in the ohsam Sam-focused hurt/comfort fic challenge.

There's a rumbling through Purgatory, something in the air. Castiel feels it; Madison, Jack, Benny feel it; but most of all, Dean Winchester feels it. And it feels like home; it feels like Sam . (AKA Sam does look for Dean in Season 8 and finds a way into Purgatory.)

Spoilers: None
Warnings: Swearing, hints of slashy relationships
Disclaimer: not for profit, not my characters, AU

John Winchester hadn't talked about Vietnam much, or often. The terminology of war had been woven into John's vocabulary of course, so his boys had inevitably picked up some of the military slang. So now in Purgatory, Dean still complained about being stuck out in the boonies, even though Benny had no idea what he meant. Vietnam had been after Benny's time.

Occasionally, when John had gotten very, very drunk, he'd let slip some real memories – the marching through the warm rain, the blisters on his feet and the sores on his shoulders from the weight of the pack, the way the flak jackets made him sweat in the heat, sometimes the name of a comrade he'd lost – and Dean had collected those rarities as if each insight into their Dad's past was precious. Sam couldn't understand Dean's obsession with their father's tours of duty, but then Dean couldn't see why Sam wasn't interested, so they were even.

Dean wondered if Dad would have found Purgatory all too familiar. Colder, drier and drabber than Than Khe, maybe, but with the same long hours of boredom mixed with the need for constant caution.

Purgatory's all about movement, Benny said. Gotta keep moving, moving. Stay still too long, brother, and something will getcha; and who knows where you go when you die in here, huh?

Dean knew the answer to that one was For sure, nowhere good.

Even the strange dead air was always in motion, coming from nowhere and going nowhere. The scents and sounds it carried were full of valuable information, if you were equipped to read it – and let's face it, practically every monster in the cursed place was better equipped than Dean in that regard.

So having a vamp like Benny on his side was a real advantage, and Dean was grateful, he really was. Didn't stop him growling when Benny prodded him awake with the toe of his boot after a meagre two hours' sleep, even though that was probably the longest downtime he'd had since he arrived.

"Easy, brother, easy."

"Fuck." Dean wasn't at his most eloquent when first woken at the best of times, and Purgatory didn't have any of those. Best times, that is. The place was so uncivilized it didn't even have coffee, for fuck's sake.

"Time to go," Benny said, holding out a hand to help Dean up. Dean wasn't too proud to turn it down. He grasped Benny's hand and jumped up, trying to pretend exhaustion wasn't fraying his edges worse than Purgatory had frayed his favorite jeans. One thing Dean always excelled at was pretending.

On his feet, Dean jogged after Benny. Their progress was directionless, because everywhere here looked the same. Grey rocks, faded grass, endless forest – it would make the hardest jigsaw puzzle in the world. Not that Dean did jigsaw puzzles, fuck no. That was for girls and geeks like Sam. Dean barely registered how his right hand always rubbed his chest at the thought of his brother. That emptiness was a constant – along with the cold, and the unceasing vigilance, and the need to find Cas.

Dean stopped dead.

Benny was almost out of sight before he realized Dean wasn't moving and turned back, but Dean was too absorbed to care.

"What…?"

Dean's hand flew up in the universal signal for silence, and Benny, always obliging, shut up.

Purgatory usually smelled of wet animal fur, mold and decay, often threaded through with the metallic scents of iron and spilled blood – but today there was something different carried on the air, something at once new and familiar. Fresh sweat that wasn't Dean's, a faint hint of citrus mixed with gun oil and dusty libraries.

"Sam."

The stern veterinarian with the accusing brown eyes (her badge said her name was Amelia) said, "Don't you think you're responsible?" And just like that, Sam woke up from the fog he'd been lost in. The dog he'd injured had brown eyes too, but they looked at him with acceptance and unquestioning love. He guessed the dog didn't realize it was Sam's fault it was in pain. Sam wasn't blind to the irony.

Though Sam had just spent the last four months missing his brother, it was the blind devotion of a dog he'd wounded that made Sam realize he hadn't only lost Dean when Dick Roman blew up. He'd lost his anger, lost his focus, lost his fucking mind.

Four months frittered away in aimless wandering when he should have been searching for Dean. How could he have thought Dean was dead? How could he have given up without a fight?

He patted the dog's head, scratching behind its ears. His face cracked a smile for the first time in months, albeit a grim excuse for one.

"Sorry, buddy, but living in a car is no life for a dog."

He walked out of the door, ignoring Amelia's protests. She had his fake credit card details, and no doubt had contacts, any one of whom could give the dog a good home. Sam had to get to the nearest of Bobby's lock-ups.

He had work to do.

Sam had been researching for a mere three days before he finally worked out where Dean must be. Had to be. It was the only place that made sense.

Purgatory.

The spawning ground for Eve and her Leviathans, and the dumping ground for every monster the Winchesters had ever killed. It was a horrific thought. Dean had been there for a full four months, alone, defenseless. Without Sam at his back. It was too much to hope that Castiel might be there with Dean – an angel had no place in Purgatory, even one as screwed up as Cas.

Sam stared at the pile of books in front of him, all confirming his theory. The answer had been so easy to find and he had no excuse. How could he have fallen apart so comprehensively, and for so long?

"God fucking dammit."

It took Sam three more sleepless days and nights to find the spell that would open the door to Purgatory without requiring a lunar eclipse. Binding a reaper was probably the scariest thing he'd ever done, but he didn't care. He couldn't afford to care. As long as Death didn't show up in person, Sam was good to go.

Sam would be the first to admit that he could have been better prepared for Purgatory – been better armed, more rested, less frantic. If he hadn't been half out of his mind from the months of aimless wandering and grieving, if it hadn't taken running over a damn dog to bring him back to some semblance of rationality, perhaps Sam would have packed supplies before activating the portal. He would at least have eaten something before crossing over to the other side, because he couldn't actually remember the last time he'd had a meal. But he hadn't, and it was a pity, because now it looked like it was Sam Winchester who was on everyone else's menu, and Sam wasn't going to have time to stop and ask directions to the nearest Biggersons.

The growling coming from the murk behind him was joined by a howling from his left, and a sinister scraping noise from his right.

Sam ran.

Winchesssssssterrrrr, the darkness hissed, delighted. Sam ran faster.

Branches smacked into his limbs like clubs, twigs whipped across his face like cat'0'nine tails, and his blood was the brightest color in all Purgatory. It smelt like ambrosia, even to Sam.

Sam was a good runner. His long legs were built for distance, and he had been known to train like a Kenyan athlete – but even Sam couldn't run forever, especially when he was on empty.

For all its greyness, there was one important respect where Purgatory was just like everywhere else. When Sam was separated from his brother he couldn't think straight for worrying, and Purgatory wasn't going to offer him a moment of stillness or quiet to collect himself. He could see Dean thriving here. Dean hated to be still. If it had been physically possible, Dean would have embraced the principle of perpetual motion, simply to avoid the necessity for contemplation. Dean was all about acting and dealing with the consequences, regardless – ignoring the damage caused by friction and energy loss. Sam preferred to take his time and work through a problem, working within the laws of thermodynamics, instead of pretending they didn't exist.

He finally slowed and stopped when his body refused to run any more, his breath rasping in his chest. The sound was too harsh and loud. He was in a clearing that looked just like all the other clearings he'd run through, indistinguishable from the one he'd emerged into when he'd arrived. For all he knew, he'd been going in circles and this was the same one. It was a featureless open space surrounded by grey-barked trees. A few tufts of wiry grass fought for dominance with a scattering of frost-shattered rocks. He bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to quiet his breathing so he could listen for any danger. His dripping sweat made dark circles in the dust at his feet.

The voice, when it came, made him start and snap upright faster than a piece of fresh bamboo, heart pounding.

"Sam Winchester, as I live and breathe. Oh wait, no, I don't, thanks to you."

It figured that the first creature he came across was someone he knew.

"Gordon Walker," Sam said.

Sam gripped his knife harder as he watched the vampire-hunter emerge from the shadows. Crap. Of course it had to be Walker. He supposed it was too much to hope that death and an afterlife in Purgatory would have made the guy any saner, or cured him of his obsession with killing Sam. Sam wished he'd thought to bring a machete. He had to assume a beheading would be required here the same as topside, though it begged the question of where a death here would take a monster-soul.

"You weren't living and breathing before I killed you, Gordon," Sam pointed out, reasonably, he thought. "And your becoming a vamp? Well, that wasn't on me."

Sam turned slowly where he stood, tracking Gordon's movements as the vampire circled him. Gordon's fangs were extended, gleaming white in the darkness of his face. Walker was smiling, and it wasn't creepy at all. Yeah, right. Who was Sam kidding?

"Maybe Kubrick was right, and there really is a God," Walker was saying when Sam tuned back in to the inevitable monster-monologuing. "I never really believed in second chances until I heard another human had fallen through the gate and then I smelled you. I'd love to take out your brother too, but he's gotten himself some protection. So…," he gestured and Sam tensed as he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, "…I'll settle for draining you dry."

Gordon licked his lips in anticipation, but Sam was preoccupied with reassessing the level of the threat, which had just tripled. Two more vampires had joined Walker, one male, one female. Sam's heart sank a little bit farther when he recognized the woman as Kate, from way back when he and Dean had just been discovering that vampires were real.

Great. Another monster with a grudge. Sam wondered how she'd eventually died. At least she couldn't blame Sam for that, as she'd been alive last time he'd seen her, all those years ago.

"Kate here's been waiting a long time for this, Sammy," Gordon said. "While Vince just wants to taste human blood again. In case you were wondering."

"Luther says hi, by the way, Sam," Kate added, her mouth a red slash in pale skin.

Where Dean would no doubt have thrown in some snarky comeback, Sam merely kept a silent watch on all three vamps as best he could, knowing they wouldn't hold off much longer. Sure enough, when Kate joined the conversation, the third vampire, Vince, made a lunge at Sam, coming at him from the left, away from the knife. Sam moved quickly, spinning round so bright steel cut through Vince's outstretched arm, practically severing it.

Good. Maybe that would slow him down some.

Vince dropped back with a pained cry, but Sam kept moving, knowing he couldn't afford to turn his back on any of them – even though he had no choice in the matter.

Oh, for some dead man's blood and Dean by his side. If wishes were horses, a poor man would ride.

Words ran through Sam's head in nonsensical rhyme as he whirled and feinted and fought, all in silent desperation.

It was hard to measure time in Purgatory. The daylight wasn't really daylight, as there was no sun to track across the sky, and the night-time darkness had no stars or moon. Time here passed in a cycle of half-light and full dark that Dean hadn't really worked out yet. He just knew that he periodically got tired and hungry just the same as he did topside, and that after jogging however many miles it was since he'd sensed Sam's presence, he needed to rest. He was, of course, too stubborn to admit it, so they ran on for a mile or so more before Benny finally called him on it.

"Come on, brother. Rest up a while. You're no good to Sam half dead from exhaustion, now."

Benny – who always knew the right things to say, whose presence was probably the only reason Dean was still breathing after what must be months in this place. Benny – who always had his back, but who wasn't Sammy.

Dean took a few more obstinate steps, ignoring the way every muscle in his legs was cramping and burning. It took Benny grasping Dean by the shoulder to physically bring him to a halt. This time Benny didn't use words, instead he pulled Dean into his arms and held onto him until Dean's breathing slowed and some of the omnipresent tension seeped out of his body.

"But Sam," Dean said, his voice muffled where his face was pressed into Benny's black pea coat.

"Ain't going nowhere," Benny said, that Louisiana lilt soothing all the fight out of Dean just like always. Benny was too cold, too short, and too wide, but his solidity was reassuring. Dean's eyes were closing whether he liked it or not. He was too tired to hold up his heavy-as-lead lids any longer. He sighed, moisture from his warm breath bouncing back off Benny's cool dead skin, and he didn't even flinch when the tip of a sharp fang grazed his own neck. A thin line of blood trickled down inside his collar and he shivered as Benny's tongue chased after it.

Dean let the vampire take all his weight and let go. He didn't even feel Benny lowering him to the ground.

Sam wasn't sure what happened. One minute he was fighting and losing, the next he was lying on his back in the dirt.

He'd managed to kill the male vamp, Vince, but the time it took him to behead it with the too small knife had cost him dearly. Kate had taken his legs out from under him, tipping him face forward into the dirt. He'd tried to turn the fall into a roll, but Gordon had come in from the other side and flipped him onto his back, knocking all the breath out of his lungs. Pinned down on the ground, Gordon's teeth were worrying at his arm like a rabid dog, fangs tearing through cloth and flesh indiscriminately, while the scent of Sam's fresh blood sent Kate into a frenzy. Her claws extended, she went for any part of Sam's anatomy she could reach, in this case, Sam's thigh. He couldn't help screaming as her talons raked into his muscles, parting flesh easier than a hot knife through butter.

Then, as if his cries of pain had been a signal, a howling, growling darkness erupted from the trees and barrelled into the two vampires. Sam was hit by a choking stench, part rotting meat, part wet dog. In the confusion, Sam thought he saw Gordon's head roll across the ground in front of him, spraying blood from its gnawed-off neck, but by the time he'd managed to drag himself clear of the melee and prop himself up against the bole of a tree, the roiling mass of …whatever had reached the edge of the now-empty clearing and was disappearing from view, taking any stray body parts with it. He clamped his left hand over the wounds on his thigh in an attempt to slow the bleeding. It wasn't easy to grip tight when Gordon had made such a mess of his left arm too, but he did his best.

A few seconds later he thought he heard a scream he thought might be Kate, then it was quiet again, save for the harsh sound of his own breathing and the thudding of the blood rushing in his ears. He took a deep breath, and was just starting to get his heart back to a normal rhythm when, once again, he was startled by a voice coming from the dead space under the forest canopy.

"It really is you, isn't it?" A woman stepped out of the shadows, and Sam couldn't help staring when he recognised her face. Those huge, dark, asymmetrical eyes were unforgettable, even though the last time he'd seen them he'd been getting ready to shoot her through the heart with a silver bullet, when his own eyes had been so full of tears everything had been a blur.

"Madison," he said, pushing down the memories. He waved his knife vaguely in the direction the dark mass had gone. "Your doing?" It certainly made sense of the wet dog smell. Or rather wet werewolf, he supposed. Madison didn't come any closer. She looked wilder, less human than Sam remembered, which wasn't surprising in the circumstances, but still pained his heart a little.

"My pack," she affirmed.

"Thank you," Sam said, attempting a smile, but Madison's expression never changed.

She pointed at his wounds. "You'd better strap those gashes quick as you can. News of your arrival has already spread, and smelling like every monster's favorite buffet dinner isn't going to help you any."

Sam barely managed to stop himself from snapping back "I'm aware!" He didn't want to appear ungrateful, but Madison clearly wasn't feeling sociable. Not that Sam blamed her, but damn, he could do with some help. Maybe she'd be willing to give him some information, at least.

"Gordon – the vamp you guys ripped to… never mind – he said Dean's still alive, and that he'd gotten protection. Any idea what Gordon meant, and where I can find Dean?"

"Your brother's running with a vampire, or so I've heard. They've teamed up to find the angel, been interrogating anyone unlucky enough to fall into their hands. My pack are staying well away. We don't know where his angel is, don't want to know. Angels don't belong here."

"And you do?" Sam could have bitten his tongue as soon as the words were out, he didn't know why he said it. He used to have a better brain-to-mouth filter than this. He knew full well that Madison hadn't been Madison for a long time.

She didn't dignify his stupid question with a reply, just stared at him, dark eyes suddenly luminous in the growing gloom. Then she blinked and was gone, melted into the forest as if she'd never been there, leaving Sam alone with two pertinent facts.

Dean was partnered with a vampire, and Castiel was in Purgatory, but not with Dean. Neither of those things made much sense, least of all the former. Sam shook his head. Dean working with a monster? Sam shoved away the niggling fear that perhaps like Madison, Dean wasn't Dean any more. He had more pressing things to worry about right now.

Moving as quickly as he could with his left forearm full of holes, he stripped off his jacket and button down, and started ripping cloth to make bandages. He dealt with his arm first, binding the ripped flesh together as best he could and tying it off using his teeth and good hand. He ignored how quickly the blood seeped through the make-shift dressing, and turned his attention to his thigh. Fortunately, it turned out vampire claws were less effective weapons than their fangs, and though his jeans were ruined, the bloody cuts weren't as deep as he had feared. There was a rustling behind him, like dead leaves stirred by a breeze – except Sam had already learnt to treat every sound in Purgatory as a potential threat. Which meant it was past time Sam got moving again. He stood up and tested his weight on the injured leg. It burned like hell, but held steady.

Knife back in his right hand, Sam chose a direction at random and broke into a slow jog.

Castiel felt the arrival of the reaper, an event unusual enough to pique his interest. However, he wouldn't have sought out the source of the disturbance were it not for the second, more familiar presence that he detected accompanying Death's agent.

"Sam Winchester," he whispered, shock causing him to speak out loud for the first time in months. They were probably his first words since he had parted from Dean. Torn by indecision, Castiel stood at the entrance to the small cave where he'd been hiding for the last week. He'd discovered that stone walls blocked the Leviathans' senses somewhat, and made it harder for them to detect his presence. Without any shielding, Castiel grace seemed to act as an irresistible lure to the primitive creatures. Whether they could see it shining, or sense it in some other manner, he wasn't certain. All he knew was every time he ventured forth, Leviathans fell from the dull skies of Purgatory like toxic black rain.

Castiel had no problem with smiting them, but their number was legion and there was only one of him. Although he didn't think they could do lasting harm to an angel of the Lord, dying here would banish his grace from Purgatory, and he wasn't sure if he would be able to return. And of course, the Winchesters were fragile and mortal, and their bodies could be damaged here. Castiel didn't wish to be the instrument of their destruction. Not this time. He had kept away from Dean, trusting in his friend's resourcefulness to survive, and so far his strategy had worked.

Stretching out the finest tendril of his grace, Castiel sought out Dean. He found him almost immediately. This was disturbing – Dean was closer than Castiel had realized or wanted. Dean was unusually tranquil, almost serene, from which Castiel deduced that the hunter was resting. Castiel untangled his grace from Dean's soul and reached further afield. First he touched on the other, the vampire that Dean had teamed up with. Castiel ruthlessly quashed the unworthy part of him that resented Benny Lafitte's growing friendship with Dean, and unfurled his grace onward and outward, seeking out the one it appeared the reaper had brought.

Where was Sam?

Dean floated on the sea of endorphins released when Benny fed, dreaming about nothing. A hand trailed, feather-light across his cheek, leaving a memory of cerulean-blue skies in its wake. He opened his eyes, instantly alert, to find Benny's hand gripping his shoulder.

"I smell fresh blood, Dean," Benny said. "Your Sam is in trouble."

When Sam finally ran into Dean, he didn't recognize him.

He tried to tell himself there were mitigating circumstances. It had been four months, and Purgatory's night had fallen, and Dean was caked in dirt and blood and was wielding a for-real Stone Age axe, but even so, Sam should have known it was his brother.

He should have fucking known instantly.

Instead, it was Castiel who came out of nowhere to grab Sam's knife arm in a steel-vice grip when Dean and the other guy came flying out of the dark, straight at Sam.

"Sammy!" There was no doubting Dean's voice, though. It sounded as though he'd been smoking thirty a day and drowning the nicotine with whiskey chasers, but it was unmistakeably his. Sam's arm trembled in Castiel's grasp, the knife dropping from nerveless fingers.

"Dean," he croaked out, all he managed before he was hit by a hundred eighty pounds of big brother. It was just as well Dean was hugging him, because that was all that was keeping Sam standing.

Sam buried his face in Dean's neck and let the tears run freely down his face. No doubt Dean would blame his own tears on the non existent rain.

"Dude, you stink," he mumbled into Dean's filthy coat, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he breathed it all in – the metallic tang of old and new blood, stale sweat and soil and Dean, Dean, Dean. He pressed his lips to Dean's pulse, wanting to fill all his senses with the proof he so desperately needed. Proof that they were both still alive, in spite of everything. They clung to each other for a long time. It wasn't long enough. Sam wanted to climb inside Dean, to keep him close and never let go.

"You came for me," Dean said, over and over, as if he couldn't believe it. Sam huffed out a laugh that was half amusement, half frustration. Dean's self-deprecation and lack of self-belief were as firmly rooted as ever, it seemed. It was good to see four months in this strange edgy place hadn't changed his brother, even the parts of him Sam might like to see changed.

"Yeah well, you might be a smelly idiot, but you are my brother. And besides, I got bored waiting for you to find your own way out of here."

"Fuck you, geek boy."

And just like that, order was restored. An order that had no place in Purgatory.

Time to go home.

On a barren hillside, Gordon Walker screamed in agony. His soul knitted flesh and bone together in Purgatory's endless cycle of pain, death and rebirth, leaving his new-made body writhing on the ground. The pain subsided eventually, as it always did, and Gordon stood up to sniff the air.

The trail was old but he followed it regardless, all the way to another featureless bare hillside, where it went utterly cold.

Gordon's howls of rage and frustration were echoed in the distance by the howling of werewolves, and drew the attention of the mindless red-eyed lurkers Dean had called gorilla-wolves, but Gordon didn't care.

Once again the Winchesters had slipped beyond his reach, and the pain of that was worse than being reborn.

::The End::