Author's Note: I'm a huge Uncharted fan and I adored Uncharted 4. And as I was playing it, I couldn't help but see some similarities between the boys and Nate and his own brother. Uncharted spoilers through Uncharted 3, set pre Uncharted 4, but spoilers about Nate's brother (also named Sam) are here. Supernatural spoilers through season 7, but pre-season 8. Trigger warning: there is a suicide that takes place in this story. It's not a main character, but if this bothers you in anyway please do not read.

"No thief, however skillful, can rob one of knowledge, and that is why knowledge is the best and safest treasure to acquire."

― L. Frank Baum

The email looks innocent enough.

As Nathan Drake scans the subject line once more, he tries to make sense of it. The sender's address is not one that's he familiar with, but the coherent subject line—Request for Antiquities Information—indicates that it can't quite be spam. His cursor hovers over the email. He doesn't know a Sam Winchester. Over the years in and out of the business, that isn't a name he's come into contact with. Which means one of two things: either this name is an alias for some pissed off guy that he screwed with during any one of his adventures or he's someone that Sully knows and thus directed him to Nate's email.

"No harm in opening it, right?" He muses. He'd ask Elena if she was here, but she's off on assignment and won't be home for a few more weeks. Usually during her absences, he'll meet up with Sully to hear wild (and possibly fabricated stories) of the older man's trials to track down artifacts for his way too rich collectors, but Sully too has made plans.

Plans with some girl in Cabo San Lucas apparently.

He really can be a dirty old man, Nate thinks with a smirk.

On an impulse, he opens the email. He scans through it, half expecting to see death threats, but the email itself is actually quite short.

"Got your name from a friend of mine," Nate reads softly, "Was wondering if you know what this is?"

There's a picture attached. He waits for it to download and then quickly inspects it. It's a small dagger, old, Roman probably, but there is an odd inscription on it in Latin. "Contere tenebris . . ." His voice fades away as the gears in his brain work, translating the text, "Conquer the darkness."

He types his reply and without thinking hits the send button.

Closing his email, he decides that whatever Sam Winchester is up to, the less Nate knows about it the better.

"Sam Winchester?" Sully echoes a month later as Nate hands the older man a beer. Elena's gone out to fetch their takeout and the two treasure hunters (well, one active one and one former one) are seated on the couch, watching the basketball game play out on the TV. "No, I don't know him. Is he in the business?"

"Don't think so," Nate replies, taking a swig of his own drink, "But he's sent me another email asking for help identifying an artifact."

Sully's gaze narrows, "You getting back into work? Does Elena know—?"

"Nothing like that," Nate dismisses his friend's concerns, "Just doing him a favor, I guess."

"A favor, right," Sully sighs, "For a guy neither you or I know."

When he puts it like that, Nate does think it sounds pretty odd. Why is he helping someone he doesn't even know? What does Sam Winchester really want from him?

"Let me do some digging," Sully suggests softly, "I'll figure out who he is at least."

Nate's eyebrow raises, "You've got contacts able to track him down?"

Sully smirks, "Kid, you don't know the half of it."

Nate just laughs.

Sam Winchester has a hell of a rap sheet.

And that's a lot coming from Nathan Drake, a guy who's spent time in prisons and jails in a multitude of countries. Yet, aside from stints in other countries, Sam Winchester might have him beat on all counts—arson, attempted murder, murder, grave desecration; the list goes on and on. At one point, it even seemed like Sam Winchester had even died. Guy had come back from the grave, more than once according to these documents.

"Holy shit, Sully," Nate breathes, flipping the page and scanning the supposed death certificate for this man that has been emailing him, "You sure this is all legit?"

Sully grimaces, "Kid, you think I'd try to pull a fast one on you?"

"No," Nate replies quickly, placing the documents down. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. Who has he been helping all this time? A crazed, psychopath? It's ridiculous, really. The whole thing is insane.

Then again, thinking back on his past adventures, nothing is really impossible, is it?

"Look, Nate, whoever this is, you should stay away from him." Sully pulls out a cigar and lights it. He takes a puff, and then exhales slowly. Then softly, he adds, "You and Elena, you got out of all this stuff. You don't want to go back into that world, do you?"

Nate swallows nervously.

Does he miss treasure hunting? Does he miss the thrill of it all? The excitement? Yes, of course. Nothing could compare to the high of holding some long relic that history books had long decreed was lost. He'd never felt surer of himself than those moments.

And being with Elena—being normal—it's nice too. Really. It's just . . . boring. But after everything, maybe boring is what he needs. Elena sure doesn't miss the life. And why should she? She'd almost died at Shambhala. Hell, he almost died—frankly, he should've died. Normalcy is exactly what he wants.

Right?

"Nate?" Sully presses, a frown quickly tugging down his lips, a reprimand clearly one moment away.

"No, Sully," He grins, "I don't miss it."

Liar, his subconscious taunts.

"Stay away from this Winchester guy." Sully orders and it reminds Nate of a time so many years ago, back in Brazil when he'd been wandering the streets aimlessly. He'd stumbled across Sully and boom, there it was—a father figure. Sully hadn't given him orders in years. Strongly worded suggestions maybe, but never orders.

Which means, Sully's concerned.

"Hey," Nate places a hand on Sully's shoulder a grins, "Don't worry old man, you're going to give yourself an ulcer."

Sully smirks, "Shut up, Nate."

There. The tension dissipates from Sully's frame and all is right with the world. Nate will stop helping Sam Winchester.

That's the end of it.

Of course, him being Nathan Drake, the universe never seems to let things stay as they are. He goes one month before Sam Winchester comes barreling into his life.

Or more literally, on his doorstep.

Bleeding, on the welcome mat that Elena brought back from her trip to London not even two days ago. The bruised, battered body before him is clinging to the doorframe.

"M'Sam." He manages to say, before listing sideways, nearly face planting on the ground.

"Fuck." Nate swears as he drags Sam Winchester into his home and practically throws him at the living room couch. This shouldn't be happening. Sam Winchester isn't supposed to be here. He shouldn't know where Nate lives. If someone from his past had sent Sam to—

Sam sits up on the couch, the blood seeping through his shirt and staining the leather behind it.

Elena is going to kill him when she wakes up and sees this. Nate's lucky jetlag is still a factor because if she were to wake up and see this—

"How'd you find me?" Nate growls, unsure whether he should help the stranger bleeding out on his couch or kick him to the curb.

Sam, for his part, manages a shaky grin, "Not too hard."

Nate could toss him back outside and let blood loss do him in. Really, Sam Winchester isn't his problem. Whatever trouble this guy had gotten himself into wasn't Nate's priority.

But could he really let that happen? Could he turn his back on this man and let him bleed to death?

"Damn it." Nate hisses, kicking himself for even caring.

Sam, for his part, manages a soft smile and he looks so small in that moment, so weak, so different from the perceived image of a cold-blooded killer that Nate had crafted in his mind's eye. No, this Sam Winchester is just a man, maybe a few years younger than Nate really.

"Sorry." Sam breathes, his eyes shutting as his head slumps against the cushion.

"Hey, hey," Nate moves to him, squeezing his shoulder, trying to get the man to stay conscious, "Don't pass out, okay?" The former treasure hunter scans his house, searching for some sort of sign as to what he should do.

Save the possibly deranged murder on his couch?

It's crazy. Really.

Nate is done with this life. He chose normalcy. He chose getting up every morning, going to his normal job, living in a nice house with a mortgage he pays—he's gone legit. He can't allow his old life back in now.

He can't.

"Dean." Sam mumbles and it stirs something within Nate.

"Dean?" He echoes.

Sam's gaze drifts to the floor, his eyes growing misty, though whether that's because of pain from his injuries or some darker memory, Nate won't ask.

It's enough though. Nate knows the look of someone haunted by grief. Hell, some mornings he woke up and saw it in himself. Losing his brother so many years ago—it would forever be a part of him. It was a miracle he'd been able to piece his life together. But some days still, the grief of what he had lost threatened to consume him.

"Hang on," Nate says quietly, "I'll get you patched up."

Damn the consequences, he can't just let this man die.

If Sully is judging his decision-making skills, the older man has the decency to at least not to say anything. Nate could, of course, speculate what Sully was thinking, probably something along the lines of Nate being a damn fool to risk everything by bringing a bloody man to his doorway.

"So," Sully finally says after Sam's bandaged back together and sleeping peacefully on the couch, "Sam Winchester found you?"

"Yeah." Nate replies, running a hand through his hair. He squirms somewhat under his father figure's intense gaze. Sully doesn't approve—that much is plain. He'll probably question Nate's logic, but really, what was he supposed to have done? Let the guy bleed to death?

"Nate—"

"He said someone's name," Nate interrupts quickly, "Dean?"

"Ah." Sully pulls out a cigar, but doesn't light it.

"Ah?" Nate echoes, knowing the guilty expression on the older man's face. Sully doesn't want to reveal whatever he knows. "

"His brother." Sully finally states. "His, uh, presumed to be dead brother."

Oh.

That hits Nate like a sucker punch to the gut. Here was a lost little brother—just like he was so many years ago—lying out on Sully's couch, injured and alone. Nate had read Sam's bio—his family members were all dead. Dean . . . he must've been the only thing Sam had left.

And now Dean was gone too.

"How long ago did he die?" Nate finally manages to ask, swallowing over the lump forming in his throat.

"Dunno," Sully shrugs, "A month ago maybe."

Nate scoffs, shaking his head, trying to process this new information. Sam Winchester is alone in the world. That's why he had reached out to Nate because Nate was the only person he had and even that was a bit of a stretch. Did he know that Nate had lost his own brother so many years ago? Is that why he Sam chose him? Was it just a coincidence that the brother had lost and the man who showed up on his doorstep tonight were both named Sam?

"Nate?" Sully presses softly and Nate sighs.

"He needs us, Sully."

A tired smile spreads on Sully's face, "I know, kid. I know."

Nate chuckles darkly, "Elena is going to be pissed."

"She'll understand."

There's no going back now after all.

Sam Winchester is stuck with him for the time being.

Elena takes the news better than Nate imagined she would. Granted, this because Sully is with him and Sully seems to always know what to say to Elena to get her to relax. But it also could be that Nate lies—well not really lies so much as omits certain details about Sam.

Like the fact he was shot by someone and almost died. And also the tiny detail that Sam Winchester could very well in fact be a dangerous man.

Details, who needs them, right?

But it's after they've got Sam settled in the guest bedroom upstairs and Sully in the living room, drinking some beer that his wife comes up to him and asks, "Should I be worried?"

"About . . . ?"

She narrows her gaze, "About the guy who looks half-dead upstairs." When Nate doesn't respond, she places a warm hand on his shoulder and continues, "Nate . . . is he an old friend of yours? From before all this?"

"No." He answers and for once, it's the truth.

Elena thinks for a minute, her teeth biting her lower lip in that adorable way they did whenever she was debating something in her mind. Then, after pressing a kiss to his cheek, she nods, "Okay. I trust you."

It amazes him to this day that she does. This is the woman who almost died multiple times because of him. She has scars all along her chest from when Flynn's bomb tore her apart. She followed him fearlessly into danger and she almost paid the ultimate prize and for what? So he could have some treasure?

"Hey." She kisses him once more, "Don't think that way."

He chuckles, "Mind reader."

She winks, "You know it."

"Thanks." He tells her, expression sobering. "For letting him stay."

"Sure." She grins.

"Hey." Nate hovers in the doorway of Sam's room, a bit unsure of himself.

Sam has improved for the past few days. His wounds weren't infected—Sully paid off a doctor to come and check over them so medically, Sam was on the mend—and the younger man had actually started eating some of the food Elena had been making. Still, there was a haunted, faraway look in his gaze and whenever Nate walked into the room, Sam always seemed disappointed, like it wasn't Nate he was hoping would come see him.

"Hey, Nate." Sam mumbles, his voice rough and dry.

"Here." The former treasure hunter hands him a glass of water.

"Thanks." Sam takes a long sip, and then places the glass on the bedside table.

Silence.

There are so many things he wants to say to this lost little brother. So many things he wished someone would've told him. It doesn't get easier, not really. Contrary to what everyone seems to think, grief doesn't just go away over time. It fades, sure, but it can flare up even sharper and stronger than before.

"My brother died too." Nate blurts out, surprised by his own admission.

Sam's eyebrows raise ever so slightly, "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Nate nods, coming to sit at the small armchair Elena had dragged from the study into this room. He swallows hard, unsure if he's prepared to tell this story. Elena doesn't even know the truth. Sam had died so many years ago and honestly, it'd been too painful to bring him back up again.

"Was he older?" Sam questions.

"Yeah."

More silence.

"I'm sorry." Sam whispers, "My brother . . ." The word is on the tip of his lips, but it won't come out.

Nate understands though.

"Elena doesn't know," Nate explains, "He died years ago and I just . . ." His eyes burn and he scoffs at himself. It's supposed to be easier. That's what all those self-books and well-meaning people say. Grief is supposed to go away. You're supposed to be able to go on with your life without feeling like there's a gaping hole in your heart.

That's bullshit though. Losing someone you loved—that pain is always there.

Nate still dreams about it. Of seeing Sam's face contorted in shock and pain as he was shot. Seeing his limp body fall down onto the prison ground below. Hearing Rafe's voice in his ears, shouting, "We have to go Nate!"

He left Sam behind. But his ghost still haunts him.

"I just can't relive that again." Nate finally finishes.

Sam's lips thin, his eyes still dull, "I understand."

Nate, for whatever reason, believes him. Pointing to his bandaged wounds on his chest, "Who shot you?"

"Doesn't matter." Sam dismisses.

"Are they coming after you?" Nate asks, but Sam shakes his head, tiredly.

"No."

"You're sure?" The retired treasure hunter presses, "I mean, I've got Elena and—"

Sam huffs out a tired laugh, then tosses the blankets off. Gritting his teeth, he starts to push himself out of bed, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"Easy!" Nate cautions, firmly pushing Sam back in bed.

"I need to go." There are beads of sweat on Sam's forehead and Nate curses himself for even saying anything.

"Where would you go?" Nate demands, waiting for logic to win the younger man over.

"Nowhere." Sam breathes, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Look, just . . . stay." Nate insists, a tired grin tugging up the corner of his lips.

"Why?"

If it hadn't been for Sully, Nate would've been forever lost after Sam's death. He would've drowned himself in drinks or hell, maybe he would've taken an impossible job and let the museum guards or an ancient temple do him in. But Sully had taken him in once again and patched him up, kept him going.

If Nate could just give someone even a fraction of peace like Sully did for him, maybe it would make up for leaving his big brother behind.

Maybe he could finally make peace with what happened so many years ago.

"Because people like us," Nate starts, "We need to stay together."

A week goes by and soon, Sam is able to be up and about. His wound is healing nicely and Nate can recognize the symptoms of stir-craziness setting in, so he decides to help distract the younger man.

Turns out, Elena's beaten him to the punch.

He comes home from his shift to find his wife absolutely roaring with laughter and Sam sitting on the stool across from her, beaming.

"I miss something?" Nate questions and his wife cannot stop her laughter long enough to answer him.

Sam smirks, meeting Nate's gaze, "Elena was just telling me about some of the crazy things you two have done."

He faces his wife, "Yeah?"

"Nothing too bad." Her eyes betray her sweetly coated words—she's been telling Sam about embarrassing things he's done, no doubt.

"Whatever she says," He takes a seat next to Sam, "It isn't true."

Sam chuckles, "Yeah, sure."

"It isn't!"

"One time, I asked Nate to fix the dishwasher and I came back and he had dismantled the whole thing and broke it even more. We had to buy a new one!"

"Really?" Sam's enjoying this way too much, Nate can tell.

"C'mon, it was broken already—" Nate insists.

"Yeah, but you're the one who shattered two of the parts making it completely unfixable!" Elena retorts.

Nate sighs dramatically, moving behind her to grab a beer from the fridge. It's good to see a smile on Sam's face, though it clearly didn't extend to his eyes. The haunted look was still there and the grief must still be in full force, but at least he was getting a brief respite.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better." Sam lies.

"Get some rest." Nate orders and the younger man rolls his eyes, somewhat dramatically. Still, he gets off the stool and begins to shuffle towards the staircase.

"Thanks, Elena, for the food and everything." Sam tells her.

Elena beams, "Of course."

With that, the injured man heads up the creaky stairs and soon there's the sound of the bedroom door closing behind him.

Nate sighs somewhat. Taking a swig of his beer, he faces his wife's inquisitive expression.

"Nate, he's lost someone, hasn't he?" Elena is a reporter and her sense of intuition is always right. The fact that she picked up on Sam's grief is only logical.

He grimaces, "Yeah."

Elena shakes her head, "Poor thing. He told me he doesn't have much family."

"He's pretty much on his own." Nate adds.

Elena doesn't say anything. Then, slowly, she comes to place a hand on her husband's shoulder, a tight smile on her lips. Her own parents were a sore subject—they'd never approved of what Elena wanted to do and as such, had distanced themselves from her. She'd reach out to them every once in awhile to exchange basic pleasantries, but it wasn't the kind of relationship she wanted.

"Well, family doesn't end with blood."

With that, she presses a kiss to his temple and leaves the kitchen.

It's true though. Nate's been alone for so many years. After he lost Sam, he'd figured he'd be forever drifting through life. Sully had saved him and then he'd met Elena and slowly, he made a new family and a new life.

He made his family and though thinking of his brother still caused his heart to ache, he knows that going on with his life—with Elena and Sully by his side—is the right choice.

It's the only choice really.

Sam Winchester is a voracious reader. He's also pretty damn smart.

This is something made clearly apparent to Nate when he gets up one morning to find Sam and Elena in the middle of a passionate debate about resistance fighters in some tiny country Nate's never even heard of. As he watches his wife and this injured man debate the various issues, he can't help but wonder what other secrets Sam is hiding. The files Sully dug up said something about Stanford University, but Nate had brushed it off, thinking the kid had somehow rigged the system.

Now, he isn't so sure.

Later in the week, as Sam helps Nate decode an ancient piece of Latin text that Elena had picked up for him as a souvenir, he can't help but be impressed at Sam's skills. He knows a lot.

"How'd you learn all this?" Nate questions, almost incredulous.

"My dad taught me."

A frown rests on Sam's face and his mood starts to plummet. His father—his family in general—is clearly a taboo subject. Nate shouldn't have pried.

"You know, you'd make a pretty good treasure hunter," He says jovially, smiling widely, "Sure, you'd have to pick up a few things, but you know your stuff. That's half the battle."

Sam just chuckles, "Treasure hunting, huh? The way Elena tells it, you've never really been too successful after any of your adventures. What is it she said? You lost three ancient treasures and walked away with barely enough to pay off your debts for heading after the treasure in the first place?"

Nate sighs dramatically, "Yeah, well, I did okay."

Sam smirks, "Sure."

"So, what did you do?" Nate questions, curiosity getting the better of him, "I mean, you contacted me about ancient artifacts. Why?"

Sam's gaze drops to the floor, his fists clench, "It doesn't matter. It's done."

"Sam?"

But without so much as another word, Sam Winchester storms upstairs, slamming the guest bedroom door.

"Crap." Nate grimaces.

But luck being the way it is, Nate soon finds himself staring down the barrel of a gun the minute he gets out of his car for his shift. It's a bit jarring, but really, he's face down so many guns now that they don't really terrify him. Being shot would, of course, hurt like a bitch and getting killed is not on his list of things to do today.

"Easy there," Nate spreads his hands out, tries to dole out the charm and ooze confidence, "We have a problem here?"

"Sam Winchester," The masked man snaps, "Where is he?"

Ah. So the goons who had shot Sam were still in the picture.

"Sam who?" Nate lies, shrugging his shoulders.

The barrel of the gun presses hard into his chest, the metal surprisingly cool despite the fact that he's wearing a t-shirt.

"Funny guy, huh?" The man sneers, "You won't be so funny when I kill you."

"Whoa, who said anything about killing?" Nate interjects quickly, "Let's just relax here—"

"Sam Winchester needs to die! Him and his goddamn brother!" The mysterious assailant roars. "They killed my wife!"

Nate wants to deny it, but he saw Sam's rap sheet. Sure, the younger man seemed nice and kind, but really, Nate didn't know him. He didn't know Sam's past or what kind of things he and his older brother were doing.

He never should've saved Sam that night. Now look at what he's done—brought craziness back into his peacefully boring normal life.

"Look, buddy, I don't—"

But that's as far as Nate gets before he aware of a painful thwack to his skull. His vision blurs and before he can even utter out one curse, he's unconscious.

Being held hostage is something new for Nate. Normally, he fancies himself the kind of person to rescue the damsel in distress—not be one—but really, he supposes he's lucky to be alive right now. Sure, he's tied up and gagged, but at least he's uninjured aside from his blistering headache.

Things could be worse.

The man, now unmasked, paces before him, muttering incoherent words and waving the shotgun wildly around. Dumb bastard is going to get one of them killed and that's definitely not on Nate's agenda for tonight.

Spitting out the gag, he coughs and his captor whirls on him, gun pointed at his skull.

"Easy, easy," Nate soothes, "Just relax."

"If Sam doesn't come, I'll kill you."

"Well, then I hope he comes." Nate replies with a smile. "Meantime, think I could at least get some water. I mean, I didn't do anything to you, now did I?"

Hesitation flashes on the man's face, but he relents. Shuffling towards the table in the back corner of the warehouse, he grabs a water bottle. He opens it and then moves towards Nate. Suddenly, he stops, tossing the water aside.

"If Sam comes, you'll get water." His captor says, voice wavering.

Nate needs to get out of here. His captor is a ticking time bomb. The guy could easily snap and kill him for no apparent reason—

A door creaks open and Nate freezes.

"I'm here."

And there's Sam Winchester, breathless, but standing tall in the warehouse. He's still injured, but you wouldn't be able to guess that from the way he's projecting confidence.

"Sam." Nate's captor growls, pivoting the gun to face the other man. "You bastard. I didn't think you'd actually show."

Sam says nothing, meeting Nate's gaze, trying to assess the older man's condition.

Nate nods his head, silently assuring Sam that he's fine.

"Chris, don't do this."

Chris chuckles hysterically, waving the gun around once more, "Don't do this?" His voice echoes, bouncing off the warehouse walls. "Don't do this?" He's hysterical, Nate realizes, and that's the worst kind of enemy. You can never tell just what they'll do.

"Chris—" Sam takes a step forward, but the gun is swiftly pointed back in Sam's direction.

"You killed Lorna! You and your damn brother!" Chris roars. "You said you would save her! You said we'd be okay! But you fucking lied!"

Remorse flashes in Sam's gaze, "I'm sorry. We thought we had the ghost out of the house—"

Nate's ears perk up at that. Ghost? Like Casper? What the hell is he talking about?

Chris laughs once more, but there's no humor in it, only grief, "Well, you didn't. Lorna died because you two didn't do your fucking job!" He takes a few steps towards Sam, the gun getting closer and closer to the younger man's heart. "I lost everything that night. Everything!" Chris scoffs, "And you two? You just rode off into the sunset in your damn Impala!"

"Chris, I'm sorry—"

The gun is now firmly pressed against Sam's chest.

Nate struggles against his bonds, but the ropes are too strong. Without a knife, he's trapped here, helpless to do anything. He can try to distract Chris, but he doesn't want to risk triggering another episode of explosive rage.

"Sorry?" Chris mutters, a tear rolling down his cheek. "Sorry won't bring her back, Sam."

Sam nods his head, "I know."

He does, Nate realizes dimly, because he too has lost the only person who ever mattered.

"You need to die." Chris states, but his voice wavers, tinged with uncertainty.

"You didn't kill me last time, Chris," Sam tells him quietly, "You're not a killer. You can still walk away from this."

For a moment, Chris contemplates it, but Nate sees all too quickly the resolve harden in the bereaved man's gaze, "You know what, Sam? It's too late."

The bang of the gun is deafening.

As Sam staggers back, blood begins to spurt from the wound on his chest. His shirt soon becomes dyed crimson and within moments, he's on the floor, gasping for air.

Nate tugs harder at the rope, his wrists burning as the twine bites into them. "Sam!" He calls, wishing for some sort of miracle or divine intervention. Why does this always happen? Why do the people Nate care about end up bleeding out before him?

"It's going to be okay." Chris murmurs, pulling a knife from his pocket and cutting Nate free. "It's over now."

With that, he turns the gun on himself before Nate can stop him.

Chris' body falls to the ground with a thud, but Nate can't focus on that. He rushes to Sam, tearing off his jacket and pressing it to the deep wound. Sam's heart hasn't been hit which is pretty damn lucky, but he's losing too much blood.

"Sam! Stay with me!" Nate needs to call for help. He needs to do something. He can't just let Sam die. He can't lose someone else again—

"D'n."

And then Sam Winchester is unconscious.

The hospital waiting room is cold and smells like bleach.

Nate is far removed from it, trapped inside his head, watching Chris shoot Sam over and over. It was lucky that Sully and Elena had found them when they did, tracking Sam's phone. But has the damage already been done?

Sam could die. The doctors seem pretty sure that's what will happen. And if he does die, that'll mean Nate failed to save one more person. Just like he lost his own brother.

He's pretty sure he won't be able to handle that.

Elena stays with him during those long hours of surgery, rubbing his cold hands with her warm ones, whispering reassurances in his ear. Her presence helps keep him grounded. She gives him hope.

Sully barks at any doctor or nurse who happens to wander by, but they all say the same thing. Until Sam comes out of surgery, they won't know what his prognosis is.

If Sam comes out of surgery that is.

"You look like shit." That's the first thing Nate can think of to say to Sam who is a mess of bandages and wires, but who is somehow, miraculously alive.

"Thanks." Sam starts to chuckle, but it dissolves into a cough.

"Must have an angel looking out for you." Elena remarks and something dark flashes in Sam's eyes before vanishing once more. "I'll go find Sully. Tell him that you're awake." With that, she leaves the small room.

"You're lucky to be alive—"

"Chris is dead, isn't he?" There's remorse in Sam's tone, something that astounds Nate. How could he feel sorry for the guy that had tried to kill him?

"Yeah."

Sam processes this, "It wasn't his fault you know. He loved his wife. When she died, he just . . . could never accept it."

"Doesn't mean he had to take it out on you." Nate points out. "He's the guy who shot you before, isn't he?"

Sam hesitates before answering, "Yeah."

"And you didn't think that maybe he would come back—?"

"Chris was grieving," Sam interjects, "I figured once he got it out of his system—"

"Shooting people isn't exactly one of the steps of grieving." Nate states, sarcasm dripping from every word.

The heart rate machine beeps steadily in the ensuing silence.

"I'm sorry that I got you dragged into this. I should've left when I was able to."

Nate sighs, running a hand through his hair, "It's fine. I get it. I mean, I guess I do."

He wants to ask more about the ghosts, more about how exactly Sam and his brother were involved, but he can see Sam's eyes drooping. The medicine is winning out and with the extensive amount of injuries Sam's got, he does need his rest, so Nate keeps his mouth closed.

There will be time for answers another day.

Except the next day, Sam Winchester is gone, signing himself out AMA and his phone is disconnected.

"You think he'll be okay?" Elena questions, her voice tinged with concern.

"Yeah." Nate isn't sure though. He thought he knew who Sam Winchester was—it turns out that he has no clue at all.

"And you're okay?" She grips her husband's hand within her own.

He winks, "I've survived Panamanian jail, I think I can recover some amateur with a gun—"

"Nate," She sighs, "I'm serious."

He kisses her deeply, trying to convey to her what words cannot.

When he breaks away from her he grins, "I'm fine. I promise."

He just hopes that wherever Sam Winchester is, he'll be fine.

A few months later, Nate opens his mailbox to find a small letter postmarked from Kermit, Texas. Inside is a faded picture of a beautiful brunette standing next to a reluctantly posing Sam Winchester. It's enough to bring a grin to Nate's face.

Hope you're well.

He can't wait to show Elena.

Author's Note: Oh my goodness, this story just would not end! It completely spiraled out of my control. I hope you liked it. I may do another Supernatural/Uncharted one-shot set after this in the near future. Please review if you have a moment cause I'd love to know what you thought! Thanks.