Disclaimer: Original content and characters are mine, but the Winchesters are not. I write for my own entertainment, not for profit.

Spoilers: There are oblique references to many episodes. Anything in S1 or S2 is fair game.

A/N: The rating is for large amounts of bad language and violence—seven chapters' worth. With this story, I'm making good on a promise to write some hurt!Sam. I did. And if there's hurt!Sam, there must also be protective!Dean.

Thanks to the gang at "Paperclips and Peanut M&Ms" for everything, most pertinently an interesting and timely discussion about murder and moral compasses. Here's to a terrific S3!

The Name of the Game

"Go left, go left!" Dean shouted, waving his brother around a tangled thicket before veering right himself, eyes locked on the sloping hindquarters of the crusker before it disappeared completely in the deep shadows under the trees.

Picking up its trail had been ridiculously easy, even with the moon mostly obscured by looming storm-clouds, but cruskers weren't much in the brains department, in Dean's experience—it was almost as though the thing had been waiting for them, pretty much right where the guy at the bar said it had been two nights earlier. The Winchesters had practically walked right into it, rounding a curve in the trail, the hyena-like creature hunkered over what looked like the remains of somebody's pet beagle. The crusker's massive jaws snapped rib bones as though they were pencils, and bloody gobbets of dog ghoulishly decorated its snout and chest. Dean had felt his gorge rise at the stench emanating from its long-furred body, eye-watering and almost overpowering even from thirty feet away, but the nausea had disappeared as soon as the thing looked up at them with a start, growling deep in its throat, its red eyes glowing.

Sam had taken a quick shot, and how he missed at that short range was anybody's guess, but he did, and the crusker took off with a snarl, the brothers hot on its heels, Sam cursing and apologizing for his poor aim in the same breath.

The creature had quickly drawn them some distance from the trail and deeper into the woods, and now Dean was regretting not having packed another gun, not to mention more ammo. Cruskers were big and powerful, but only dangerous to humans when they were cornered or injured. Still, you never knew when you'd come across the exception to that little rule. The only safe crusker was a dead crusker, and if there was anything Dean Winchester had learned at his daddy's knee, it was to be prepared. He knew better than to take chances—Dean laughed right out loud at that blatant lie, then saved what was left of his breath for the chase.

He heard Sam crashing through the tinder maybe twenty yards to his left, and the crusker itself probably as far ahead of him, his own panting loud in his ears and threatening to drown out all other sound. Time to cut down on the cheeseburgers, Dean thought between gasps, flinching to one side suddenly as an unseen branch whipped across his cheek, immediately raising a welt. Damn it!

It had begun to rain, wind picking up briskly as the storm that had been threatening all evening settled in. Dean could barely make out the crusker now, the beam from his flashlight leaping spasmodically as he ran, only occasionally glancing across the creature's backside, battery weakening as the supernatural thing fed off its energy. Dean almost missed seeing the crusker veer sharply right, swerving around the boles of two entwined birch trees.

"Sammy!" he yelled. "It's heading south! Shag your ass!"

There was an answering shout. Dean slipped in the dead leaves beneath the birches, going down hard on one knee but recovering quickly and plunging ahead. He poured on as much speed as he had left in him, but after another couple of minutes, he knew it was hopeless. The crusker was gone.

Breathing hard, Dean bent over and propped his hands on his knees, shotgun still gripped tight, feeling his racing heart calm as it recovered from the chase. He drew the back of his hand across his cheek, where the branch had struck him, but felt no blood. That's a first, he thought dryly—maybe his luck was changing for the better. Now that would be something really supernatural, wouldn't it?

He straightened with a groan and headed back the way he had come, expecting to meet up with Sam at any moment. But the woods around him were still, and an uneasiness Dean hadn't felt before settled over him suddenly, adding a pall to the darkness under the trees. He stopped dead, straining to hear, switching off his flashlight so he could search for the glow of Sam's own, but there was nothing.

"Sam?" he called cautiously. "Sammy, where you at?"

There was no response.

Dean quickly turned his light back on and cast the waning beam ahead of him, sweeping the ground with it carefully as he went.

"Sam!" he yelled. "Answer me!"

Only the sound of rain smacking against dead leaves broke the silence, and there was no sign of his brother.

-:- -:- -:-

Sam heard Dean's shout, off to his right, beyond an immense tangle of bushes that somehow had managed to thrive under the oaks and white pines. Something about south.

"Yo!" he hollered back, wiping rain from his face, throwing the beam of his flashlight left and right to assess the best route to take around the thicket. What he saw made him stop short, chest heaving, as two men wearing camo gear and face-paint stepped suddenly from behind trees he'd just passed, deer rifles readied and pointed directly at Sam. Filtered moonlight and the gear they wore made them all but invisible.

A third man appeared just as suddenly, aiming his own flashlight directly into Sam's eyes, effectively blinding him. Sam bit back a curse, tamping down his instinct for fight or flight. Instead, he held his hands up placatingly, shielding his eyes from the harsh light, shotgun held loosely between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

"Whoa, easy," he said, struggling to recover the breath he'd lost chasing the crusker. "Just doing a little hunting here, not trying to cause any trouble."

He wasn't certain what he'd stumbled into—some kind of paramilitary exercise, perhaps, or maybe some hardcore types protecting their cash-crop or meth lab—but he sure as hell wasn't interested in getting caught up in it, whatever it was.

The beam of light moved from his face to his chest, allowing him to see again once his eyes had adjusted, and the three men advanced on him slowly, one of them indicating with a jerk of his rifle that Sam was to put his own weapon down. Gingerly, Sam complied, bending deep at the knees to lay his gun on the forest floor, never taking his eyes off the men. He straightened cautiously, another jerk of the rifle pointed at his midsection convincing him to raise his arms above his head.

"Seriously, guys, I'm cool with whatever's going on here," he said. "I'll be happy to just go on my way."

The man with the flashlight laughed, a deep, nasty sound that Sam instantly interpreted as bad news.

"All right, Haskell," the man said.

Sam tried out his own laugh, one that allowed the joke to be on him. "I think you've got the wrong man," he said. "My name's not Haskell."

That was when he felt a tap on his shoulder. As he turned in surprise, the butt of yet another rifle—belonging to Haskell, no doubt—clipped him hard at the temple, and Sam crashed senseless to the needle-strewn ground like a fallen tree.

-:- -:- -:-

There was droning and vibrating, enough combined with the aching head to make him feel nauseous, and that was sufficient to bring him around. He was leaning to his left, his neck cricked against something hard, head resting upright, cheek pressed against slickness, cool like—there was a bounce, and his left temple smacked against the window-glass, eliciting brief stars. Sam blinked groggily, other pains awakening as he realized he was in the rear seat of a moving vehicle, propped against the locked door, hands bound tightly in front of him with a heavy plastic tie-strip.

They were traveling at a good clip on a fairly smooth surface, which Sam took to be paved road. Outside was pre-dawn darkness, heavy rain lashing down, but the inside of the vehicle was visible from the headlights of a car or truck close behind them.

He must have made a noise when he woke, because suddenly a hand twisted in the front of his jacket and pulled him upright, and he felt the barrel of a pistol in his ribs. Blinking again, Sam saw one of the camo'd men seated to his right, two more in the front of what was probably a Hummer. Some giant SUV, anyway.

"Carson," the man beside him growled, and the big man in the front passenger seat turned. Flashlight Guy, Sam thought, taking in the man's thick, bull-like neck and broad shoulders. His guess was confirmed when the man spoke.

"Take it easy, kid, and everything'll be fine."

Sam swallowed, his tongue feeling swollen and dry in his mouth, his lips parched. "Who are you?" he asked. "Where are you taking me?"

"Just going on a little visit, is all. Got somebody wants to meet you."

"Funny kind of invitation. Couldn't you have just asked?" Sam's head was pounding from the knocking it had received, and he was having trouble making his eyes focus.

In the light from the car following them, Carson's eyes glittered, pig-like. "Just shut up. We don't have much farther to go, and then Mr. Mahoney will answer all your questions."

Sam frowned. Mahoney? Didn't sound familiar. Far as he knew, the Winchesters didn't know anybody in New Hampshire, so….

"Who's Mahoney? What does he want?" he asked, and the gun barrel jabbed hard into his ribs.

"Shut up!" the dark-haired man beside him said, and Sam chose to comply, eying the man warily, then turning to look behind them. He squinted into the headlights close on their tail, instantly recognizing the Impala.

Dean!

But the condition of the road forced the Hummer driver to tap the brakes, the red lights briefly illuminating the Chevy's interior, and Sam's heart sank as he realized it wasn't Dean behind the wheel. Two guys in camo paint sat in the brothers' accustomed places, and God knew where Dean was. Maybe also captive, maybe unconscious, lying low in the back seat, or maybe still in the woods somewhere, chasing that damn crusker.

Sam twisted again to face front, rotating his wrists experimentally to test the strength of the tie-strip that bound them. The heavy plastic bit into his flesh, and he knew he'd have to be cut free.

"Hadn't better mess with the Impala," he ventured, earning another jab in the ribs with the pistol.

"I said shut it!" his seat companion snapped, but Carson laughed, a sound that raised the hackles on the back of Sam's neck.

"You'd better worry about how Mahoney's gonna mess with you," Carson said. "Relax, kid—we're almost there."

Sam peered out the window again. Now that dawn was coming, he could see they were traveling along a well-maintained road, curving past woods on the left and a high stone wall on the right. The rain came steadily, wind whipping the trees, and lightning streaked the northeast.

He shot a glance at the man next to him, tagging him as ex-Army, now maybe mercenary, maybe paramilitary, definitely not law enforcement. No, these guys weren't feds, Sam decided, but some sort of private squad. Security team, maybe.

In the front seat, Carson raised a dashboard radio mic to his mouth, depressing the thumb-button twice.

"Steinman? Carson. We're coming up on the gates," he said into the mic. "Tell Mahoney we have the target and should be at the house in five."

Sam eyed the door handle beside him, assessing his chances of escaping a moving vehicle. Whoever this Mahoney was, if he was waiting for them behind the big stone wall, Sam was pretty sure he should make his break now. The odds weren't good that he'd succeed, but he had to try.

The Hummer slowed as the driver lifted his foot off the accelerator and tapped the brakes, and Sam leaned to his right, slightly, ducking his head to see out the middle of the windshield. There was what looked like a private road up ahead, leading to a set of massive grilled gates that broke the stone wall. He prepared himself to move, without attracting the attention of the man seated next to him. When they made the turn, he'd go.

They came up on the gates, the vehicle slowing even more for the turn into the driveway. The man beside him craned his neck to see around Carson, and Sam seized his opportunity. He grabbed at the pistol in the man's hands, flipping it into the back of the vehicle, then lunged for the lock and the door handle, popping the door open quickly and spilling out onto the wet pavement, rolling seven, eight times as momentum propelled him forward.

Once he was in control of his own movement, Sam gathered his feet under him, certain that the road-rash on elbows and knees wasn't too severe. The Hummer screeched to a halt, the Impala nearly smashing into it, guys in camo spilling out hurriedly, shouting, as Sam climbed quickly to his feet and ran down the road, angling toward the woods on the other side.

He stopped short as the bullet whizzed past his ear, uncertain whether it was meant to hit him or had gone exactly where intended. Either way, he figured his best option for making it out of this alive now was to stay put.

"Don't be stupid, kid!" Carson called, and Sam closed his eyes in defeat before raising his tethered hands over his head. In seconds he was surrounded again, men on either side of him grabbing his arms and gripping tight.

There was a look of anger and disappointment on Carson's face as he approached, stopping in front of Sam and shaking his head sadly.

"Kid, you shouldn't have done that. Now I'm going to have to teach you a little lesson. Haskell!"

The man who'd been in the back seat with Sam raised the butt of the pistol he'd retrieved and brought it down on Sam's head again. When he fell this time, Sam didn't even feel himself hit the ground.

-:- -:- -:-

The blank period was brief, and Sam re-awoke as they manhandled his long body back into the Hummer's rear seat, sandwiching him now between two men. His nausea had returned, and he thought briefly, fondly, of spewing the contents of his stomach all over his captors' boots. Wisdom prevailed and Sam struggled instead to keep last night's dinner to himself. It had tasted bad enough the first time.

A guard waved them through the gates and they headed up a long, straight driveway bisecting broad expanses of neatly trimmed lawn. Security lighting in the dark gray of early morning revealed a parking area littered with pickups and Jeeps, a collection of four outbuildings and a main house that could only be called a mansion. Georgian architecture, Sam noted, surprising himself with his recall of the upper-level American architecture seminar he'd taken his freshman year at Stanford. Brick; hipped roof; double chimneys; columns and cornice at the door. Everything in perfect symmetry, tidy, logical, mathematical. Certainly no place a Winchester belonged, so what the hell was going on?

The driver pulled the Hummer up to the rear of the big house, and Sam craned his neck to see the Impala disappear behind one of the outbuildings. He guessed, then, that Dean wasn't tied up or unconscious in the back seat, because they'd have brought him to the house, too. Wouldn't they?

Sam realized suddenly that they hadn't frisked him, unless it had happened while he was unconscious. His gun was gone, of course, but unless he'd dropped it or broken it when he threw himself out of the Hummer, there was a good chance that his cell phone was still in his jacket pocket. There was also a good chance, however, that he hadn't turned it off, and Sam offered up a silent prayer that Dean wouldn't call. At least, not yet. Maybe Mahoney, whoever he was, would be as sloppy as these wanna-be A-Team morons, and Sam would get a moment to himself to call his big brother.

Hey, Dean? It's Sam. I don't exactly know where I am, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to be here. If you're not doing anything, do you think you could swing by and rescue me?

Sam couldn't help quirking a smile, but it vanished quickly when he considered what his brother's own circumstances might be. Then there was no more time for consideration, as Sam was pulled roughly from the back of the Hummer and hustled up a set of steps to the mansion's rear door. There was a Three Stooges moment actually getting him across the threshold and into the house, and Sam snorted derisively.

Better not to underestimate these guys, though, he thought—if there was anything he'd learned at his daddy's knee, it was not to be overconfident, because that made you careless. Caution and planning were everything—Sam almost laughed out loud at that blatant lie, because in his whole life, there wasn't a thing he'd planned that had come out well. The crusker hunt, for example. As for caution? Well, look where that had gotten John Winchester. Look where it had gotten any of them.

Sam couldn't remember what the interior of a Georgian house was supposed to look like, except for the central staircase, but the ground floor of this one contained a number of large, rectangular rooms, with keystone marble flooring and opulent Oriental rugs. For a while, Sam had dated an interior design major he'd met in the architecture seminar—a student at a nearby fashion college, Gina had been crashing the class, and he'd helped her stay below the professor's radar. She had taken him to more designer showcases than he would ever admit to, and apparently some of what he'd learned had stuck. Many of the furnishings in this house were things he recognized: delicate Chippendale wing chairs with cabriole legs mixed elegantly with damask sofas, Hepplewhite chaises, claw tables and six-legged sideboards in the Sheraton style, all under octopus-like glass chandeliers. It was incongruous to see the security team, armed and in camouflage, treading heavy-booted down the pale marble main hall.

They frog-marched him into what appeared to be a sitting room, where a balding, brown-haired man in his thirties was waiting. Sam frowned. Was this Mahoney? Couldn't be—the inexpensive suit the man wore was the give-away, assuming Mahoney owned the mansion and grounds. Then who was he?

The man glanced at him nervously, avoiding meeting Sam's eyes, clearly ill at ease and nearly flinching when Carson approached him.

"Doc, where's Mahoney?" Carson cast his gaze around the room, and Sam was struck once again by how out of place the burly man seemed in the finely appointed setting. In fact, they all looked out of place, including the man in the cheap suit.

"Mr. Mahoney has had a bad night," the doctor said, "and I've just given him something to help him rest. He's quite anxious to, um…." The guy was having a hard time looking directly at Sam, but he finally managed to meet Sam's intent gaze. "He's quite anxious to meet you, Mr. Winchester, and asked me to convey his apologies for the delay."

"Who the hell is he?" Sam demanded without preamble, hoping he'd managed to hide the chill he felt at hearing the doctor use his name. "Man, this isn't a social call. I've been brought here against my will—see these?" He held up his bound wrists, displaying them for the doctor. "Carson and the rest of these bozos were running around in the woods playing Rambo, and I don't know why the hell, but for some reason they decided that this guy Mahoney wants to see me. So here I am. Now, get him up, or get me out of here."

The doctor seemed cowed by his bravado, but Carson was less than impressed, judging by the punch he landed in Sam's solar plexus. Sam doubled over, gasping, and the doctor flinched visibly.

"Mr. Carson—" the man protested feebly.

"Shut it, doc," Carson ordered. "Stick to your pills and tongue depressors, and leave this business to me. All right, let's get him down to the cellar. He can wait for Mahoney there."

Sam stumbled repeatedly as they hauled him out of the sitting room and across the main hallway, past the dining room and toward what was apparently the kitchen. They'd learned their lesson about thresholds, because when they reached the closed doorway to the cellar, they had no trouble manhandling Sam through, dragging him down the stairs and along an aisle-way crowded with books and boxes to a small room at the far end.

Carson flicked the light-switch, and a bare bulb glowed dimly from the ceiling of the small, damp space. It smelled of mold and mouse-dung and disuse, and was completely empty but for a pair of chains hung high on the wall, shackles dangling from their ends. Sam blinked at them once in disbelief.

"You must be joking," he said.

Carson laughed, then jerked his head at the two men holding Sam. Sam wasted no more time, but began struggling, trying now to throw them off, to break free. Still, it was no surprise when Haskell appeared in the cell and smashed his gun against Sam's head for the third time.

Darkness fell.

-:- -:- -:-

It was pitch black beneath these damn trees, now that the flashlight was completely dead. Cell, too; battery drained by the crusker, like it was a friggin' spirit. Sonofabitch had probably used the energy for that last little burst of speed through the undergrowth, leaving its pungent odor on every leaf, leaving Dean in the dust. Or the mud, actually, because that crap was ankle-deep in places now, clinging to the cuffs of his jeans, working its way down into his boots as he squelched through the woods.

"Sam!"

Dean's voice was rough as he called for the hundredth time. He told himself firmly that he was wasting his time and worry, that Sam was back at the car, probably snoring, waiting for his stupid-ass big brother to quit tromping around out in the rain.

Things would be better if he weren't lost, his unfailing sense of direction having utterly failed him in these damn fucking trees.

In the darkness, every single bush looked exactly like the dozen he had just passed or fallen over. Dean had thought he recognized the entwined birches where the crusker had taken a sharp right, and he hoped he was retracing his steps back toward the Impala, but he had a sinking feeling that he'd gotten turned around, somehow.

No, wait! Those were the trees, definitely, because here—he knelt and ran his hand along the wet ground—yeah, this was where he had slipped, leaving a long skid-mark in the leaves. He heaved a sigh of relief, readjusting the compass in his head.

Except that it still wasn't oriented correctly, because true north wasn't answering his calls.

"Sam!"

When he'd heard Sam shout, his little brother had been thataway, maybe sixty, seventy feet to the northwest. Behind that freaking wall of bushes—how the hell did this stuff grow under these trees, anyway?

Dean battled his way around the thicket, eyes straining to see everything and finding nothing. For only a second he allowed himself to understand what he was really looking for, terrified he'd see: his brother's body, lying lifeless in the mud and leaves. With a growl, Dean sent the thought fleeing.

He'd never considered himself paranoid, just cautious, and he damn well had a right to be concerned about Sam's safety. Always had been, for as long as he could remember, and he wasn't about to stop now. Especially since—

Ah, fuck.

Dean stopped for a moment, dropping his head to his chest, allowing the thought to come, just to get it over with.

Especially since Cold Oak. Since Sam had died. Since then, nothing was the same.

Something in his chest squeezed his heart tightly, and Dean winced, rubbing a rough hand over his face before pulling himself together, tamping down his panic.

All right, Sam wasn't here, and he hadn't been between here and where Dean had last seen the crusker, and he wasn't likely to still be out running around in the woods—wasn't for nothin' they'd given little Sammy Winchester that full ride to Stanford.

So, in the real, non-paranoid world, that meant it was very likely that Sam had, in fact, gone back to the car. That he was there in the warmth and comfort of the front seat, waiting for Dean to haul his wet ass back there, too.

Dean was back on the trail, now. Although the rain had let up, passing cloudbursts occasionally drenched him on the two-mile trek back to where they'd left the Impala. More than anything, Dean wanted (to see Sam, find him alive and well, sitting in the car, bopping his head to some sissy music on his iPod).

Damn it!

Dean calmed himself and tried again.

More than anything, he wanted a hot shower, followed by a couple of drinks at the local bar with his little br—

Fuck!

"Sammy!" he roared, but there was still no answer.

Unable to take it any longer, Dean began to run back toward the road, back to the Impala, needing to prove himself right and wrong at the same time—right that Sam was safe, wrong that he was gone again. Wrong that Sam had left by choice or been taken again.

Again!

The litany in Dean's head kept time to his pounding feet—ColdOakColdOakColdOak—until he burst out of the trees onto the roadway and stopped dead, chest heaving, looking around him in shock.

Where the hell was the car?

Dean whirled, looking back the way he'd come, then up the road on the other side. Yeah, that was the trail, and that was the mile-marker, so where--?

He crossed the road quickly, its asphalt shining faintly in the moonlight that finally strained through thinning clouds. Found the boot-marks and the tire tracks that told him this was the right spot. Except that it wasn't right at all. Sam was gone, and it looked like he'd taken the car with him.

Memories and emotion swept through Dean, then, flooded through him, obliterating every levee, every dam he'd constructed so carefully to keep them in their places.

Sam was gone.

On his knees in the mud beside the road, Dean cried out to the heavens.

"Sam!"

-:- -:- -:-

TBC. Comments welcomed.