Previously appeared in Brotherhood 4 (2008), from Pyramids Press

In Loco Parentis
K Hanna Korossy

"I think you're wrong about that."

"Sam, who's done more research on this, huh? I'm totally right."

"I don't think watching every episode of X-Files counts as research, Dean."

"Right, so, the government is totally up front with us about everything." Dean's phone suddenly started playing in his pocket, and Sam cast a disinterested glance that way. He looked up again when Dean's arm suddenly barred across his chest. Oh, yeah, intersection, look both ways.

Dean dropped his arm, and they started across the street, Dean pulling his phone out. It was Sam's turn to grab him by the collar and pull him back as a car made an unsafe turn, and he glared after the Volvo, then at his oblivious brother. "I'm not saying that. I'm just saying I don't think they're hiding evidence of supernatural activity."

"Whatever," Dean muttered, concentrating on his phone.

"Dude, the government's not that…" Sam trailed off as his brother stopped dead in the middle of the street. He was staring at his phone, and even as Sam turned back to him, he saw the color leach from Dean's face, leaving his freckles in stark relief. "Dean?"

Dean jolted, snapping out of whatever trance he was in, giving Sam only the briefest glance. But it was loaded with bad news, and Sam shadowed him by inches as they finally made it across the intersection and shouldered their way onto the sidewalk.

"What?" he asked urgently. "Who called?" Dean had just looked at the phone; it had to be a text message, or a number he knew.

Dean shook his head, but it wasn't denial of Sam. A second later, the phone was thrust into his hand, and his brother stepped away, dragging a hand over his mouth.

Sam stared after him in concern a moment longer, than glanced down at the phone he held.

And felt his own blood drain into his feet.

The caller was listed as unknown, but that wasn't unusual considering the message.

Coordinates.

Sam swallowed, feeling a little sick. Only Dad had ever sent them coordinates; only he knew to. But Dad was gone now, burned to ashes in an empty South Dakota plain. Which left no one who should have known about that part of their past.

"Dean…"

"It's not him, Sam."

He nodded, even though his brother's back was still turned. "No," he cautiously agreed.

There was a pause, busy midday pedestrian traffic swirling around them, and Sam had rarely felt so removed from the surrounding world. Then Dean whirled back, his eyes just skimming Sam. "We're going." He started walking.

Sam blinked "What?" He hurried after Dean's disappearing back. "Wait. We should talk about this, Dean—we don't even know if—"

"If what, Sam? Dad's texting us a job from Hell? One of his friends is picking up where he left off? Everyone else who would know what that means is dead," Dean said, pointing to the phone. "Someone's messing with us, somebody who knows us, knew Dad well enough to get our attention. Well," his head tilted, "they got it."

Maybe his legs were longer, but Sam was the one who was having to half-run to keep up with his brother. "You know this is probably a trap."

Dean's eyebrows rose. "No, really?" The storm clouds swept back in. "Sam, if somebody's using Dad against us, I want to know who it is so I can kill them, slowly and possibly repeatedly." The last was said in a growl, Dean's usual hyperbole…except Sam wasn't sure he didn't mean it.

The fact was that now, nearly four months after John Winchester's death, the loss was still an open wound. Dean had spoken about their father more in the last few minutes than he had in the last few weeks. Sam was still struggling with his own grief, but he'd known from the moment of their dad's death that Dean would suffer the most with this. Dean was the one who was reliving their mom's death, who'd lost the only parental figure he had left and half of his world in one swoop. And Dean was the one who'd gotten the call. Sam frowned; this wasn't a coincidence.

He was starting to really want to kill the caller, too.

"The hunt," he started up weakly, a pro forma argument.

Stride never slacking, Dean glared at him, knowing as much. "You seriously want to ignore this for a possible haunting?" he asked tersely.

There had been two suspicious deaths, but they hadn't even been sure yet it was their kind of case, especially considering the deaths had occurred in a government facility. Hence Dean's amusing conspiracy theories, and a lighthearted argument that now seemed a million years away. Sam shook his head, then took his life in his hands and grabbed Dean by the shoulder, pulling him up short. "No. But, Dean, we're not going into this half-cocked, all right? If someone's trying to get to us, we can't let them. We have to be careful."

That hadn't exactly been Dean's motto lately. Reckless, driven, out-of-control: that was Sam's brother now. Frightening him with the shifts between indifference and rage. Sam wasn't worried about his own safety. Dean took care of him now more than ever, Sam literally the only thing of importance left in his world. He just wasn't remotely as concerned with self-preservation, his own body or soul. That was Sam's job now.

He saw Dean fight with it, appreciating that his brother was even trying. Then Dean reluctantly nodded.

"Fine. We'll be careful. And then I'll carefully separate his head from his body."

Sam's eyes strayed down to the phone still in his hand. To the link to whomever it was who wanted to rub in what was already breaking Dean. And his head slowly moved up and down. "I'll help you."

Funny how his sons had only finally managed to unite over John Winchester in his death.

00000

The coordinates turned out to be the bucolically named town of Friendship, Tennessee. Which, after two days of investigation, also seemed to completely live up to its claim.

While waiting for the other shoe to fall, obsessively checking rear view mirrors, corners, tails, they'd looked for a job. Maybe it was one of their dad's old buddies, trying to throw them a bone now that John was gone. Who knew, maybe it was even one of those messages you could program to be sent at a later date, in this case by John after his death. Dean was clearly as skeptical about those explanations as Sam, but still they inquired, researched, and read until they were pretty sure there was nothing to find.

"So, now what?" Sam asked as they turned into the parking lot of the motor lodge that had been home since they'd gotten there.

Dean pulled into the spot in front of their room and turned off the engine, then looked at Sam. "You're sure. Nothing out in the boonies even: animal mutilations, haunted country roads, kids getting pushed down wells?" Few people knew "Baby Jessica," the famous kid trapped in a well in the eighties, had been pushed by an imp.

"No, man, I'm telling you, there's nothing. I even talked to the town busybody and, other than a lot of small-town gossip, there's nothing going on here. You find anything in historical records?"

"Besides a lot of dust and a recently developed allergy to paper?" Dean breathed out hard. "I don't get it, dude. Somebody sends us coordinates but there's no case, no trap, no reason to get us out here. Unless somebody's just trying to mess with us—you think Rooney…?"

"Knowing you'd shoot him next time you saw him? I kinda doubt it, Dean."

"Just in the leg," Dean defended, then canted his head. "Maybe it wasn't about getting us out here. Maybe it was about getting us away from somewhere."

"Like…the haunting we were looking into?" Sam frowned. "I don't know, Dean, that's still assuming it's someone who knew Dad, and that—"

"Or a demon." With that cheery pronouncement, Dean shoved open his door and got out. "They can read minds—maybe this is one of Old Yellow Eyes' plans, and he didn't want us around to get in the way."

Sam followed him out. "There's a happy thought," he conceded.

"Hey, if you got a better one…" Dean glanced back at him as he stuck the key in the door, and pulled his gun out at the same time. Sam mirrored him. Not really expecting anything, but automatically on guard, just in case. Just like their dad had taught them.

Dean went in first, against the wall, then Sam, quickly peering around the door to sweep the back corner.

Not fast enough.

The soft pop was enough to instantly draw Sam's attention and aim, and to make Dean yank the door shut so he had a clear line of sight. But even as their guns trained on the man calmly sitting in a chair in the corner, Sam felt the sting of something embed itself in his upper right arm. With furrowed brow, he glanced down.

"Who are you?" Dean was demanding of their uninvited guest.

The man, Sam looked back up to see, was smiling. And not in a pleasant way. His teeth were very white in an otherwise tanned-brown face below equally light brown eyes and hair. The whole guy was unremarkable down to his brown boots, except for the shiny, oddly bulky black gun upraised in his hand, and the way he held himself: loose, alert, dangerous. Either military or a hunter, Sam was willing to bet, and he felt a shiver crawl up his spine.

And a wave of lassitude spread down his arm and shoulder, from the innocuous little dart buried in his flesh.

"Hello, boys."

The greeting was casual and warm, and from the twitch of Dean's face, Sam knew it reminded him of John as much as it did Sam. The man was about their dad's age, too, although built lean and wiry instead of with John Winchester's formidable bulk. Still, he didn't seem someone to be taken lightly. And Sam, who was already starting to feel a little dizzy, wasn't taking him lightly at all.

"Dean," he murmured.

He felt his brother's attention shift to him, even though his eyes didn't leave their visitor. Which was only wise, but Sam really wished for the contact now.

He just added softly, "I've been hit. Dart." The words felt thick, fuzzy.

Dean went from full-alert to controlled-panic mode. He took another step toward the man in the corner, still sitting there smiling at them, and raised his gun a little higher.

The man didn't move a muscle, weapon still trained on Sam. "I wouldn't," he said just as conversationally.

It wasn't Hollywood bravado, no posturing and monologuing and a fair fight. He'd struck instantly and without warning like a pro. Sam saw his brother pause, acknowledging as much, assessing. Calculating time and angle and distance, just as Sam was. Coming up with the same lousy answers.

"Why not?" Sam answered for him, hoping to draw the guy's attention away, although he wasn't holding his breath on that. Their visitor held all the cards and had probably stacked the deck, too. "What was on this?" Some of the words came out garbled, and his hand was starting to get shaky and heavy, the cast on his wrist a seemingly unsupportable weight. He buttressed it with difficulty in a modified Weaver hold.

"Oh, nothing dangerous, don't worry," the man answered, and carefully stood. His gun didn't waver a fraction of an inch. "In small doses, anyway. The one dart will put you to sleep, that's all. You'll wake up in twelve hours rested and refreshed. A second shot, however," and this time the gun came up to exactly center mass on Sam, "will overdose you and stop your heart."

Dean's growl was low in his throat.

The man's eyes flicked to him. "Not that I intend to shoot again…assuming you give me what I ask for."

"And what's that?" Dean asked.

Sam's arms dropped to his side against his will, and he leaned sideways against the chair next to him. Dean's eyes flicked over to him this time, but Sam didn't think it mattered; the guy—hunter?—already had them right where he wanted them and didn't need their distraction. Sam threw his brother an apologetic look, got a worried don't be an idiot eye-roll in return.

"You," the man said, jerking both their attentions back.

"Come again?" Dean asked, and Sam managed a sound of query.

"You, Dean Winchester. Come with me, and we'll let Sam sleep this off. Any attempt to refuse, and I'll shoot him again."

"You'll be dead before you pull the trigger," Dean retorted.

"Are you sure? I say I could get both of you before you'd even get the shot off. John trained you, but not that well."

Sam saw his brother's throat move, his jaw tighten. Their dad was a sensitive enough subject without having strangers dragging him through the mud. That alone was a shooting offense in Dean's world.

Sam tried to tell him to take the chance, to not give in. Dean was fast, and Sam had no intention of losing his brother. But nothing came out as his mouth gaped open, and the next thing he knew, he was on his knees, swaying. Dumbly, he realized the gun wasn't in his hand anymore. He could feel the lack of weight pulling on his shoulder, but he was numb from his chest down to his toes.

Dean made his decision, shoving his own gun into his pocket to catch Sam as his body succumbed to gravity and pitched toward the floor. Even as Sam cursed his brother for the capitulation, his head lolled forward, resting helplessly against Dean's shoulder. He felt the arm across his back press a little harder.

Panic squeezed through him, more constricting than the paralysis.

Dean's voice rumbled against his chest. "I come with you and we leave him here, safe," he clarified.

"That's the deal."

"How do I know you didn't really poison him or something?"

There was a snide laugh. "Because unlike you Winchesters, I know what needs killing and what doesn't."

Oh, God. Was this about Lenore and the vampire nest they'd let free? Sam could hear his brother's heart race in the same thought, although his senses were starting to tunnel. The stranger's voice was far away, muted. Only Dean felt really there. Sam managed to flop his left hand up, pulling clumsily at Dean's sleeve, desperate to have a say in this.

There was a pause, a moment of perfect balance. Then his brother pulled back, a hand lifting Sam's chin and meeting his sluggish eyes. Sam focused on them, trying to communicate: Don't do it, don't trade yourself for me.

He got a small smile in return, and knew sinkingly the balance had tipped, this decision already made. "Sorry, Sammy," Dean said contritely, then wrapped an arm around his shoulders and leaned in. "I'll be back," he muttered lightly in Sam's ear, complete with bad Austrian accent. Sam's limp and unresponsive body was jostled for a moment before Dean hoisted him up and onto the nearest bed. His brother laid him down, giving him a rough, brief hug before pulling away.

"Aw, very touching," came a faint murmur seemingly an ocean away. Or maybe Sam was the one under the ocean. "Now come on."

A hand defiantly brushed his hair and then Sam could feel Dean stand. It was dark now; he couldn't even tell if his eyes were still open. "Just telling him where I hid the Playboys," Dean quipped back, but even in his fading hearing, Sam caught the emotion under the humor, the regret and worry and anger.

The sudden crash of sound, even muffled, made him jolt, nerves sending frantic, ignored messages to his dead body.

Another crash, followed by a flurry of movement, a grunt of flesh meeting flesh. The stranger cursed.

Dean cried out.

Sam strained to sit up, move, anything, but his body had totally shut down, his brain spiraling after. Something caromed off the bed he was on, and then he heard the barely audible, "Fine, we'll do this the hard way, then." There was another soft pop, and a hiss of indrawn breath. If Sam had been hit again, he didn't feel it.

The sound of the door opening came. Then Dean's voice, weak and slurred but striving for a levity that sliced through Sam's gathering haze. "Nice car, McQueen."

And then the door closed, and that was the last thing Sam heard.

00000

He came awake with a start, and the immediate certainty something was very wrong.

Memory took a little longer to fill in the gaps, but by then Sam was stumbling off the bed, rubbing his eyes awake, searching the room for Dean. Knowing already he wouldn't find him.

Sam fell back against the edge of the bed and sank down on it with a curse and a groan. "Not again." Hadn't they already met enough psycho hunters in their life? Been kidnapped enough? Drugged?

He glanced down at that thought, but there was no red-fluted dart protruding from his arm. Dean must've pulled it out when Sam hadn't been feeling much of anything, and he scanned the room looking for it.

There. Sam leaned forward, nearly taking a header off the bed onto the floor before he braced himself with one arm. "Smart move, genius," he muttered to himself.

If Dean wasn't there, someone had to play his part.

Palming the dart, Sam tried movement again. Just three steps to cross the room—okay, more like six the way he was shuffling—and he bypassed a tipped, broken chair to lean heavily against the table. Everything was still there: the remains of their last meal, their notes, Dad's journal. No phone, and Sam realized with a groan that, duh, it was still in his jacket pocket, the one he hadn't had time to remove the day—night?—before previous to being drugged. He dropped into a chair and pulled it out, eyes instantly catching on the date and time.

Twelve hours. Oh, God, the guy hadn't been exaggerating. Which meant Dean could be five states away by now, in any direction.

Clutching the phone and swearing very softly, Sam dropped his aching head into his hands.

A few seconds of hopelessness, that was all he had time for. Not even that, really; he was already twelve friggin' hours behind. Sam pulled himself together and raised his head.

The gleam of metal caught his eye by the door. Car keys. Dean's keys, left, Sam had no doubt, deliberately for him.

Even as his throat constricted and his eyes stung, determination burned off the remaining fog in his head. There'd be time to nauseate his big brother with his wussy act later. Right now, Dean was missing. Sam had to find him. And, as Dad had drilled into them, failure wasn't an option.

Okay, so, he was looking for a hunter about John Winchester's age who'd known their dad and didn't get along with him, which was probably redundant. Maybe someone who knew Gordon Walker. Familiar with drugs, owned a tranquilizer gun, talked with a Southwestern accent, not married. And…

Nice car, McQueen. Sam's mouth twitched. Driving a Ford Mustang. It was quite possible Sam wouldn't make fun of his brother for his love of old movies and cars ever again. Or at least until the end of the month.

Dropping the dart with a tiny clatter to the tabletop, Sam pulled their dad's journal close, slid open his phone, and started looking.

00000

"So nobody's seen him for a month, huh? Yeah, okay. Thanks, Reed."

Sam shut the phone and rubbed at his eyes. Yet another dead end.

He'd started at the top: Bobby, Ellen, two suppliers—people who knew a lot of the hunting community. Ellen had given him a list of a half-dozen players who roughly matched Sam's description, although she didn't know what vehicles they drove. Bobby knew one hunter with a Mustang, but it was a younger guy, black-haired and tattooed. He'd also given Sam a list based on his description, only half of which overlapped with Ellen's. Neither of them knew anyone who was friendly with Gordon.

Suppliers had no idea about cars and were iffy on names, but those Sam talked to had at least given him a few leads on the tranq gun and the description. Those had led to other calls, until Sam practically had a flow chart of phone numbers and names. And then there were all the lower-rung hunters Sam knew, as well as those listed in their dad's journal. Dean's phone had gone with him—turned off, Sam had tried—but he'd raided his brother's journal for contacts, too. Dean would be freaking out over the phone bill next month.

Assuming Sam found him. Which he would. He just would.

He still had a few candidates, including two names that were strong possibles based on the description and history with John, although nobody had seen either of the men in some time and neither of them were coming up as owners of a Mustang. Sam cursed again the death of his laptop in the crash, wishing they'd picked up a new one instead of relying on Ash. He'd finally relocated to a 24-hour internet shop that had the decided advantage of also serving coffee. Now almost…twenty hours later after he'd come to, Sam figured he had more caffeine than blood in his veins.

Nineteen hours and fifty-one minutes. Thirty-two and change since Dean had been taken, and Sam still had no idea by whom or for what.

The phone started buzzing on the tabletop beside him.

Sam gave it a weary glance as he started to open it. There were at least a dozen messages he was expecting return calls on. But the ID simply said Dean.

Sam shot to his feet, striding out of the café to just outside the doors, heart beating wildly as he answered. "Dean?"

"My, you are a sharp boy."

Sam shut his eyes, jaw sliding forward angrily. "Where is he?"

"Safe, with me."

"What—?"

"No, son, see, the way it's gonna go is, I talk, you listen."

Sam grit his teeth.

"My name's Morgan Turner. Although if you're half the researcher John claimed, you probably know that by now."

Turner. One of the two names on his short list.

"I knew your dad a long time ago, even hunted with him a few times until the son of a bitch turned on me. Had his standards, he said, and they almost got me killed. The man was weak."

A couple on a late-night stroll approached Sam, saw his face, and quickly gave him a wide berth. He barely noticed.

"Trained you boys weak, too. I heard you're letting vampires go now. Well, I've decided to do you two a favor and fill in those holes in your training, first Dean, then you. Start over, break those bad habits, and teach you two what hunting's really about. You know, as kind of a favor to your dad." The voice dripped sarcastic humor.

Sam's stomach churned. It was probably only a matter of time before someone with a bone to pick with their father came after them; he and Dean had even tossed the possibility around a few times since the death of not only Dad, but also his closest allies: Pastor Jim, Caleb. Sam had just always figured they'd face it together. And that it would be some kind of physical attack, not this…brainwashing Turner was hinting at. Teach you two what hunting's really about. As if Dean hadn't already been struggling with the greys of what they did, ever since Red Lodge and Gordon.

"What do you want from me?" Sam gritted out, fingers achingly tight around his phone.

"You?" Turner said lightly. "Nothing. Just want to keep you updated on big brother's progress. It'll get you ready for your turn."

"I want to talk to him."

"Oh, now, that's not part of the plan. But don't worry, I'll let you listen in when Dean gets a little more vocal. Right now he's staying on the quiet side." Definite amusement there.

Sam felt like something in him was going to crack from the tension. "Take me instead," he found himself begging. "Please. Start with me." For all Dean's avoidance of research, he'd always been better at finding things than Sam, and Sam would have given anything for the tables to be turned.

A pause. He'd surprised Turner; he could feel it, and a moment of hope stirred. Then, "Tempting offer, but no. Don't worry, Sam Winchester, your turn will come. I'll be in touch again tomorrow."

"If you hurt him—" Sam barked out…but the line was already dead.

Sam closed his eyes, fighting down the well of panic, then rage. Dean was still alive. Turner was just toying with him, with them both. If he'd really known John, he knew just how to do it, too, from which one of them was closest to their dad and would be better to start with, to the fact that coordinates would be a lure Dean couldn't resist, to how much it would hurt Sam to hear Dean being hurt. But Sam believed the man when Turner said his intent wasn't to kill. Which meant Sam could find Dean, as long as his brother hung in there. And when had Dean given up on anything?

Before or after Dad died? a traitorous voice asked inside him.

But even now, Dean fought for Sam if not for himself. He'd promised he'd be back; he probably knew Turner would come after Sam next. He would hold on. Sam wouldn't allow either of them any other choice.

Turner seemed pretty confident Sam wouldn't find him even knowing who he was. But he'd already underestimated Sam once. Sam had every intention of surprising him again.

His hand only trembled a little on his phone as he opened it again and started dialing.

00000

Morgan Turner did not have many ties to the civilian world.

Five minutes of searching produced a birth record, a marriage certificate, and a death three years later of one Amanda Turner. Cause of death: wild animal attack. Morgan had sold their house then and had had no fixed address after that. No kids, parents deceased, one sibling who never heard from him. Classic hunter background. But that was the easy stuff.

Digging deeper through contacts and internet searches, Sam found the typical hunting signs: discrete weapons purchases until Turner had learned how to go underground, a few grave desecration and suspicion-of-murder investigations, records in eight states. The Mustang had been his father's; his vehicle, according to the state of Missouri, was a 4x4 not unlike John's. Turner had no land to his name, his parents' property passing uncontested to his sister.

That seemed to be the sum of his life.

He didn't hang out much at the Roadhouse, preferring seedy dives on the road, and didn't seem to have any kind of home base or regular network of friends. The closest he'd ever come, in fact, was a friendship with the late John Winchester, until, according to the rumor patched together from five different sources, a hunt had gone bad and Turner had ended up in the hospital for a month with most of his ribs broken. No one had seen him much after that, and John's journal, of course, made no mention of the man.

All of which added up to zero clues about where Turner might have taken Dean.

Sam passed out from exhaustion over the computer sometime that night. The morning commuter coffee traffic woke him, and he went back to researching.

Sometimes he thought he could have been a good detective. It was one of their cover stories, in fact: private eyes. Dean even had an ID made out for Thomas Magnum, and had relegated AJ Simon to Sam because "he was a pansy little brother, too." It was one of the alternate futures Sam had always actually been able to see them living, opening an agency together, Dean doing the legwork and flirting, Sam covering the research, helping people through legal channels.

Then memories of yellow eyes and women dying on ceilings would tear their way through the paper-thin dreams.

Morgan Turner's sister had no idea where he was, but she had inherited a cabin from her mother that she rarely used and had almost forgotten about. Yes, it should be deserted.

Satellite footage showed no Mustang, but definite activity inside the house.

The only problem was, it was in California, across the country. Even flying would take hours. Bobby knew a guy he could trust about an hour away from the place, someone good with a gun, and Sam took a walk several times around the café, chewed his nails down to the quick, and threw up coffee in the bathroom while he waited for news.

Squatters. They were squatters. Three men who'd never even heard of the Turners.

It was seventeen hours and twelve minutes since Turner had called. Sam sat down and started to look for extended family, pretending it was fatigue that blurred the screen.

00000

A barista with a shy smile had gotten him a sandwich from the deli next door. Sam dozed again in front of the computer, dreaming half-awake dreams of getting calls that Dean was dead, of hearing Turner taunt him with death screams, of spending the next year in a fruitless search, hope dying a little every day. The kind barista woke him, looking slightly freaked. Sam smiled weakly at her, checked his phone, and decided he was sick to death of Tennessee.

He'd set his cell to count the hours. Didn't really matter what day it was except for how long Dean had been gone, anyway. It had been thirty-two hours and forty-four minutes when Turner had initially called, forty-eight hours and thirty-nine minutes when the first real hope they'd had turned up a dud. It was fifty-nine hours and nineteen minutes when Sam woke from the second nap he'd had since he'd been drugged, and sixty-one hours and three minutes, somewhere in the middle of Missouri, when Turner called again. Sam pulled the car off the road as soon as the phone rang, unwilling to trust his sleep-deprived reflexes to both driving and talking to Dean's devious captor.

"I hear you've been looking for me in California."

Sam grimaced; he'd hoped Turner wouldn't know how wide the net had been cast. "Just ruling out possibilities."

"Well, only forty-nine states to go then, I guess. Although from what I hear about Dean, he's not so keen on flying, so maybe Hawaii's out."

"Oh, I don't know, he might be willing for some beautiful women in bikinis." Still filling in for Dean, because Sam had a gut-gnawing feeling his brother wasn't up to baiting his kidnapper.

"Your brother's a little busy for that right now."

Fine, down to business. The small talk had served its purpose to show Sam wasn't scared of Turner, but it was also choking him. "How is he?" Sam asked, trying to be dispassionate and managing only numb.

"Why don't you listen for yourself?"

There was a pause, some movement. Then soft, labored breathing.

Sam's bravado sank without a trace. "Dean?"

He heard a faint groan, and realized Turner was only allowing communication one-way. He'd probably figured out hearing Sam would give Dean strength and hope, while hearing Dean suffer… Sam felt the blow as strongly as if Turner had been there to deliver it by hand.

"Hang on, Dean," he called, just in case something did get through to his brother, but already the pained respirations were receding, replaced by Turner's grating tones.

"Don't worry, boy, I'm not out to torture your brother. Just gotta break a man down before you can build him back up again. Guess John never taught you that, either, did he? Well, this time it'll be done right."

Oh, God. Sam pushed the Impala's door open because it felt like there wasn't enough air in the car. "Why?" he couldn't help murmuring, bewildered. "Why us, why Dean?" Why after everything? What had they done to deserve this?

"Because you're John's sons. Dean and I'll be in touch tomorrow. You just go right ahead and keep looking for us, though, boy."

The connection was broken.

Sam tossed the phone onto the empty seat beside him and bit down on his knuckle until he tasted blood. This was their dad's legacy: pain for Dean. Pain of loss, pain of regret, now pain of vengeance. The Demon had torn up Sam's life, but it was John who'd finished the job for Dean. All he had left now was Sam, the younger Winchester's patched and worn faith trying to stretch to cover them both. Sam keened softly in the privacy of the car, curling forward against the steering wheel that was Dean's domain.

John's sons. Wouldn't Mary be proud.

But…

They still had each other. Closer than any siblings Sam had seen on the road or at school, loving and loved more fiercely than he'd thought possible. That was John Winchester's legacy, too: two sons who'd seen enough of the darkness in the world to know how precious life was and what mattered most. Who saved lives and, in the process, saved each other.

John's sons. And Sam liked to think his mom would have been proud of that.

He could do this. He'd been preparing his whole life for it.

Sam slammed the door shut and wrapped his hands around the wheel, took a deep breath, and floored the gas.

00000

It was sixty-nine hours and twelve minutes when he parked the Impala in front of the Roadhouse.

Sam peered up at the moon as he got out. It was still early evening; the place would just have started to fill up, but it wasn't the other hunters he was interested in.

Ellen abandoned the bar and strode toward him the moment Sam stepped through the door, but she hung back at the last second. Sam found it in him to be grateful she hadn't tried for contact, giving her a wan smile. Jo was nowhere to be seen, another small mercy, and Ash was hunched over his tricked-out laptop in a back corner, looking almost as tired as Sam felt.

"Any word?" Ellen asked simply. Sam had stopped calling after Turner's second call, concentrating on getting to the Roadhouse as fast as he could.

He nodded once, swallowing. "He called again. Put Dean on but," a quick, pained smile as his eyes shied away, "I guess he didn't feel like talking. Turner says he's breaking him down so he can build him back up right, whatever that means."

"It means the guy's slipped off his rocker," Ellen said sympathetically.

Sam's aimless gaze swung back to her. "He's not crazy. Turner's evil."

Her mouth twitched but she didn't argue.

Sam mustered an apologetic, hopefully bolstering smile, then moved past her. "Ash, you find anything?"

00000

Hours seventy to one hundred fifty-eight slipped past like trickling water: slow-moving but fleeting, and unable to be stopped no matter how hard Sam tried.

Turner had a cousin who had a summer house in New England. Both the cousin's homes turned up negative. So did the residences, land, boat, farm, and two ranches of various uncles, nephews, one grandfather, and three old friends. Army buddies, hunting partners, and the dead wife's family were also vetted and cleared.

Ash had hacked in a BOL in every major police department and as many minor ones as he could manage for Turner's Ford Mustang and truck, but there were no hits. Word of mouth had spread across the country that one hunter had snapped and grabbed another, and everybody in the community was keeping their eyes peeled. Each possible sighting was tracked down and checked, every old hangout and shelter. Ash even tried triangulating Turner's calls, attempting to narrow down his location.

Because Turner had kept calling.

Every morning for the next three days, Sam was tauntingly contacted. Always the same promises of meaning no harm besides what was necessary, always a few seconds of Dean's pained breathing. Once, his brother had muttered an invective, and, beneath the surface bluster, Sam had heard hurt and exhaustion and fear.

Sam had gone out and broken every one of Ellen's crates of empties in the back after that.

He slept when he collapsed in the bed in the back, lived on whatever Ellen stuck in front of him to eat and a lot of coffee. The triangulation narrowed it down to a broad swatch of the Midwest, which meant Dean could be ten minutes from him and Sam wouldn't even know it.

The phone rang again at one hundred fifty-nine hours and two minutes.

"If you want to retrain me, too, take us both. I'm right here, ready to go, just tell me where," Sam growled into the phone in a voice that sounded more like Dean than like himself in both pitch and content.

"I think one of you Winchesters at a time is enough," came the unbearably amused reply. "Dean here was a real handful last night, weren't you, Dean?"

"I w-won't do it." The weak and shaking voice pierced right through Sam, the first words he'd heard from his brother in seven days.

He knew better now than to call out. Dean couldn't hear him, and it only added to Turner's satisfaction. But Sam screwed his eyes shut and thought it as hard as he could. Hang on, Dean. I'm coming, I swear. Just hang in there for me.

"I'm going to kill you," he promised Turner in as even a voice as he could manage.

Ash looked up at him, eyebrow raised.

"See," Turner said, unshaken, "that's why you two need training. Can't even tell who your enemy is anymore. Why, if you were here now, Dean might even take your head off." A short laugh. "That might be worth trying, actually."

Sam clutched the edge of the table so hard, he could feel splinters digging into his skin. "Did you try to train your wife, too? Sic some werewolves on her to make her stronger? Or did you just want to hear her scream?"

Ash blanched. Sam hadn't even felt the line as he'd stepped over it.

There was a pause, then the first crack in Turner's calm that Sam had ever heard. "You bastard whelp," he spit, then paused. "I guess you don't care if you hear from your brother again."

The line went dead.

Oh, God, Sam gulped. What had he done? As much as he'd dreaded Turner's calls, he'd lived for them, too, for any additional word or sign of his brother. If Turner didn't call back again, if that was the last he ever heard from Dean…

Sam stood stiffly. Walked out of the bar to around back. Then he sank to the ground beside the wall and started to sob.

Eventually, the hand on his shoulder broke through his despair, and for a wild moment Sam thought it was Dean. Then the small fingers registered, the tentative hold. Ellen. Sam turned away in embarrassment and an attempt at privacy.

"I know I'd be bawlin' like a baby if it were Jo," was all Ellen said. When she slid her arm across Sam's shoulder, he let her, maybe even leaned on her a little.

It took a while before he could talk. "If it were me," Sam said slowly, hoarsely, "he would've found me already."

"If it were you, maybe Dean would've killed somebody already," Ellen countered. "Sweetie, we don't know anything 'cept what we've got in front of us. Turner took Dean, you an' Ash are the best searchers we've got—we'll find him. Don't give up on your brother."

"I'm not," Sam snapped, fiercely enough to make Ellen jump.

"Then don't give up on yourself, either," Ellen added more softly. "I'd bet you the bar Dean hasn't."

She was right, too. Sam wasn't so sure Dean had any faith left in himself, but he'd never even touched the bottom of his belief in his little brother. Sam swallowed hard and nodded.

Ellen patted his shoulder and stood, helping him up and back inside.

Ash gave him a sideways glance, gaze slipping away at whatever he saw in Sam's raw face. There hadn't been any of the hacker's characteristic quips since he'd gotten there. "No new clues, eh?"

Sam shook his head wearily, sinking back into the chair that had become his prison.

"Too bad you're not getting any of those acid-trip visions. Could maybe be helpful for once."

Sam snorted. The thought had crossed his mind, too. Shame it wasn't—

His spine snapped straight. "Oh, my God," Sam muttered, plea and prayer and utter disbelief he hadn't thought of it sooner. He scrambled to his feet, almost knocking over his chair, then Ellen in his haste. "I have to go."

"What? Sam—," Ellen sputtered.

"I have an idea—I'll tell you about it later, I promise." The last he called over his shoulder, already bolting for the front door and the Impala. He'd kept it packed, ready to go at a moment's notice, and that moment was now.

Seconds later, a bewildered Ellen and Ash watching from the doorway, Sam peeled out of the parking lot and headed toward Oklahoma.

And the first real hope he'd felt in too many hours.

00000

Sam hadn't called ahead, afraid he'd be gone or, worse, refuse to let Sam come. No, this had to be done in person.

Still, it was with one part nerves and two parts desperation that hours later Sam stood in front of the door, cleared his throat, and knocked.

No one answered at first, long enough that he started to doubt anyone was home. He could always try the—

The door opened. A figure squinted blearily at Sam despite the fact it was mid-morning. "Sam?"

He smiled, the stretch of his lips feeling so out-of-place. "Hey, Andy. I need to talk to you."

Knowing Andy Gallagher, Sam figured he'd been sleeping in from the previous night still, not going to bed early. It took some coffee and time before he was clear-headed enough to listen. But then he sat on the edge of his couch and took in Sam's story with rapt attention, eyes and mouth rounding more and more as Sam talked. At the end, as Sam trailed off, Andy sat back, looking stunned.

"Wow."

"Yeah…" That was one word for it. Sam rubbed the back of his neck uncertainly. "So…do you think maybe you could help us?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. I like Dean." A brief smile. "Sweet taste in cars, man."

Sam almost laughed at that. For being an anti-social outlaw, Dean seemed to touch an inordinate amount of people. "Yeah, he does. He thought the same about you."

"Yeah?" Andy brightened at that. "So, what do you want me to do?"

Sam swallowed. Unfortunately, like so much of this whole situation, the next step was out of his hands. "First, we have to wait for Turner to call."

They spent that night in Andy's living room, Sam hanging over the arms of the couch, Andy conked out in an easy chair, the phone on the coffee table between them. Sam had already called the Roadhouse and Bobby to fill them in on Andy's abilities and his plan, making sure Singer was ready. Ash was still looking, but with nothing else to go on, all they could do was sit and wait.

But Turner didn't call the next morning, nor that afternoon.

Sam went everywhere with Andy: a diner for breakfast—Andy didn't frequent Tracy's anymore, he'd told Sam quietly—the pool hall to say hi to some friends, then back home because, in Andy's words, Sam's shadow act was starting to freak him out. He didn't even bother saying anything when he came out of the bathroom to see Sam waiting just outside, only rolled his eyes.

The deadline for the longest amount of time Turner had gone between calls, came and went in black silence. Sam did some push-ups and sit-ups, basic martial arts warm-up moves usually practiced in tandem with Dean in a thousand motel rooms, trying to burn off anxious energy and doubts. What if his ill-advised baiting of Turner meant the man wouldn't call again? What had he been thinking? He must've been channeling Dean to do something that spontaneously stupid. But Dean was paying for it.

What if Turner didn't call again until he was…finished?

No matter how hard Sam pushed himself, he couldn't make himself not think about Dean's broken voice and breathing. About what would make him sound like that. About the fact that Dean had just gone with Turner in order to protect Sam. He didn't sleep at all that night, spent the next day chewing on what was left of his nails, thumping his cast against the wall, and pacing the room while Andy dozed on the couch.

And just when Sam thought he'd go crazy with it, two hundred-and-six hours and twenty-four minutes after Dean was taken, forty-seven hours since the previous call, the phone rang.

Sam snatched it up, saw Dean flash in the window, and had to swallow hard before he opened the cell. Andy hovered nervously in front of him.

"I'm here," Sam said.

"I know. Scared you I wouldn't call, didn't I?"

"Yes," Sam chucked his pride and answered honestly, because it was what would keep Turner talking. Then he handed the phone to Andy.

They'd practiced what to say, but still Andy swayed from one foot to the other, gaze clinging to Sam for encouragement. "Stay right where you are—don't move from that spot."

His voice had shifted to that odd echo Sam could feel more in his head than his ears, as Andy did his mind-control mojo. It didn't work on Sam, but he could still feel its power, and from the outraged squawk he could hear through the phone, Turner did, too.

Andy licked his lips. "Tell me where you are."

Sam unconsciously leaned in.

Andy's eyes, straying while he listened, snapped back to Sam. "Iowa," he said under his breath. Then, louder, "Tell me exactly where."

Sam was already hustling them both out to the car.

Iowa. Two states, maybe five hours away. He'd been right next door up at the Roadhouse.

"Is Dean all right?" Sam asked in a low voice as they raced toward the nearest interstate.

Andy relayed the question, then gave him a half-smile. "He says Dean's fine."

Sam had an idea their definition of "fine" was vastly different, but it still eased some of the fear inside him. Dean wasn't dead, wasn't seriously injured. Those were wins. "I want to talk to him."

Andy shook his head. "He says Dean isn't up for talking right now."

Okay, the knot just twisted tight again. Sam clenched his teeth and glared through the windshield. "Find out what you can," he said tersely, "and make sure he stays away from Dean until we get there."

As it turned out, either Dean's phone was low on charge or they hit a dead spot, because they only had a few minutes to find out more. But it gave Sam some idea what the previous eight-plus days had been like.

Turner had been keeping Dean drugged and either tied up or in restricted, tiring exercise. He didn't let him sleep much, gave him the bare minimum of nourishment, wearing Dean down to bend him to his sadistic will. He figured another few days and Dean would have broken.

Which, thank God, meant he hadn't broken yet. Sam prayed—silent begging, really—as they raced through the dwindling afternoon. He spent his last few dollars on gas on the way there, and while Andy scammed them the rest of a fill-up, Sam wondered almost absurdly if Dean would be annoyed with him for using up all their cash.

Turner, as it turned out, had settled in an abandoned farm, a randomly chosen location they never would have found. Twilight was just falling as Sam rolled off the dirt road into the grass in front of the house, and he realized belatedly Andy's instructions wouldn't have let Turner even light a lamp as the house darkened. Not that he cared in the slightest. Sam dug out a knife and flashlight to add to the gun already weighing down his pocket, then, keeping Andy behind him, slipped forward.

They'd already discussed in the car that Turner was not going to get a glimpse of Andy. With his complete intolerance for anything not wholly natural, the last thing they wanted was for Turner to send anybody after Andy. The hunter knew he'd been whammied, but all he'd ever have to go on was a voice. Andy would continue to work his magic out of sight.

That was assuming Sam let the hunter live.

Sam stepped inside first, only a glance needed to clear the empty living room, even in the faded light. Motioning Andy in behind him, Sam moved forward, pressing himself against the wall by the doorway.

The kitchen was just beyond. Something was breathing in the dim room, Sam could hear it now, and he moved very slowly, gun covering his entry.

He needn't have bothered. Turner stood frozen beside the sink, a half-full bottle of whiskey and a glass on the sideboard next to him, phone still clutched in the hand resting against the counter. His eyes glittered with hatred as they tracked Sam's entrance, but he stayed silent.

Sam waved Andy quickly to stand near the doorway but out of line of sight of the kitchen, against the living room wall. Once Sam was sure Andy was safely invisible, he looked again at Turner's unblinking, brown face.

"Where is he?" he demanded as he would have of any soulless creature.

Turner glared at him, the lines around his mouth harsh in the flashlight's glow.

Sam glanced over at Andy, who took the hint. "Where is he?" he parroted, and Sam's eyes whipped back to Turner.

"In the barn," the hunter gritted out, expression carved from ice.

"Keep him right there," Sam said flatly to Andy, then turned and ran.

He'd seen the ramshackle building off to the west of the house when they'd driven up, but considering how sagging and abandoned it looked, Sam hadn't given it much thought. Now, he raced for it as if his life depended on what was inside. In many ways, it did.

But he also approached it like it was a trap. Turner couldn't have lied to Andy about Dean being there, but that didn't mean the way wasn't booby-trapped, or that Dean wouldn't get hurt—more—if Sam was too hasty. His brother had survived over two hundred hours in Turner's hands. Sam would leave him there a few more minutes to make sure he could get him out safely.

But there was nothing outside the barn, and only a simple padlock on the door. Sam shot it off without hesitation, then carefully pushed the wooden door in.

It creaked rustily on its hinges, letting in the last rays of the sun from outside. Sam squinted past it, into the deep shadows of the hayloft beyond, and flicked on the flashlight. For a moment, all was still, silent, waiting. Then, something shifted in the darkness, near the ground.

And Sam found himself dashing forward, every bit of hunter training shoved aside in the simple need to get to his brother.

Until he actually saw Dean.

Sam jerked to a halt, sneakers sliding a fraction of an inch on the loose hay on the floor.

There must've been a window in the hayloft above, because weak light sifted through the gaps in the plank overhang. It showed Sam where to shine the flashlight, and its beam traced over the figure in front of him. Glinting off the sweat coating Dean's skin, illuminating the curve of his spine underneath his grimy undershirt as his back rose and fell with his loud, rough breaths.

"Dean!" Sam choked. "God, what did he do to you?"

Dean was…tied out, but no way Sam had ever seen. He was sitting on the floor, legs and arms extended before him, roped together and then lashed tight to one of the beams holding up the loft, drawing his limbs taut. He could have scooted forward to relieve the tension if not for the other rope that looped around his waist and pulled him back toward another post. The position folded his body in half, fingertips brushing his toes, head bowed almost to his elbows. If Sam had had any doubt about how torturous the restraint was, one look at the back muscles rippling in spasms under Dean's shirt, the blood-lined ropes and puffed, purpled right wrist, and the horrible sound of Dean's respirations would have told the tale. He had to be in agony.

Sam found the strength to finally move—strength drawn from Dean, always from Dean—and strode forward until he saw Dean impossibly tense up in awareness of his presence. It dragged an involuntary gasp from the captive, and Sam instantly went down to his knees. Minimizing the threat, and putting him on Dean's level.

"Get away from me."

The words shook, weak with pain and exhaustion, but the pure venom in them would have made anyone in the world think twice about messing with their source. Anyone but Sam.

He set the flashlight down where its light painted his brother's body. Then he reached out, casted hand skimming the air over the corded arms, not yet daring to touch. Flinching along with Dean.

"No, no, no, it's me, Sam. It's Sam." It was the tone he took with victims, but love infused the compassion this time. "It's me."

Dean's head pulled up by faltering degrees. He couldn't lift it very far without straining his neck, but there was definite eye contact, and Sam caught a glimpse of coarse beard. "Don't you touch me, you son of a bitch."

Sam instantly recoiled, because his brother couldn't be seeing him. He'd never looked at Sam like that in his life. Shuffling a little closer made Dean clench even more warily, but it also let Sam see his eyes. Even in the limited glow of the Maglite, Sam could see the dull sheen over them, the pinprick pupils. With a forming cold dread, he leaned forward, momentarily ignoring Dean's groan-flinch at his proximity, just close enough to crane and see…

The row of scabbed pinpricks lining the vein on the inside of Dean's right arm.

"Dean," Sam whispered unsteadily, licking paper-dry lips. He knew this, knew Dean had been drugged, but to actually see the marks, the proof of a needle violating Dean again and again… Sam's guts felt like one solid mass, weighing him down to the floor.

He wanted to get out of there, away from Dean's paranoia and suffering. To go confront Turner to find out what he'd been injecting Dean with, then to beat his face pulpy and salt and burn him…or maybe have Andy tell him to vivisect himself. Yeah, that would work just fine.

But there was no power on earth that could make him leave Dean there like that, including Sam's own horror.

There wasn't any good way to do this, and waiting would just make it worse. Sam scooted forward on his knees and finally touched.

Dean shuddered under his hand, then, as if in defiance of his body's reaction, his head came up again. There was unequivocal murder in his expression, in his voice. "I won't do it, you sick bastard. I won't kill for you." The shaking voice Sam had heard over the phone had gained strength in its rage, but it still sounded desolate and hurting.

He pulled out the knife and shifted to reach behind Dean. Sam started to saw through the rough hemp, wincing as the fibers scraped and scratched his own skin even from that slight pressure. He could just imagine what they'd done to his brother's. "Kill who, Dean?"

"I'm not playing your friggin' game, so just—"

The rope unraveled and snapped below the blade. The tension pulling Dean's body in two gave way.

Dean instantly tried to jump up from the floor. Didn't matter that he was still bound hand and foot; he never missed an opportunity to exploit an opening left by the enemy. But he was falling back to the barn floor just as quickly, distended, frozen muscles and a decided lack of balance sending him crashing. Sam just barely halted him from toppling over onto his side.

Failure, however, had never stopped Dean Winchester.

Unable to stand didn't mean unable to fight, and he started yanking at the ropes that still held him, feet scrabbling for any kind of leverage, hands flexing. Jerking away from Sam, he realized belatedly, and he pressed his lips together and surged forward. If Dean wouldn't hear him, maybe Sam could get through another way.

He wrapped his left arm around Dean's waist, sweat-soaked cotton cold against his skin. It was just registering how chilly the barn was, a cavernous prison of cold and dark. "Dean, it's me. It's just me," Sam urgently reassured his brother from behind, lips almost at Dean's ear as he bent over him. "Try to relax—you're safe."

Dean's snarl was as panicked as it was enraged. Whatever he was experiencing, it wasn't Sam. With God knew what drugs in his system, he probably thought he was being attacked, and Sam realized abruptly that his position behind Dean was just adding to his fear. Sam jerked away just as Dean slammed his head back in an attempted headbutt. Failing that, he continued to flop and struggle like a beached fish while Sam watched in horror. A stream of curses poured out of Dean's mouth, not just the most foul language he knew, but also literal archaic curses, one hunter damning another.

When a particularly brutal yank on his hurt wrist made Dean cry out and curl against it, enough was enough. Sam lurched forward again, this time heavy with dread. He grabbed Dean's chin, their eyes locking for a moment. "You're safe," he promised with everything he had, then he let go and shifted again to behind Dean. Sam's right arm was shaking as he lifted it, but then he firmed his jaw and wrapped it around his brother's throat in a v-hold, cutting off his air.

Dean bucked and arched wildly under him, a week's worth of growth scraping Sam's arm. He had no doubt that if his brother had been free at that moment, Sam's life would have been in serious danger.

He swallowed the tears that scalded his throat and carefully pressed harder, the edge of his cast just biting into the soft skin of Dean's throat. With his left arm, he held Dean to him, trying to keep him from hurting himself while he willed the older man to give up for once in his life, whispering paradoxes to him that he was safe, he was cared for.

His brother's movements weakened, wobbling. Then, one more shudder and he was still, deadweight in Sam's arms.

No, not thinking that. "I'm sorry," Sam whispered into the nape of Dean's neck. Then he counted off three more seconds and peeled his arm away, gently lowering Dean to the plank floor on his side.

Even unconscious, Dean twitched with discomfort and emotion.

Choking out someone didn't knock them out long, and the drugs were still an unknown quantity. Sam didn't have much time, but he made quick use of it. He hacked through the rope that tied Dean's wrists and ankles to the beam, then, carefully, laid his brother out on his back.

Sam could see his abdominal muscles cramping and shuddering under the thin, damp shirt. There was no telling how long Turner had left Dean tied up like that, although it had to be at least since he'd last called hours before, and Dean's muscles were rigid and locked from being pulled taut so long. But that would have to wait. Running a quick hand over Dean's body, Sam was fairly certain there were no actual serious physical injuries besides the wrenched wrist. He shoved the flashlight and knife into his pocket, then pulled Dean up and forward over his shoulder before gathering his strength and pushing to his feet.

Thank God for adrenaline. Sam was exhausted, too, and despite the few pounds Dean had obviously dropped that last week-plus, he was still heavy. Sam never would have made it to the car with his burden if his fight-or-flight hadn't still been in full alert. This time it was just fighting for Dean.

The car was unlocked, but it took a little juggling to get the back door open. Sam ducked inside and laid his brother out on the seat. He murmured quietly to Dean, then backed out the door and darted around to the trunk. A few seconds' search found what he needed, and Sam climbed back into the car. "I'm sorry, man," he said quietly as he wound a long plastic zip tie around the rope tethering Dean's wrists, then through the armrest on the door.

Everything in him fought against doing this. He'd been striving for nearly nine days to free Dean, not just change out his prison. But Dean was still captive to far more than a few lengths of rope. If he came to in the car fighting, thinking Sam was Turner, he could get them both killed. No, it had to be this way. A fully functional Dean would've been able to get out of tie and rope in a couple of minutes, but Sam was counting on unconsciousness and, God help him, the drugs to keep his brother under control until Sam could get them both someplace safe.

He couldn't resist skimming the filthy blond head before he retreated, seeing the wince on Dean's face at the touch. Turner's influence penetrated even his unconscious, tainting the very thing that usually provided comfort, and that alone made Sam's fury sing. He crawled back out of the car, shut the door as lightly as he could, then ran for the house.

Andy and Turner were exactly as he'd left them, the room nearly dark around them now. Andy scrambled to his feet as he caught sight of Sam, his face pale and scared in the flashlight's beam. But Sam's attention was all on Turner as he marched past Gallagher, pulled his fist back, and swung all his weight into a pile-driver punch aimed at the hunter's jaw. The older man, trapped where he stood, went down like he'd been slammed by a two-by-four.

"I'm…gonna take a wild stab and guess you found him?" Andy asked from where he peered hesitantly around the doorway.

"Yeah," Sam spit, shaking his fist out, reining himself in with difficulty. He snatched up Dean's fallen cell phone from where it lay next to the monster, and tore his gaze away, turning to Andy. "Turner had him tied up in the barn." He would not be describing the details of that scene to anyone, not even Bobby. "He drugged him with something—can you…?"

Andy's brows danced up. "Uh, yeah, sure. No problemo. Soon as he, uh…" He nodded at Turner's slumped figure.

Easy enough to fix. Sam kicked him sharply in the side. "Wake up, Turner," he ordered, and Andy scuttled back out of sight.

The hunter curled, groaning. He coughed, then his eyes opened, narrowing at Sam. Whether he was under Andy's control or not, he didn't move.

Sam made himself step back, out into the living room again. He watched Andy tilt his head a little toward the wall and raise his voice, the tone shifting. "What did you dose Dean with?"

Sam turned away, afraid he'd be unable to stop himself again if he kept looking at Turner or heard his voice. Besides, he had a call to make.

A gruff "Yeah" sounded in his ear a moment later.

"Bobby, I found him, but he's… Turner's been shooting him up with something, really messed with his head. Andy's finding out the details now, but I need a safe place to take him, somewhere not too far but remote. You know?"

There was a beat, but Bobby always recovered fast. "Yeah, all right, uh…Iowa, right?"

"Yeah."

"East or West?"

That took a second. Sam's eyes skimmed back to the door, the outline of the car beyond the screen. "West."

"Yeah, okay, I think I know a place. Vacation cabin of a rich guy who owes your dad and me. I'll text you directions."

Even that small lifted weight felt like a huge relief. Sam dragged in a breath and nodded. "Thanks, Bobby."

"Sam?" another voice interrupted.

"Hold on," Sam said into the phone and raised his head to look at Andy.

"He doesn't know what the name of the stuff is, but he says it's to make someone, uh, suggestible? Kinda like what I do, I guess," a wan smile, "just with some wicked aftereffects."

What was he trying to suggest to you, Dean? Sam's mouth drew a little tighter. I won't kill for you, Dean had said. He'd still been fighting Turner despite the drug, and Sam felt a shot of pride at that, but the damage had been done. Dean didn't even know who Sam was. Maybe Andy could…but no, Sam wouldn't even entertain the idea. Even if Andy could calm Dean down on the outside, it would just increase his internal panic, take away what little control he still had, and do more harm than good. Dean had been bent to another's will enough as it was. Sam cleared his throat and turned back to the open line, relaying Andy's information to Bobby.

"Okay, I'll look into it. I can get a sample of the drug when I'm there." A short pause. "Sam, you know you can't give him anything until we find out more about this, right?"

Sam closed his eyes and nodded. "Yeah. I know." There was so much else he wanted to say, so much burden to share, but he'd leaned on friends enough as it was. Time to be strong and let Dean lean on him. "Uh, if I leave Andy here…?"

Andy's eyes widened, but he didn't protest.

"I'll make sure he gets a ride home. And I'll let Ellen and Ash know what's going on, too. You just see to Dean."

"Thank you," Sam said again, as heartfelt as he could make it.

Bobby just huffed—he took gratitude about as well as Dean—and hung up with a mutter that might have been Take care of yourself, too, or just grumbling.

Sam slipped the phone away and looked at Andy. "I'm sorry, man—Bobby'll get you home, all right? I just…" A formless wave back toward the car.

"I know," Andy said with a small smile. He nodded. "Yeah, sure, go on, we'll be fine. Maybe I'll make him tap dance for a while or something. Or, hey," he brightened, "maybe he's got some weed."

Despite himself, Sam snorted a laugh. Then he met Andy's eyes evenly. "Dude. Thanks. We owe you one." He patted Andy on the shoulder as the slacker blushed and shrugged, then turned and was out the door.

Dean, thank God, was still out. Sam could just see his pale face by the rising moon's light, lashes dark over his cheeks, the beard slightly altering the contours of his face but the lines still so familiar. Sam turned the motor over, then twisted in the front seat to check his pulse. He could feel the beats slow and steady a little from their anxious skip, as if in response to the familiar purr and vibration under him. Sam chuckled. "Dude, you and this car…"

His phone beeped to announce a message, and Sam glanced at the screen, trying not to feel the déjà vu to how this had all started. Instead, he just noted the directions and threw the car into drive, pressing the gas down almost to the floor.

They'd covered forty-three miles, about twenty more to go, before Sam heard movement in the back. He swallowed and slowed, dividing his attention between the road and the rear view mirror. And still almost swerving onto the shoulder when Dean jackknifed awake with a cry.

Sam quickly pulled into the grass and scrambled out and back.

Dean had gone fetal on the seat, eyes closed and jaw clenched, each breath tinged with a moan. This was pain, and Sam quickly searched for the cause. It didn't take too long to find, the muscle of Dean's right calf nearly pulsing with the savage cramp.

Sam cursed; he should have expected this. Muscles stretched immobile for a long time didn't just snap back into place, and dehydration only made them worse. Dean was probably aching and spasming all over, but would doubtless get a few more such really nasty knots before it was past. Sam knelt on the seat and started rubbing the cramp out, like their dad had when they were kids. It hurt just to feel it, but he dug in with all the desire to help that Dean had rejected, long fingers working out the hard lump.

Dean's breathing eased along with the muscle. By the time Sam was satisfied and laid his legs down, Dean had dropped back against the vinyl seat again, half-open eyes wandering and unfocused.

"Dean?" Sam risked quietly. If nothing else, he had to get some fluids into his brother, but at best he hoped the confusion was clearing.

The eyes moved lazily in his direction. Then widened a little. "Sam?"

It was said with such clarity, Sam gaped at him a moment, then surged forward, smiling. "Hey. Dean. Man, it's good to—"

Dean pressed back into the seat, fear suddenly neon in his face. "Get away. Get away from me!"

It was hard not to feel the crush of those words. Sam flinched, withdrawing his reaching hand to the more neutral territory of Dean's stomach. "Dean, no, shh, it's okay. It's me. You're safe now, Dean, I swear. Turner's gone."

"No," Dean growled. "I didn't freakin' tell him!"

Sam frowned. "Tell him what? I don't—"

"Lemme go, Sammy." He knew it was Sam. And it still didn't change the fear rampant in his expression. The knowledge sank like a stone in Sam's gut. "Need to get away—I'm not gonna kill you!"

The furious outburst actually startled Sam back a few inches. Where had that come from? He leaned forward again. "Dean—"

"I'm not." It was frantic, determined, Dean working off desperation alone. It was Dean fighting for his brother's life. He spit out a curse. "Help me get outta here, Sammy."

Sam had no idea what nightmare was playing in Dean's brain, just that he had to ease it. "Not yet, okay?" he soothed, trying to quell the shudders that ran through his brother's frame. "I can't yet, Dean, I'm sorry, you're not…you're not yourself right now, but I'm taking you someplace, someplace safe, just the two of us, and then we'll fix this, all right?"

The growl and lunge took him completely by surprise. Dean had barely been pulling at his restraints; Sam hadn't even been sure he was really aware of them. But feral consumed vulnerable, and suddenly Dean was struggling wildly against the ropes and zip tie. A kick landed a glancing blow to Sam's ribs, and he barely ducked another that tried to take his head off.

Sam cursed and backed out of the rear compartment, idly rubbing his side as he climbed into the front. He was lucky Dean was sluggish, or that attack could have snapped bone. So much for getting Dean to drink something or settling him down. There was nothing else to be done; Sam couldn't keep choking him out, and he couldn't give him anything until they knew more about what he'd been drugged with. They had to get off the road so they could really deal with this, and if that meant flooring it while Dean writhed and struggled in the back seat, so be it.

Sam clenched his jaw against the babbled pleas and curses, absorbing each impact of Dean's legs against the seat back like it was penance, and kept going.

Dean wore himself out before they got to the cabin, subsiding in weary panting. At first, he'd glared furiously at Sam in the mirror, but as minutes wore on, his eyes glazed over and began meandering again. Sam wasn't sure which was worse, but he swallowed his misery and kept going.

The cabin, when they finally pulled up beside it, was a surprise. Completely built out of wood, it still looked modern. A generator sat next to a pile of chopped firewood, and there wasn't an outhouse or well in sight, unlike some rustic spots they'd holed up in over the years. It wasn't big, but a full porch ran along the length, looking out onto a small, private lake.

It was sanctuary, and Sam felt his eyes prickle in gratitude for it.

He took their stuff in first, duffels of clothes, the weapons bag, and the extensive first aid kit all in one load so he could hurry back to Dean. Sam got just enough of a glimpse of the inside—full kitchen, fireplace and comfortable sofa, two rear bedrooms—to know the interior was as promising as the exterior, then he was back outside, crawling into the car with Dean.

Dean looked barely conscious, eyes slitted open, blank as they trailed Sam's movements. Sam realized belatedly he didn't even know when Dean had last been injected or with what dose, and cursed himself for not asking. But Bobby and Andy could figure it out. It wouldn't change what Sam had to do now.

"Hey. We're here, Dean. It's nice, kinda like that place we stayed at in upstate New York that one summer. Just hopefully without the weird guy down the road who stuffs squirrels. Probably even has cable TV when you're up for it. Let's get you inside, okay?" He rolled Dean a little to give the tie some slack, then sliced through it with his pocketknife, unthreading it through the armrest.

Dean unexpectedly yanked free. But even as Sam braced himself for an attack, he found a solid grip on his wrist instead. Dean stared at him with feverish intensity. "Let me out, Sammy. I need to go. Not safe. 'S not…"

Sam smiled painfully at him, breaking the grip with ease. "It is safe here, Dean. You're safe—I'm not letting you go, dude." Meaning it in more ways than one.

Defeated or just exhausted, Dean sagged back to the seat, eyes fluttering shut.

Sam tentatively massaged his shoulder, feeling the languor of spent muscles, the lingering tremors. Not missing the way Dean flinched at his touch. The weariness settled over Sam's own shoulders a little more heavily as he slit the knife through the ropes around Dean's ankles. His brother watched him blearily and didn't fight him when Sam hauled him out and managed to get him on his feet.

Halfway up to the house, he went down to his knees with a hiss. Another cramp, this time seizing up his lower back. Sam kneaded it out and got him back upright, Dean dragging more now. He stumbled several times on the rest of the way in, but Sam preferred to think the hard grip on his arm was for more than just balance and support.

Once inside, Sam took fresh stock. The bedroom seemed the obvious choice for where to head…except for the fact that Dean was dehydrated and probably malnourished, not to mention stinking of barn and sweat and sickness. Sam opted for the bathroom first, tugging his sluggish brother that way with an arm around his shoulder.

Dean balked at the door. "Get away from me," he groaned, pushing away from Sam and slumping against the jamb. "'S not safe, Sammy."

"It's all right," he soothed, surprised by this obsession. Dean had never much seemed to care about his safety, and Sam despaired again over what had been done to him the last nine days. "Turner's been taken care of, I promise."

"No!" Dean insisted. "I'm not crazy—he said it. I'm not gonna kill you. I can't."

Sam shook his head, wondering what was delusion and what was memory. "So don't," he said gently, encouraging his brother forward. He reached down and turned the faucet on in the combination shower and tub.

"Don't talk to me like I'm a froot loop," Dean snapped.

For a moment he sounded so like himself, Sam faltered and glanced up at him. But in the stark light of the bathroom, Sam saw what he hadn't been able to clearly before: the dirty, lank hair and beard, the bruised circles around his eyes, the utterly desperate look lurking inside them. The way his shrunken pupils kept darting around, seeking escape.

Dean twitched. "Let me go!" he growled. And then he was lunging.

If he didn't know his brother, if he hadn't been trained by his brother, the sudden upward smash of bound fists might have crushed Sam's throat at worst, knocked him out at the least. Instead, he dodged the surprisingly competent attack, then the less coordinated follow-up jab at his stomach. Sam counteracted by yanking Dean's arm, sending his brother off balance, then grabbing him in a restrictive bear hug.

"Dean," Sam said earnestly, ducking down to meet the bloodshot eyes. "No. Whatever you think you're going to do, it's not gonna happen, all right? You're just gonna have to trust me here, big brother. It's my turn to look after things for a while."

He waited out Dean's struggles, feeling him sag when he finally gave up.

Sam could barely hear the whisper when it came.

"I didn't tell him."

Tell him what, Dean? But out loud, Sam just said softly, "I know. You did good, Dean." He didn't have to know what his brother was talking about to know that much.

He didn't move again until Dean shoved clumsily at him.

"Okay," Sam murmured, pulling back but avoiding Dean's face, letting him keep what he could of his pride. "Okay. We can do this."

The water wouldn't stay warm much longer. Sam glanced around the bathroom, finding and tearing open a package of toilet paper tucked under the sink and twisting the plastic around his cast. Then he climbed with Dean into the stall, stripping his brother there. He ripped the t-shirt to get it off around the bound hands, and left the boxers and jeans and socks puddled on the floor of the shower. Dean's boots were AWOL; Bobby would find them if they were to be found.

There were other injuries the clothes had hidden. Dean's upper back was striped with several bruises that looked like they'd been made by a pipe or a baton. Similar lines of bruising crossed the backs of his thighs, and one went all the way around his right side. Blunt trauma injuries, sites of submission. Turner had beaten Dean down, literally. That and the damaged wrists and ankles would have told Sam how hard Dean had fought even if he hadn't already known it.

Dean didn't fight him. In fact, all the battle seemed to have left him altogether, which had Sam more than a little worried even as he was grateful for the let-up in hostilities. The downcast eyes were either signs of disconnect or humiliation, and both made Sam sick. All he could do was be as matter-of-fact as possible, talking about any inane thing that came to his mind while he soaped and shampooed and rinsed, careful of the bruising, light over the still-twitching muscles. He finally finished and climbed out with Dean in tow.

Sam risked leaving his brother there on the toilet seat in a towel while he went to the kitchen for a glass of water, yanking the plastic off his cast as he went and throwing it onto the floor in frustration. The dehydration wasn't to the point of serious skin tone loss, but it was bound to be an issue with all the sweat and muscle strain. Still more damage, more cost.

Dean was right where Sam had left him, shivering and curled forward on the seat, and as Sam knelt before him to coax him to drink, dark and weary eyes gave him a betrayed look before he obeyed. Sam swallowed his wince: humiliation it was, then.

"It'll be okay," he promised softly, because saying it out loud seemed to make it more certain. "We'll get through this, Dean, just stay with me."

Dean grunted, which Sam took for an okay.
He got Dean to swallow half the glass of water, then gave up on a shave and supported him into the bedroom. Sam wasn't quite ready to take the rope off, not after that display in the bathroom, which made dressing difficult. But Sam helped him into some boxers, then into bed.

"Y'all right here for a minute? I'm gonna get changed and find you some soup or something."

Dean barely looked at him, gaze distant.

Sam patted his shoulder and left the room.

He dried himself off and changed into dry clothes in record speed, then found some canned chicken-and-noodles Dean could digest. Sam was gone no more than five minutes, listening for any sound from the bedroom the whole time.

Somehow, it still didn't surprise him too much when he came back to find the room empty, the window open. Sam cursed and flew for the front door.

Dean had made it all the way to the back corner of the house, sagging there against crisscrossed log corners. He straightened as Sam appeared, and despite being battered and scruffy and weaving, he stood with lethal grace. Even his bad hand had pulled into a loose fist.

"Get the hell away from me!"

Sam winced; he'd really hoped they were at least past that. He held up his hands placatingly, keeping his voice soft. "Dude, it's me. It's Sammy. I'm not gonna hurt you."

Dean was shaking his head, but uncertain fear bled into his eyes. "You think I'm that stupid?"

Sam contradicted him gently. "You're not stupid, Dean, you're sick. Turner drugged you, remember? Let me help."

Dean's breath panted hard and fast out of him, sweat already sheening his skin despite the recent shower and the outdoor chill. His eyes darted around, only to snap back to Sam as he advanced a step closer.

"Easy, listen to me, listen to me. I won't hurt you—you're my brother, Dean. I just want to help you," Sam coaxed.

Dean pulled uselessly at the ropes, fury dissolving the fear. "Let me go. Please…just need to—" He strained harder, moaning under his breath as he twisted his wrist.

Sam slowly closed in on him, hands visible, voice gently cajoling. "Dean—"

Dean lashed out at him with a speed belied by his condition, clasped hands slamming toward Sam's face from the side. Sam stayed the fisted hands too easily, twisted away from the head that tried to slam into his, caught the sharp elbow. Then, realizing Dean wasn't going to give up, he moved in again as he had in the bathroom, subduing Dean by trapping the writhing body between himself and the cabin wall, pinning his brother's flailing hands between them and trying to keep him from harming himself any further.

"Don't do this, Dean," Sam begged. "Ease up, I'm not the enemy."

Dean didn't give in so quickly this time. If they'd been inside where it was warm, if Dean hadn't been wrenching his hurt wrist and God knew how many injured muscles with his struggles, Sam would have backed off and talked him down instead of forcing him to calm. The cold Iowa spring night wasn't doing them any favors, however, and Dean's face was folded with pain. So Sam pressed him against the wall as tightly as he dared, talking softly, uselessly over Dean's broken curses as his brother fought against him in blind panic. He held on until Dean slumped in resignation in his arms, shuddering and dropping his head wretchedly back against the logs as he withdrew into himself. Until Sam had crushed his spirit again, and no amount of knowing he had no choice made that any less bitter.

Dean didn't fight him as Sam led him back inside, expression vacant. He let Sam tuck him into bed, obediently swallowed the soup Sam fed him. And Sam blinked back the burn in his eyes, not sure this was so much better.

As it turned out, not all the shaking was from cold and overtaxed muscles. Dean only had a few sips of the soup before it came back up on him. Sam was glad for the bare wooden floor when water soon followed, but not so much for the beard. He cleaned his brother up as best he could, then Dean curled up with a miserable groan, quaking in the bed, breathing loudly through his mouth.

"Dean?" Hydration would have to wait; Dean wasn't dying of thirst, and clearly this was a more urgent issue. Sam sat on the edge of the bed and felt his brother's forehead under the plastered hair. It was cold and clammy from more than just sweating outside in the cold air. Not quite shocky, but…

Sam took a deep breath. Dean was coming off the drug. Good news in the long run, yeah, but short term? Not fun. Even if he'd only been on it a little over a week, his body had to be somewhat used to any chemical that could mess with his head so much, and wouldn't like going without it.

Sam licked his lips. "All right, so, we always did things the hard way, right? Nothing new there. After the last few months, man, this'll be a cakewalk," he promised.

He was already burying Dean deep under blankets. It seemed to ease at least some of the shivering and, satisfied, Sam darted out of the room for supplies. He cleaned up the floor, lined up several water bottles, the first aid kit, some ice and a glass, and a basin on the nightstand, then promptly used the last when Dean retched through another bout of nausea.

Sam detoured again to the bathroom for a wet washcloth, dragging it over his brother's flushed, sweaty face. "What did he do to you?" he whispered.

"Don' care what he says," Dean slurred, eyes and voice dull and heavy. "Not gonna kill ya."

Sam stopped still, staring at him. Don't care what he says suddenly came together in his mind with teach you both what hunting's about. Suggestible. Not gonna kill you.

Sam's heart suddenly ached worse than he'd thought possible after seeing that scene in the barn. Oh, God, was this what the last nine days had been about for Dean? Turner didn't know what Sam was, but he knew even less what an uphill battle he'd been fighting to get Dean to kill anything different. Like Dean's own little brother. The older hunter might as well have told Dean to go to the moon.

Dean was scared for Sam, of himself rather than for himself. And while Sam hated that, at least he knew what to say now, what the older man needed to hear.

He spread a hand across Dean's breastbone and leaned forward, forehead against the pillow, face tilted against his brother's. "You didn't tell Turner about me, man, and you'd never hurt me. You're not going to now, either, Dean, I know that. I'm safe."

Dean froze. For one heartstopping moment, he looked at Sam. Dragged his bound hands from under the blankets, and clutched onto a handful of Sam's shirt with the good one, the other helplessly curled and swollen. Bored a hole into Sam's soul with his stare.

"Don't let me go, Sammy." It was a whisper now, no defiance in it, no pride, just need. "Don't you let me go."

Sam swallowed, folding his fingers around his brother's good wrist, thumb against the rope. Dean was still scared, but that was tempered with the trust now that Sam knew him better than he knew himself. Or at least that Sam would help him stay in control. This was what Sam had been waiting for without even knowing it. Deciding with a nod, he gently started loosening the knots. "I'm not, Dean. I won't," he said huskily.

It took time to get the hemp off without inflicting more damage. Even so, Sam grimaced at the sight of the torn skin and the swollen joint. After palpating it gently, Dean silent but breathing unsteadily through the pain, Sam decided it wasn't broken, just sprained. He cleaned up the wrists, bandaging the good one and fixing an ice pack for the other, wrapping it carefully around the joint.

Dean still watching him warily, Sam tucked his freed hands under the blankets. He could fight his way out of the folds of material if he wanted to, but it would give Sam time to react, not to mention that he didn't think Dean was up to fighting his way free of a spider web just then. Sam lay down on the bed and settled on his side facing his brother, casted arm folded under his head and the other on Dean's exposed shoulder.

Dean was starting to sweat again, eyes glassy. He trembled lightly. "Feel like'm five," he said, the words rolling out like a languid guitar chord.

Sam smiled. "Look like you're fifty."

"Feels like 'at, too."

Sam snorted. "Just try to get some sleep," he said quietly. "I'll be right here."

He could see Dean fight it, but his brother eventually lost the battle to his body's needs. His breathing lengthened in sleep, lips sometimes moving in silence.

"You're gonna be okay," Sam whispered.

He followed Dean down, not even remembering closing his eyes.

00000

Dean's groans woke him.

His brother was fighting weakly against the blankets, breathing raspy and hair plastered with perspiration. But even as Sam snapped awake and reached for him, Dean erupted, half-falling, half-rolling off the bed. Eyes darting, he grabbed blindly for a weapon, found the water glass, and smashed it against the edge of the nightstand to wave the jagged edges at Sam.

Sam cursed as he slid off to face his brother. Dean's eyes were wild, unfocused. Sam wasn't even sure his brother recognized him.

He spread his arms slowly. "Dean, it's me. It's Sammy."

Dean's face twisted, his head slowly shaking. But he didn't say anything, just wavered where he stood, still brandishing the glass.

Sam ducked a little to see his face better. "What are you going to do with that, Dean, huh? Stab me? Kill me?"

Dean stared at him in confusion, the breath hitching in his chest. "I can't." But his stance didn't ease.

"Then give me the glass," Sam said calmly.

His brother fought with it; Sam could see it. Not with the desire to hurt him, because Dean seemed to know who he was now and he'd never hurt Sam willingly. But he was wrestling with the desperate need to escape. His throat bobbed, and the glass creaked under his tightening grip, until red dripped down the sides.

Grimacing, Sam shot forward, slapping Dean's hand hard and sending the glass flying to somewhere on the opposite side of the bed.

Dean's whole body tensed. Then he suddenly curled forward and started dry heaving.

Sam grabbed him around the middle and towed him back to the edge of the bed, cupping his forehead and bracing Dean against his own body as his brother folded in half. "You're all right, you're all right," he chanted. It reminded him of how Dean had been tied, the line of abrasion that crossed his stomach, and Sam felt a little nauseated, too.

The tremors of before turned into full-body shudders when Dean was done, wrenching pained gasps from his throat. The drug's withdrawal was getting worse, and Sam glanced over at his phone, wishing desperately Bobby would call with information. He had to do something to help Dean.

"Okay, there you go, I think it's over," he soothed, pulling Dean back up onto the bed, then reaching down to lift his legs. "But next time you wanna wave something sharp at me, try to grab something that won't cut you, too, huh?"

Dean was shaking so badly, it was hard for Sam to grab his hand, but he held on tight while he examined the palm. Two shallow slices, no stitches needed. Thank God for that, at least. He grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the nightstand and pressed them against the cuts.

With his other arm, Sam pulled the bundled heap that was his brother against him, trying to absorb some of the quakes into his own body. "Come on, try to take it easy," he coached, rubbing arms, back, stomach: everywhere Dean's writhing let him reach.

Dean mumbled brokenly, oblivious.

"God, Dean, look at you," Sam whispered. He tried not to sound as despairing as he felt, but things were supposed to be fine now, Dean getting better, not worse. Sam folded him closer and pulled a length of gauze from the kit to quickly wind around the bloody palm. He didn't bother with tape, just tucked the end under and then included the arm in his embrace. "It'll be over soon, I promise. Just gotta ride this out, all right? Stay with me, Dean. Stay with me. I'm right here with you."

Dean jerked as something else cramped, and Sam located the knot in his left thigh through the blankets and rubbed it out. His brother's lips moved against Sam's shoulder, no sound coming out, and his dull gaze searched the wall. Sam massaged his spine, the back of his neck, talked to him about all the college things Dean had obliquely asked about but Sam had never felt like sharing. And the things Dean hadn't asked about: how much Sam had missed him, how many ways he'd uselessly tried to fill the gap.

"Can't." Dean's voice was strained and low. "I didn'…didn' tell him…"

"Yeah, Dean," Sam whispered, closing his eyes and dropping his head back against the wall. "I know."

Dean's face creased. "Sammy?"

"I'm here."

"Can't kill." Dean grit his teeth against some internal attack. "Not you."

Sam pulled in a breath. "You're not going to—I'm safe." He reached across them for the water, nudged it against Dean's lips until he swallowed a few sips, then returned to kneading his back, working out the smaller bunched and cramped muscles.

Dean's respirations were labored, and Sam allowed himself a moment of doubt. What if you couldn't just cold turkey this drug? Sometimes withdrawal put too much strain on the body. There was so much that could go wrong, and they were in the middle of nowhere.

But he kept soothing as best he could, and Dean kept fighting long past what Sam would've thought he'd have strength for. And after what could have been minutes or hours, the worst of the shakes finally began to ease. Dean's hands fisted in Sam's shirt, his rambling settling into words and moments of coherence.

"God…head's all screwed up," he groaned. He squinted at Sam. "Don'-don't let me do something stupid, Sammy."

Sam smiled a little at that. "Yeah, like I've ever been able to stop you." He shook his head and bent low to his brother's ear. "You won't hurt me, Dean."

"C-could."

"I won't let you. I promise."

Dean nodded tightly and closed his eyes again.

Sam's cell phone chose that moment to start ringing.

"No!" Dean burst out and began struggling, his hard-won lucidity fracturing.

Sam cursed as he tried to both get a good grasp on his brother and reach for the phone. "Dean! Settle down. Easy there, everything's okay, just lie still."

It helped a little. Dean was still moving, but it didn't feel like he'd roll them off the bed at any moment or turn on Sam. Sam hugged him closer and glanced at the phone, feeling a swell of relief when he saw who was calling.

"Bobby, please tell me I can give him something."

"Going that good, huh? Got a chemist to do a rush job on the drug, and I won't saddle you with the mile-long name, but bottom line is, painkillers might be iffy, but a sedative won't mess with what's already in his system."

Sam nodded, tucking the phone into his shoulder so he could prop Dean's head up when it lolled against his chest. "Yeah, fine, that's what he really needs, anyway."

"You got anything on hand?"

He quickly ran through their inventory in his head. "I've got some. Enough to keep him under a few days—how long's this stuff take to work through him?"

"Two days, max. Andy said Turner dosed Dean last night, so you're lookin' at a good twenty-four hours still. He'll be weak as a pup a while after, but it'll stop screwing with his head."

Sam took a breath. "All right. Anything else, anything I should be looking out for?"

"Sounds like you've already run into it. No real dangers to this stuff if it's taken correctly, and it sounds like Turner was careful about that, at least. For whatever it's worth, I think in his own warped way, Turner really was trying to recondition Dean, not kill him."

"Retraining," Sam said bitterly.

"Probably wasn't exactly going for the easy way, if he had a bone to pick with your dad. But Dean should be all right. It's just one of those things you've got to weather, Sam."

Dean twisted loosely in his grip before stilling again. Sam's face crumpled. "He's been through so much, Bobby," he whispered.

There was a pause. "You want me to come out there, spell you for a bit?"

The offer tempted him momentarily. He was so very tired, his wrist and back and head ached, and seeing Dean like this was sawing through his self-control. But Sam didn't even have to think about it. Even if he would have been willing to let anyone else see Dean this way, it would just make things harder. Precious trust had been regained between them, and Sam wasn't about to jeopardize or tax it. "No. We're okay. You've already done a lot."

"Well, offer still stands," Bobby said gruffly. "And tell him not to worry about Turner. He's taken care of."

Sam didn't want to know. His rage at the hunter who'd done this to Dean had died down into a weary grief. "Thanks, Bobby. I'll call you in a few days."

Dean didn't stir, didn't open his eyes when Sam put the phone back on the nightstand. His raw voice took Sam by surprise. "Who z'it?"

"Bobby," Sam answered, digging in the kit. "He did some research, and I can give you something to help you get some sleep now." He found the right syringe, already pre-loaded, and tore through the wrapper with his teeth. They had oral meds, too, but with Dean's nausea, Sam didn't think he could keep it down long enough to help. No, injectionables were the way to go.

Dean pulled away from him, bloodshot eyes wide. "No. No way."

Sam glanced at him, then at the needle, suddenly realizing just what Dean was thinking. Injections were easiest…which was why Turner had used them. How tired was he not to think of that? Sam quickly lowered the syringe out of sight and ducked his head to meet his brother's gaze. "Hey, listen to me. Turner's gone, Dean—Bobby saw to it. This is just to help you get some sleep."

Dean was shaking his head, backing off, struggling to get free of the blankets and Sam. His breathing grew ragged. "No. No friggin' way. No needles…not again, Sam."

Dean sounded angry, but Sam hadn't missed that while it had been Sammy until now, brotherly instinct eclipsing everything, this terrified Dean for his own sake and Sammy had become Sam. He couldn't ignore or force that. He set the syringe down on the nightstand and grabbed Dean by the shoulders, gentle but firm. "Please. Please, Dean. You know I wouldn't hurt you. This is just a sedative, I promise. We both need the rest, and…" He felt his eyes well and didn't try to stop it. "I can't watch you keep going through this, dude. It's killing me, all right? So just…let me help you. Okay? I'll be here the whole time—I won't let anything happen to you."

He chose the words deliberately; it was the same reassurance Dean had given him a thousand times over their lives. If it didn't echo through the brother bond they had, nothing would.

Except, maybe the tenderly added, "Jerk."

Dean's harsh breathing slowly eased, as did the grip he'd managed to get on Sam's forearm. He didn't answer, but his eyes slowly drifted down to somewhere around the middle of Sam's breastbone, and he slowly, wearily nodded.

Sam nodded back, reaching for an alcohol pad. He tore that open with his teeth, too, unwilling to take both hands away from Dean. His brother blinked at the cool of the alcohol on his skin, then his expression turned defiant as Sam reached for the syringe. It wasn't rebellion against Sam, though, and he swore neither of them breathed as he gently exposed the inside of Dean's left arm—the clean one—slid the needle into the vein, and slowly depressed the plunger.

Pain filled the murky hazel eyes, and it wasn't from the needle's sting.

Sam cupped his elbow and pressed down on the injection site with his thumb. "Just thirty-six hours," he soothed. "I promise, it won't be longer. And I'll be right here the whole time."

Dean blinked again, slower. "Hate this."

"I know."

"No, really, dude. I hate this," he said thickly.

"I'm not exactly enjoying it, either, big brother," Sam's voice pitched low.

Dean's eyelids were starting to sink. "I didn' tell 'im, Sammy."

"I know. It would've been okay if you had, Dean, but I know. I trust you. Trust me now, too."

Only slits of brown-green showed. "Do," Dean breathed out. His head sagged toward the mattress.

Sam lowered him gently, arranging him so he was comfortable, head on pillow, bad wrist tucked against his chest. He pulled the blankets back up to Dean's neck, resting a pair of fingers there for a few long minutes to make sure the pulse remained steady.

As a child, he'd thought Dean could do anything without effort. As a teen, he'd reversed that, resenting Dean's obedience to their father and thinking him weak for it. It was only now, with all their losses, that he saw Dean's strength for what it was: neither easy nor without reservations, but anchored in an unwavering faith in his family and a determination to go on even when it cost him everything. And Sam looked up to his brother now in a way he hadn't been able to as a naïve kid.

It meant more than Sam could express to be able to reciprocate, and to have Dean's faith and trust in turn.

He waited until Dean was completely under, unresponsive when Sam called his name. Then, taking advantage of his insensibility, Sam began cleaning him up for the second time.

He wiped the sweat off with a warm washcloth and toweled his skin dry, then rewrapped Dean's wrist and bandaged his palm properly. Manhandling him into a t-shirt took a little more effort and was made considerably harder by Sam's cast, but he managed that, too, before sliding Dean under a clean sheet. Finally, Sam took his electric shaver to the light beard, shaking off the towel he'd tucked beneath Dean's face when he was done. The older Winchester's jaw was a little sharper than usual from the weight he'd lost, but its familiar lines tugged something deep inside Sam. For the first time, it felt like his brother was really back.

Sam set his phone to wake him a half-hour before the sedative was supposed to start wearing off. Then he dragged himself over to the other bedroom, cannibalizing that bed of its blankets. Towing them back into the room Dean was in, Sam dropped onto the empty side of the queen-sized mattress and pulled the blankets over him.

He searched Dean's lax face for any signs of discomfort and found none but the lines of old pain. He was propped on his side in case he started vomiting again, but he seemed to be sleeping peacefully, only the occasional tremor still running through his body as it fought its fight without him.

He'd earned the rest. They both had.

Sam laid his left hand beside his brother's exposed knuckles. Then, satisfied he'd know if Dean needed him, he let sleep pull him under.

00000

The next day and a half were a blur in Sam's memory and absent altogether from Dean's.

Every time the sedative started wearing off and Dean grew restless, Sam would get him to swallow some water and took him to the bathroom. Groggy and more out of it than in, Dean seemed to have forgotten his rebellion, following Sam's coaxing. Trusting his brother when he couldn't remember to do anything else, and Sam swam in exhausted gratitude and relief. He slept when Dean did, easing the worst of his own fatigue and despair.

After thirty-six hours, as promised, Sam put the kit away and let Dean drift into natural sleep. He relocated to the chair by the bed, keeping sleepy watch, gaze sharpening each time Dean stirred.

Leaning forward when his brother sighed and the hazel eyes finally cracked open.

"Dean?"

They moved lazily, still worn tired. Sleep deprivation, Andy had said. Drugs, pain, adrenaline crash. Dean could probably sleep for a week and still be drowsy. But his eyes seemed clearer somehow. Sam dared hope…

"Hey." He tentatively curled his fingers around his brother's good wrist where it stuck out from under the covers. He'd been checking temperature, hydration, pulse on a regular basis, but now he took a moment just to absorb that Dean was there, that Sam could reach out and touch him. "Who am I, Dean?"

Dean's brow creased, as if Sam weren't making any sense. He blinked listlessly, eyes drifting out of focus.

"Dean," Sam repeated forcefully, the tone he'd learned from their dad. "Who am I?" Dean hadn't mistaken him for Turner for a long time now, but Sam needed to see how lucid he was.

Dean stared at him vaguely for another minute. And just when Sam thought he wasn't going to answer, he heard a mumbled, "Know-'t-all li'l brother."

Sam laughed. Full-on, from-the-belly chuckled. Then he nodded. "Yeah, good enough."

But Dean was already asleep again.

Sam took a deep breath, replacing all the air in his lungs. It felt like it was the first time he'd fully expanded them in…weeks. He glanced around the room, the haven that had allowed him to be a haven for Dean. Taking in the darkness outside the window, the locked front door just visible in the other room, the soothing dark green and cherry wood décor. The one bed Dean was sprawled across, muscles relaxed and respirations painless. He'd be fine now, just needed lots of rest, and there was a perfectly good bed right next door…

"Screw this," Sam muttered, one parting shot of Dean before he relinquished the role completely. Sam pushed the chair back and climbed over his brother onto the other side of the bed. If Dean hated sharing sleeping space as much as he'd claimed during their teen years, well, he probably shouldn't have pulled Sam back into the hunt.

Still, he tried to lie down with a minimum of jostling, retracting his long limbs so he hopefully wouldn't smack his brother while he slept. He still had the blankets from the other bedroom, and as Sam snuggled into them gratefully, he couldn't help but open his eyes one more time, casting his glance over the back of the dark blond head.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Then he closed his eyes and fell asleep to the same lullaby of soft breathing he'd dozed off to most of his life.

00000

Some people found their therapy in enjoying nature. Dean found his by putting holes in it.

Sam glanced out the window each time he walked by it, just checking. But each time the view was the same: Dean doing his best to de-bark one particularly large oak tree outside the cabin. He threw every single knife he had with careful precision, aiming for targets only he saw. Then he walked down and collected the blades, and started all over again.

It had taken him a while to work up to being able to handle sharp objects safely. The first day he'd woken up after finally shaking the last of the drugs, Dean had been confused and wary, holes in his memory the size of fists. Skittishly avoiding Sam's touch, he'd sat himself up, leaning against the wall, and trembled through a bowl of soup while doling out in small, reluctant pieces what he remembered. He was vague on several points Sam suspected he recalled a lot more about, but he didn't push. Dean hadn't once looked at him while he talked.

Sam had filled in the holes for him with quiet calm, sometimes dipping his head to meet Dean's eyes at important points. The only part he'd left out had been his horror over the phone calls, and Dean hadn't been with it enough to make the leap himself. He'd just listened and sullenly nodded, then slid back down and gone to sleep. It was clearly an escape measure, but Sam let him have it.

The next day, when Dean finally ventured out of the room on slightly unsteady legs, Sam had fed him, then teased him about smelling like the last troll they'd killed until Dean glared at him and went to shower. Sam had tried hard not to freak out when his brother then fell asleep under the water and scalded his back a nice bright pink. He just gently jibed Dean about that, too, while putting ointment on the worst patches. Dean endured it in silence as raw as the skin on his back before returning to his bedroom afterward and sleeping the next fourteen hours.

Sam had tried to read during the downtime, he really had. But he kept being drawn back to the bedroom door, his still-stressed brain trying to sort things out. Trying to return to normalcy, to the banter spoken and not that characterized their lives, was the best plan he could come up with, and there were moments when he could feel Dean's gratitude at the attempt. But he still barely spoke a word, and Sam's cheerful chatter tasted bitter in his mouth. It just wasn't that easy. Maybe Turner hadn't broken Dean, but he'd bent something in him, and Sam didn't know how to fix it. Dean had always been better at that than he.

So, he'd finally borrowed his brother's playbook. Brought in everything from the trunk for Dean to sort through. Weapons to clean. Bullets and blades to target practice with as soon as Dean was up to going outside.

It helped. Hey, time by itself helped. But it wasn't enough.

Sam waited now, watching as Dean buried his whole arsenal in the tree trunk again, fast and hard with his good left wrist, more careful with his healing right as he brought it back up to strength. When the last blade was vibrating in the wood, Sam opened the front door. "Food's on," he said simply, and waited for Dean's acknowledging nod.

The kitchen was well-stocked, Sam had discovered once he'd started exploring the place. There was a freezer full of meat, and cabinets crammed with soups, pastas, and sauces. Sam had started cooking as soon as Dean was able to keep down solids. He hadn't grown up fixing meals like his brother had, but living with Jess had taught him at least the basics, and Dean's tastes had always run simple. The carb- and protein-heavy foods that were his favorites would also help rebuild some of the weight he'd lost in Turner's hands. Not that Dean seemed to notice or care much what Sam set in front of him, he just ate it in distracted silence.

Sam poked at his own noodles, casting his gaze repeatedly at Dean. Finally, without looking up, Dean asked flatly, "What, Sam?"

"I, uh, checked out the area. Turns out there's a bar about twenty minutes away, on the outskirts of town."

Dean slanted him a sideways glance, about as close as they got to eye contact these days. "You wanna go out drinking?" he asked with heavy skepticism.

"Yeah, maybe." Sam stabbed a piece of beef and chewed on it. "A couple of beers sounds good." The cabin must've been owned by teetotalers; he hadn't even found cooking wine.

Dean snorted into his plate. "You sure you aren't the one who was brainwashed?"

Sam winced. Dean's humor, when it surfaced at all, was forced, hard-edged, self-hurting. It reminded Sam of the first few days after they'd lost their dad, when the rare times Dean spoke, Sam almost wished he hadn't. "Think it might do us both some good to get out of here," he answered solidly. "Don't you?"

Dean paused, then began eating again with a shrug. "Yeah, whatever."

So, it was settled.

It wasn't the first time Dean had been reunited with the Impala since Turner, but as they went out to the car, Sam hung back and watched as his brother ran his hands over the smooth curves of the front panel, back to her door. He'd never understood the relationship his brother had with her, but had been grateful for it many times. The Chevy soothed something in Dean that Sam had never been able to reach, and he'd wondered more than once if it had to do with the years he'd been gone, the gap during which Dean had inherited the car. The time when, Sam thought guiltily, she'd been all Dean had.

He stood now, absorbing her for a moment, then nodded at Sam. "Keys."

Sam tossed them to him without hesitation. Dean had already taken his girl out for two short drives in the days before, but had returned the keys to Sam both times after, like he wasn't sure he'd earned them. Or like he still didn't trust himself.

They drove in silence punctuated only by Sam's quiet directions.

The bar was set off an otherwise dark and empty road, and Sam relaxed a little at the sight of it. Some places they stopped in were hole-in-the-walls where he was half-afraid to drink anything, while others were clearly serious biker hang-outs. Dean fit in everywhere, but Sam preferred places like the one in front of them: casual, country, just the right amount smoky. A place they could relax a little instead of needing to be on their guard.

As they got out, he saw Dean's uncertainty fall away, replaced by squared shoulders and a solid gait. Comfort at being in his element, or just a mask to hide the disquiet he let Sam alone see? But this was how Dean unwound. Many a hard hunt had ended with him heading into town for some wine, woman, and song—or beer, sex, and hustling—coming back loose-limbed and easy-smiling and ready to deal with what life threw at them next.

Sam didn't often go with him when he was bar-hopping for that reason; half the time, Dean didn't even come home until morning. But Sam wasn't quite ready to let his brother out of his sight yet, and Dean didn't seem to be chafing under the supervision. He collected beers for them both from the bar, then joined Sam at a back table and lazily watched the pool game nearby, taking occasional swigs from his bottle.

Sam glanced around the moderately crowded room, moving past interested female faces with an embarrassed smile. Widening into a lopsided grin when he found what he was looking for.

"Hey," he said, nudging Dean with his elbow.

"What?" His brother looked up at him, then followed Sam's gaze across the room. The brunette in tight jeans and an even tighter t-shirt practically glowed under Dean's scrutiny. "Her?"

"Uh, yeah, her."

Dean's shoulder hitched. "Sure, go for it."

Sam blinked at him. "Dude, it's not me she's staring at."

Dean gave her a second look. "Huh."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Aren't you always telling me getting laid fixes everything?"

Dean's attention flicked back to him. "You saying I need fixing, Sammy?"

The question was casual. The meaning wasn't. "You saying you're fine?" Sam quietly responded.

Dean stared at his beer for a long moment. Then he slid off the barstool and headed for the girl.

Sam leaned back and took a deep breath, suddenly awash in the smoke and noise of the place. It felt like it was rubbing him raw, or maybe he was already raw and this was just aggravating things. God, when had he last even felt normal? Before Dean had been taken. Before Dad had died. But then there'd been Jess's death, and before that, years of school without his family, and before that…

Nice. Sam smiled darkly into his beer, rubbing the condensation off the bottle with the edge of his cast. They were supposed to be there to cheer Dean up, not to let Sam wallow. He looked across the room to where at least Dean was—

Not. The brunette sat pouty and alone.

Sam straightened, scanning the place for the familiar crown of dark blond hair, the leather jacket. Nothing. It wasn't so crowded or smoky that he couldn't confirm in a few seconds that Dean wasn't in the room.

The table wobbled in his wake as Sam got up and hurried outside.

Sliding to a halt just a few steps beyond the front door. Dean was there, to the right of the building, perched on a wooden fence, his back to Sam. Sam's frantic fear drove out of him in a whoosh.

He approached quietly but without any real attempt at stealth, not that it would have worked on Dean anyway. Still, his brother gave no sign of being aware of him as Sam climbed up on the fence beside him, settling into a slouch on the top beam. A glance at Dean, then he cast his gaze deep into the darkness spread out before them that his brother was passively watching.

Minutes ticked by. The wood was cold and hard under Sam's rear, but he folded his hands across his splayed legs and didn't move. There was something about this silence, about waiting and not pushing, that was important, and if Dean needed it, Sam could wait there forever.

He heard his brother swallow before he spoke. "You think Dad would've let Lenore and the other vampires go?"

Sam paused to think through his answer, not having expected that question. "No," he said finally with honesty. Dean would have recognized a lie. "I don't think he would've listened to her. But if he'd known for sure she wasn't killing people…yeah, maybe. I'd like to think so."

Dean nodded, gaze distant.

Sam gave it a moment, then added, "He would've killed Turner, though, for what he did." To you. "Turner was the real monster, not Lenore."

Dean shrugged, but the motion was uneasy. Openly uncertain again.

Sam licked his lips. "Dean…you do know Turner wasn't talking for Dad, right? He said they split up because Dad had 'standards.' Dad trained us right, to make sure we were hunting the right thing."

There was a long pause. Then Dean asked hoarsely, "You don't think Dad would've been disappointed?"

"In you?" Sam couldn't quite keep the incredulousness out of his voice. "Dean, you went with Turner because of me. You were protecting me. Dad would've been proud of that. He was proud of you."

He could see Dean's Adam's apple rise and fall in silhouette. The bar's light behind them glittered in his bright eyes when he finally turned to Sam and looked at him, honest-to-God locked gazes with him. "'Cause you're my pain-in-the-ass brother," he said, voice barely steady.

Sam gave him a sad smile. "I'm sorry this pain in the ass didn't find you sooner."

Dean just kept looking at him evenly. "You came. You did good, Sammy."

Sam huffed and shook his head, no longer surprised at how easily Dean granted absolution. "I'll always come, all right?" he said.

Dean smiled just a tiny bit and turned away. And, for the first time, that didn't make Sam's heart hurt.

They stared at the darkness for a long time in silence. It was…peaceful.

Sam finally tossed his brother a grin. "You know, I wouldn't've bothered with the beer and the girl if I'd known you just wanted to talk."

Dean's whole body winced. "Shut up. You probably reprogrammed me or something when I was still drugged—it's not my fault."

His grin widened. "Yeah, you just keeping thinking that, Dean."

His brother groaned, shoulders curling forward. "I hate you."

"You're welcome," Sam said cheerfully.

Dean looked up at him, suddenly stone-cold sober. "Thanks."

Sam's smile, heart, love all softened at that word and everything behind it. "Anytime," he answered in kind.

The quiet was easy now, balance resettling between them.

Dean slid off the fence, and Sam thumped gently to the ground behind him. He watched as Dean's head swiveled back to the bar, a shadow of the same expression crossing his face with which he'd looked at Jo, at their mother's grave. Wistfulness. Regret.

Sam spoke softly in the solemn dark. "You wanna go back in? She's probably still there."

A beat, then Dean shook his head. "Next time. Let's go home." He didn't mean the cabin; they'd redefined the word a long time ago to mean the car, each other, their life. As they started walking, Dean turned back to Sam and smacked him in the chest with the back of his hand and a raised eyebrow. "Wanna play some strip poker?"

Sam snorted, falling in beside him. "Please. I'm scarred enough."

"Who said I'd be the one stripping?"

"In your dreams, Dean."

"Dude, I don't dream about you stripping." Dean's face twisted with disgust. "Seriously, how messed up do you think I am?"

And Sam just shook his head and smiled.

The End