Supernatural 1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi guys! Taking a little break from **_**Growing Up Winchester**_** to write this one. It's the last in my Atlantic Canada series, set in the beautiful province of Prince Edward Island (shameless plug, it's gorgeous, I highly recommend a visit if you can!). I know the concept has been done before, but I really wanted to tackle it myself. I hope you enjoy! **

**Chapter 1**

She'd recognize that face anywhere.

True, eight years had passed since the last time she had seen the brothers, since her daddy had picked the taller one for one of his "hunts." He looked a little older, hair longer and less wavy, a few more bags beneath his eyes. But he still had that spark of attitude that he remembered from those few days, the wry smile, an air of toughness despite the gentle exterior. The kind she may have found attractive under normal circumstances. But Benders weren't sociable. They had stopped playing the game after her family had been killed by the tall one and that lady cop, but no way in hell did they just stop and have supper (_please pass the peas)_ like folks. That's why she had moved with her cousins Billy and Jason. Their farmhouse in Prince Edward Island was as far away from folks as the Hibbing, Minnesota, homestead; hidden along a lone dirt road, nestled on the outskirts of the Acadian Forest. Perfect for recluses like the Benders. It helped that they hadn't drawn much attention to themselves, too. They didn't socialize, but they never stirred the pot, either. _You don't mess with us, we won't mess_ _with you. I_t wasn't ideal; Missy was itching to go back to the Bender Family Business, but sometimes you gotta bite the bullet and do what it takes to keep your ass out of the fire.

But the brothers changed that.

She didn't know their names. Didn't know where they were from or what they did. But she did know that they were gonna pay for killing her Pa.

It was luck that she had crossed paths with the brothers. Missy didn't like going out in public but she'd heard Billy saying that she "saw 'em two boys who killed Lee n' Jared" in town. There weren't many bars in Bear River, and it didn't take long for her to spot her prey, downing bottles of Moosehead and shooting pool in the lone table in the corner. She smirked slightly as she made her way to the bar, ordered a Bud, and positioned herself at a table near where the brothers were. The shorter one was stuffing a greasy mozza stick into his mouth while the taller one snorted.

"Seriously, dude, how can you eat that crap? You're gonna have a coronary by the time you're fifty."

"Well, at least I die happy," the shorter one grinned, chasing the appetizer with a generous swallow of beer. When Tall Guy chuckled, his brother responded by grabbing another mozza stick and taking a large bite. Missy listened to the light banter with a hardened heart, disgusted at how those who had murdered her family were so oblivious. Daring to glare at the pair, she sipped her own drink, turning down a server with a curt wave of her hand. She remembered what her Pa had taught her when she was just a young girl: "Be patient, Missy, when ye hunt." And so she sat patiently, nursing a few drinks, listening for anything useful.

After twenty minutes, her efforts paid off.

"So what do we got on this one, Geek Boy? Any of our usual suspects?" Missy arched an eyebrow in interest as the Tall One pulled a folded up newspaper from inside his jacket and slid it across the table to the other man, who read it with curiosity. "Guess so," he concluded after a few minutes. "Been a while since we ran into one of those fuglies."

"Yeah. Last one in Black Water Ridge. Was kind of hoping it wasn't, but no way those killings are grizzly attacks."

"Great." The shorter finished his last mozza stick and crumpled the grease coated parchment paper into a ball, tossing it into the red plastic serving basket. "Guess that means we gotta hit the sack. You do need your beauty sleep, after all." With another of his cocky grins. Damn he was a fucking smartass.

"Shut up."

"Not going to be fun, though. Fuckin' hate camping."

"I'm sure it'll be fine, Dean," Tall Guy said dryly. "I can never understand how someone who faces the shit we do on a daily basis is afraid of flying and hates spending a few nights in the woods."

"For one, planes crash. Second, I am not afraid of camping. Just like my bed to be where I can lock the freakin' door at night. Besides, you have your clown thing."

The tall one grunted and began to gather his things hastily, the other one called Dean hastily finishing his beer. Missy watched until the brothers had left the bar, and quickly got up, following as close as she dared. She waited as Dean climbed into an ancient muscle car and gunned the engine, watching the taillights disappear into the night. She was in no hurry to follow, risk getting caught; Missy Bender knew how smart those boys were; the one named Dean had found them all those years back. Missy was smart, too, but she knew she wouldn't be able to outwit the brothers. She'd guessed from their conversation that they hunted, too, and would be able to smell out someone following them from a mile away.

But they didn't bank on leaving the receipt behind.

In his hurry to leave, Tall Guy had missed a few papers which had fluttered to the floor. They were mostly for unimportant things; gassing up that monstrosity they drove; snacks; lunches at diners from when they were in the US. But one slip, the name S. Hendrix scrawled on the bottom, caught her attention. It was a motel receipt, for the _Island Inn_. Missy had smiled devilishly and pocketed the crumpled up paper. Now, as a light summer mist began to fall, Missy climbed into her cousin's GMC van and headed out into the night. She knew she didn't have much time. The brothers were planning on hiking, and while Prince Edward Island's woodlands were sparse, it would still take far too long to set traps on the off chance she would capture Tall Guy. No. She would find their motel, go from there. It wasn't far to the _Island Inn,_ a ten minute drive tops. Smiling to herself, she jabbed the keys in the ignition, the rusted van protesting a few times before finally groaning to life. As she pulled onto the highway, Missy smiled to herself, began whistling to herself. She remembered something her Pa had always said before hunting, back when she was still a young'un in Minnesota.

"This is gonna be fun," she whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: First off, a huge thanks to those who reviewed the first chapter and are interested in more! You guys motivate me to get off my butt and update faster! Thanks also to those who have read, favorited, and/or followed this story. And, sadly, I don't own **_**Supernatural**_** or the boys, regrettably.**

**Chapter Two**

"You ready to go, Sammy?" Dean stuffed his wallet into his jeans pocket, reaching for his worn leather jacket. "Beers aren't gonna drink themselves, you know."

The brothers had spent the entire day researching for their latest case, and Dean was irritable, a side effect of too much research. Geek Boy, of course, didn't mind it so much (had even admitted to enjoying it during his Stanford days) but the elder Winchester had always loathed the hours cooped up in the motel, pouring over volume after volume or scouring the internet. They had been fairly sure that their culprit this time had been a Wendigo (the fact that one of the victims had been attacked in his locked camper clearly supported that theory) but Sam had insisted that they be sure. And so the afternoon had been spent interviewing the park rangers, victim's families, the whole nine. By the time the sun had set, Dean was more than ready to relax a bit, and hopefully try to replenish their diminishing funds.

"I'd rather just stay in, relax a bit. I'd rather not go on a hike hungover, and you should feel the same way."

"You're no fun," Dean whined, reaching for the keys to his beloved Impala. "We also need cash if we want to stay in this dump for more than a day, and we're outa cards. Besides, it'll be fun. Hustlin' pool, drinking beers, hit on a few women...mmmm..." closing his eyes, clearly envisioning a the hot Maritime girls. "I love Canada."

"You love anywhere you can hook up with someone," Sam sighed, but got up regardless. "Well, if you insist we go out, at least let me have a shower." Dean grinned as he plopped on one of the double beds. "Knew you'd change your mind, Sammy."

"It's Sam."

"Awww, come on, you love being called Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes, closing the bathroom door behind him. A few minutes later, the sound of the shower running could be heard. Letting his keys slip into his jacket pocket, Dean reached for the remote, surfing through the limited selection of channels, before settling on the local newscast. Another victim had been attacked by the "grizzly" in the Acadian Woods. "The suspect, who has yet to be identified, was found hanging from a tree in the woods," the reporter's voice over announced. Images of the victim's tent, torn to shreds, and the police scouring the area accompanied the reporter's narration. "It is suspected that the victim had been found and ultimately hung from the tree postmortem."

Dean shuddered, watching as the report continued. No new information had been provided, other than the visual of the crime scene, and a general area as to where to enter the forest the next morning. With a sigh, Dean switched off the television, tossing the remote onto the night table. "Hurry up, Sammy!" he called impatiently. "Damn, you're such a girl. You need to cut that hair. God, you look like a girl."

No response but a rather annoyed grunt from behind the door. But a few minutes later, Sam emerged, snapping the buttons to his shirt. "Always impatient."

"Damn straight," Dean acknowledged, once again pulling out his keys and heading to the door. "Let's roll."

XXX

Missy waited a few minutes after the sleek Impala had rolled into the night, eyes peeled in the darkness for any sign of human contact. She had been hiding in the brush behind the rural motel for a few hours now, the van parked several kilometres away on a lone dirt road, waiting for the opportunity to arise. Most would have been frustrated by the long wait, would have left after an hour or so. But Missy was a hunter, came from a long line of hunters, and knew that patience was key. She knew that they were bound to leave the motel at some point, if not that night, definitely in the morning. Of course, the latter was not the best scenario; that would mean that she would have to either postpone or adapt her plan. But Missy knew how to ad lib; she'd watched her Pa enough times; the only time it had failed him was the day the short one named Dean had sneaked in with that lady cop and caught them off guard. She'd lost her family that day. And Missy Bender swore that that would never happen again.

Fortunately, the brothers had finally left their motel (probably to a bar, did those boys drink every fucking night?) and Missy immediately went into action. Glancing one last time over her shoulder, she made her way across the road to the motel, careful to avoid the lone street lamp, sneaking across the parking lot to the room the brothers had left: room 15. Carefully Missy glanced around, in search of security cameras; sure enough, the only one did not have a telltale flashing light blinking in the corner. Likely it wasn't functional. But she hadn't taken any chances. To be safe, Missy had dressed completely in black, a ski mask covering her face and long, lanky blonde hair. With a final glance around, just to be sure, she pulled out a make shift lock pick, eyes darting around her in search of anyone who could possibly spot her. But she wasn't nervous; Missy Bender never got nervous, not on her first hunt; not when she'd gotten lost as a young'un of four; not when she had been locked in the closet the night her Pa had died. If anything, she was excited. She loved the thrill of the hunt, and most of the time, even liked the possibility of getting caught; it made the game more fun. But this, this was no game. It was retribution. And Missy knew she couldn't get caught.

A moment later, there was a soft click. Missy pocketed her lock pick and carefully opened the door. The room was pitch black, as expected, and the young woman pulled out a flashlight, covering it with her black sweater to stifle some of the brightness. "Fuck, they's messy," she muttered under her breath as she scanned the beam back and forth, the light piercing in the darkness. Quickly she searched through their duffel bags; nothing but clothes and toiletries; one had a leather journal with a bunch of weird shit written in it. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she quickly slipped the volume back in the bag, hidden beneath a pair of jeans which looked like it could use a trip to the laundromat. Not that Missy Bender cared about any of that shit. Resuming her task, she quickly checked out the entire motel; it didn't take long for her to find the map of where they'd be hiking. Missy aimed the beam on it, holding the flashlight between her teeth as she quickly sketched the map on a piece of loose leaf. She didn't need a detailed map. These woods had been her backyard for almost nine years. But hunters needed to be prepared. She finished the sketch, folding the paper and stuffing it into the pocket of her worn jeans. Satisfied, Missy left the room, being sure to lock the door again behind her.

A great hunter never gets caught.

XXX 

"Bet you're glad you came out now, Sammy," Dean chuckled, cutting off the Impala's engine. The Winchesters had been particularly lucky that night, having walked into the bar with a little over a hundred dollars and coming home with nearly a grand. It had been one of the best hits in months, since long before the days of the Batcave. As much as he loved having a place to call home, Dean admittedly missed the days of scamming drunks and just enjoying hitting the bars with Sam. It was why he had been so eager to go in the first place. Besides, sooner or later, Sam would find out about Zeke; it was inevitable. And Dean wanted to have as much fun with his brother that he could before the shit really hit the fan.

"Yeah, it was kind of fun, Sam admitted, pulling the room key out of his coat pocket. He opened the door, switched on the light; and immediately something felt..._ wrong._

"You ok, Sammy?" Dean arched an eyebrow at his brother's facial expression; the one that clearly said _something's off._ Normally he would joke about it, tease Sam about his Spidey Senses, but something about the look on Sam's face made him hold back. But before he could say anything, Sam shrugged it off, sitting on his bed and pulling off his boots. "It's probably noting," the verbal confirmation doing little to settle the unease in the pit of his stomach. "But it feels like, well..." he trailed off a bit, trying to find words to sugar coat how ridiculous his gut feeling sounded, and coming up with nothing. "Guess it feels like someone was here. While we were out."

"Where'd you get that idea, Sherlock?" But Dean was listening. Usually Sam's Spidey Senses were scary accurate.

"It's just...well, I could have sworn that my duffel was on the floor, but now it's on the bed."

"Maybe you were going through it looking for something to wear tonight."

Sam thought a moment, nodded hesitatingly. "Could be." But he couldn't shake the feeling that someone had been in their room. Possibly housekeeping...but when he went to the bathroom to brush his teeth for bed, he found no fresh towels in the bathroom. Dean, if he seemed upset, he most certainly didn't show it, and Sam dropped the subject. He likely was just being paranoid; it was probably nothing.

But it was never _just nothing_ with the Winchesters. He looked across the room at his brother, who was already passed out on his bed, and sighed. It was only one AM (even Dean had obliged to the early night, despite his love of beer and "frisky women" but Sam had a feeling that sleep wouldn't come easy that night. Sure enough, dawn was breaking in the early morning sky before he finally drifted off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks to all who have taken interest in this little story! I'm thrilled that there seems to be such a positive response to my Atlantic Canada series! Thanks to those who have reviewed my last chapter: LilyBolt, deanstheman, and mb64. Hopefully this next chapter will have an even more positive response (hint hint lo). Anyway, thanks also to those who have taken the time to follow, favourite, or just read this. And as always, I don't own **_**Supernatural, **_** that credit goes to the genius that is Eric Kripke.**

**Chapter 3**

Dean's misgivings about hiking had not altered the next morning. Despite the fact that it was early June, the weather was far from promising; heavy clouds threatened to unleash a massive rainstorm, and a rather chilly wind penetrated through their jackets. The Winchesters had been in Atlantic Canada long enough to know that Maritime weather was rather unpredictable, but this fact did little to brighten Dean's mood. Not that he'd let Sammy know. Dean could be dying, _had_ been, and would do all he could to keep that from his younger brother. Of course, most of the time Sam would catch on, and on more than one occasion, had called Dean out on his macho (and more often than not, overprotective) behaviour, to which his brother would either shrug a shoulder, come up with a smartass comeback, or try to change the subject.

This particular morning, however, Sam ignored his brother's attempts at hiding his feelings. Because Sam, also, had been feeling a little uncomfortable with this one. Though it was unlikely that an intruder had been present, he still felt unsettled by the possibility that someone had broken into their room the night before; and while nothing seemed to be missing, Sam was all to aware that this meant nothing. The fact that Dean didn't seem apprehensive was little comfort; his brother was far from stupid (and most definitely not the grunt he seemed to think himself as), and Sam trusted him with his life. But sometimes, gut feelings were hard to ignore. On many other occasions, Dean's gut feelings had turned out to be on the nose, when Sam had believed him to be overreacting.

"Cut it out, Sammy." Dean's voice interrupted the stillness, and Sam quickly snapped back to reality. "Don't want to damage that massive brain of yours." A reappearance of his trademark grin, and Sam smirked in response. This was more than likely Dean's way of trying to shake off his funk. His brother was way too predictable. And a subtle reminder of the task at hand. Misgivings or not, they were on a hunt, and needed to be in top form.

"Maybe we should focus on the Wendigo, Dean." Dean nodded, adjusting his pack. "Aye aye captain."

Sam rolled his eyes. Sometimes his brother's humour was comforting, and admittedly enjoyable. Other times it was a massive pain in the ass.

For a few moments, the brothers hiked in silence. The sun was finally beginning to peak from behind the clouds, and Dean felt his mood improving. Despite the fiasco of the last Wendigo hunt, Dean was more than happy to be on the job. He still wasn't fond of hiking, and wasn't looking forward to tenting it that night, but he still loved the thrill of the hunt; the sense of pride and accomplishment when another fugly was pushing daisies and lives saved. The adrenaline rush of the hunt itself, and the sheer joy of working with his brother. Dean still worried, and would worry until his dying breath, for his brother's safety. And as much as he had missed Sam while he had been at Stanford, he had been so damn grateful that the kid had been safe. But that selfish desire to be at his brother's side trumped any relief he had felt. And now, especially with Zeke in the picture, Dean was more than ever determined to enjoy the time he had with his brother. He was seriously contemplating telling Sam the truth; it killed him to lie to the kid, especially after their recent promise to never withhold information of that magnitude again. But he wanted, _needed,_ one last hunt first.

One last go at normalcy. Well, at least for the Winchesters.

"Dean." Sam spoke in a low voice, gesturing to the claw marks in a nearby pine tree. Dean nodded, examining the scratches in the rough bark. "Looks like our friend has been here recently. These are fresh."

Sam nodded in agreement, eyes peeled for any sign of the creature. "We need to find this guy's lair, pronto." He pulled out his map, scanning the area for any potential nesting spots. "Not much here," pointing at the coordinates of the brother's location, "but looks like there's a potential hotspot to the North East. See here?"

Dean leaned over Sam's shoulder, eyeing the map. "Looks like an abandoned mine." He looked up, confused. "But last I checked, this place isn't exactly minor friendly."

"You're right," Sam agreed, "it isn't. Mostly just sand and gravel. But in the mid to late nineteenth century it was believed that there was coal on the island. Guess someone took that suggestion to heart and built the mine. I doubt it was ever really operational."

"And a perfect place for a Wendigo to hide."

"Exactly." Sam peered at the map again, estimating. "By the looks of it, we should reach the mine by late afternoon, evening at the latest. Guess we're going to be camping out after all."

Dean groaned. "Great." He sighed, pulled out a package of peanut M&M's, scooping up a handful. "Came in handy last time, dude," he grinned when Sam made a face. "Besides, from the looks of things, we won't be stopping for lunch any time soon."

XXX 

As expected, the Winchesters were still about an hour's hike from the abandoned mine by sunset. Under most circumstances, this would not be much of a deterrent; many hunts were preferable under the protection of nightfall, where grave desecration would hardly be given a second glance, or most baddies chose that time of day to come out of hiding. But Wendigos, while powerful during the day, were ten times more lethal after dark; and after the rather unnerving hunt in Black Water Lodge nine years earlier, neither Winchester was willing to initiate a repeat performance.

Dean had fallen asleep with relative ease, despite the uncomfortable sleeping bad and too small tent, but Sam, as expected, was having difficulty drifting off. For one, he was still feeling a bit run down, the after effects of the trials, Dean had insisted; and for another, the suspicion that someone had searched their motel still nagged at him, invading his brain like a parasite. As much as he knew he needed rest, that a tired and barely functional Sam was not a smart option, especially in regards to their current supernatural piece of shit, the younger Winchester remained semi conscious, occasionally drifting off, only to suddenly jolt back into wakefulness at the slightest sound. The sounds of Dean's snoring did little to help matters (_shit, this never bothered me before, and suddenly NOW I can't stand it?_) and Sam found himself burying his face behind his pillow, willing himself to fall asleep.

An hour or so before dawn, just as he was finally about to slip into dreamland, he was jolted awake by a scream. Beside him, Dean's eyes fluttered open. "Wha'fuck was that?" he slurred sleepily."

"I thought I heard a scream. Sounded human." Sam reached for a flashlight and his trusty Taurus, checking the magazine before switching on the safety and tucking it beneath his jeans. As an added precaution, he added a flare gun to his arsenal, in case their monster in question was the culprit. "I'm going out there."

"Sam, in case you didn't notice, there's a freaking Wendigo out there. And you know how super charged they are after dark." Ignoring his brother's remark, Sam reached for the zipper to the tent, pulling it up carefully. "Since when did we care about that, Dean? There's someone out there, and we need to help. It's the "family business, right?" Dean hesitated a moment, before finally reaching for his own flare gun, flashlight, and his Colt 1911. "Yeah, yeah." It was true. He did know that if there was something out there, he would have to check it out. And it made him proud that his brother was just as determined to help people, even after his desire to leave the word of hunting for one of higher education and normalcy. But Sammy's safety always trumped others, and it made Dean more than a little uncomfortable knowing that a creature faster and stronger than either of them would no doubt be lurking in the darkness.

Sam nodded in satisfaction at his brother's reaction, and carefully climbed out of the tent, his brother following suit. They paused, listening for any other sign of something out there, something needing their help. And sure enough, a few minutes later, another ear piercing scream echoed in the distance.

"Sounds like it's coming from the left," Sam whispered, Dean nodding in agreement. Quickly he double checked his arsenal, and satisfied that he was properly armed for a potential Wendigo attack, carefully stepped past the protective barrier, switching on his flashlight. For several minutes, the two made their way through the darkness, scanning any potential nook and cranny for the source of the voice. On two separate occasions, the scream (by this time, identified as that of a young woman or teenager) echoed in the stillness, seemingly from different directions. "Shit," Sam muttered, upon noticing the latest scream seemingly originating behind him.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, eyes peeled for any sign of danger, or their potential victim. "Looks like we may have to split up, Sammy."

"Fuck no!" Sam hissed through clenched teeth. "Remember the last time we split up going after these things?"

"Yeah, well what options do we have?" Dean grunted. "At this rate we're not going to find this girl. That Wendigo is probably out there, and she's a fucking sitting duck until we find her. And I'm not..." he trailed off a bit, before continuing. "Just go with this, ok?"

Sam opened his mouth to retort, a look of pure frustration on his tired face. But in the end, he complied. "Got your phone?" The last thing he wanted was to be out of contact with his brother.

"Yes, I've got my phone." Dean sighed, pulled out his cell and began to set the timer. "Fifteen minutes. I don't find her, we meet back at the tent." Reluctantly, Sam agreed, pulling out his own phone. "Fine. Just be careful, ok, Dean?"

"You too, Sammy."

The brothers synchronized their phones and disappeared into the darkness, eyes ever on the lookout. Five minutes passed uneventfully, and then ten. No further screams could be heard, and before long, Dean began to regret his decision to split up. He hadn't been thrilled with it to begin with; he hated the idea of Sam being alone with a Wendigo on the loose; but the thought of someone dying because of his inactivity bugged him. And he could always communicate with his brother over the phone.

With five mintutes left on the timer, he decided to call it off. Sam was right. As much as he wanted to help anyone trapped out there, Sam's safety was always his number one priority. Eyes still scanning the perimeter, he scrolled through his list of contacts until he found his brother.

"You ok?" Sam hadn't bothered to hide the worry in his voice. Dean smiled to himself. Sam was at the moment alive and well, even concerned for his well being. "Yeah," he confirmed. "Calling it off. Haven't heard anything since we split up, and don't exactly feel like being Wendigo chow."

"Good." Sam was obviously relieved. "On my way back to the tent now. Will be dawn soon anyway, we can look into it in the morning."

"Yeah, sounds g-" But Dean had never had the chance to finish his sentence. The phone dropped to the ground as a sharp pain overwhelmed him, followed by darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: First off, I want to apologize again for the late update. Real life has been a killer! But you all have been waiting so patiently for this, so here we are! Huge thanks to LilyBolt, flygirl33, mb64, kjdw, mandancie, and deanstheman for your recent awesome reviews. And thanks also to those who have followed, read, or added this to their fav****orites list. Warning, this chapter contains scenes of torture, so be forewarned. And as always I don't own **_**Supernatural. **_**All rights reserved.**

**Chapter 4**

Darkness and pain. Intense, nauseating, nearly breathtaking pain. Slowly, Dean opened his eyes, bracing himself for the agony that was sure to come with consciousness; sure enough, the searing fire in his skull was nearly enough to make him vomit last night's supper. For a moment, he expected Sam to bring him a cool glass of water, refreshing and crisp, with a prescription painkiller and enough mother henning to drive him crazy. But when a few minutes passed, with no sign of his brother, Dean realized that there would be no Sam to help him through this latest clusterfuck. No Sam to medicate him, feed him, ensure he was properly taken care of. Instead, he was stuck in some strange dungeon-like...

_What the fuck?_ Dean blinked, regretting the sudden movement as yet another intense jolt of pain caused him to nearly double over. For a moment, he closed his eyes, allowing the dizzy spell to pass, before slowly reopening them, scanning his surroundings. He definitely wasn't in the woods, that was for damn sure; instead, he found himself in some sort of basement, or cellar, something along those lines. In the distance, he could see a crack of light seeping from beneath a door frame, feeble, seemingly taunting him. Not that he would be able to reach it; one look at his writs and the heavy cuffs securing him to the wall were enough to remind him that he wouldn't be going anywhere any time soon. And as extra insurance, he was locked in some sort of cage, barely twelve by twelve square feet in area. Fuck. Just freaking awesome.

Damp too. Dean looked down, shivering in cold, to find himself only wearing his jeans, bare feet and chest exposed to the chill. Just gets better and better. He cursed himself for his foolish decision to go after the sound in the woods himself. Sammy had told him it was a bad idea...

_Sam._ Dean felt his heart nearly leap from his throat in fear at the thought of his brother. Was he here too? Locked somewhere in this fucking dump, hurt and cold? No. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if Sam were hurt, or worse. Willing himself not to pass out from the pain, Dean scanned the area as best as he could, stage whispering his brother's name as often as he dared.

"Sammy?"

Nothing.

Still no response. Was he unconscious? Or...dead? No. He wouldn't believe that. They'd been separated when Dean had been attacked. The more likely scenario was his brother, freaking the hell out, searching the entire goddamned woods for him. Fuck. This was bad. Cursing himself once more for his poor judgement, the young hunter tugged rather vehemently at the chains, spitting curses and insults to no one in particular. This was his fault. He'd failed his brother. Again. Various scenarios, all equally horrifying, flashed before his very eyes: Sam lying in a nearby cell; Sam left to die in the woods, a sitting duck for the Wendigo still wandering in the woods; Sam arriving to his cell for a well timed rescue, only to be murdered before his very eyes by his attacker. Dean shivered again, this time, not only from the cold.

Just as another equally disturbing scenario played before him, the door opened, creaking loudly from misuse; the sudden brightness did little to help the pounding in Dean's skull. Slowly, footsteps echoed in the stillness, closer, until they stopped before the cell. The sight nearly caused the hunter to cry out in shock.

It was not a vampire, shifter, or any other supernatural piece of shit standing before him. In fact, seeing a pissed off ghost or ghoul would have been a hellova lot better than the sight of the young woman standing before him. Long, blond locks, in desperate need of a shampoo, fell upon her shoulders, her clothing worn and equally dirty looking. She couldn't have been no more than eighteen, though one would never tell from the bags beneath her eyes; a deep blue, clear and penetrating, and full of hate. For a moment, Dean stared, trying to figure out what was happening. But then, the girl opened her mouth, her Minnesota accent still present despite nearly a decade as a Maritimer.

"Your brother killed mine. That lady friend of his killed my daddy." And at the sound of her voice, soft and yet terrifying, recognition flooded Dean's eyes. No. It couldn't be her. It couldn't the that little girl locked away in that closet nearly nine years earlier.

He couldn't be looking into the eyes of Missy Bender.

"You killed my family," Missy repeated, slowly pulling a key from the pocket of her jeans. Dean forgot about the pounding headache as the girl slowly turned the key in the lock, opening the door to his cell. "My brother's in jail, daddy and Jared are dead. And you will be too." Slowly Missy pulled a knife from the back of her jeans; Dean watched, trying to swallow the fear that was beginning to overwhelm him, as she approached, toying with the blade with the tip of her finger. "I wanted your brother at first; he killed Jared, but I guess you'll have to do." Slowly she drew the blade of the knife along Dean's chest, a thin trickle of blood trailing along his torso. "This is gonna be fun," she grinned, continuing to draw the knife through the flesh, delighting in the hisses of pain escaping from beneath clenched teeth.

"I swear, if you hurt my brother I'm gonna fucking _kill _you," Dean spat, and Missy chuckled darkly. "I ain't touching your brother," she smiled coldly. "Well, not _yet._ But he's gonna be coming, sure as folk, and when he does," she lowered her voice to barely above a whisper, face deadly serious. "I'll kill him. And make you watch. I can promise you that, boy."

"You hurt him, I swear to god..."

"You'll what? Kill me?" Missy raised the knife, resting it so that it pointed just below his chin; Dean shuddered at the feel of the cold metal against his clammy skin. "I ain't scared of you."

"You better be."

For a moment, Missy considered ending it there, slitting the sonofabitch's goddamned throat for back talking. But what would be the fun in that? She stared at him for a moment before withdrawing her weapon, returning it to its place in the waistband of her jeans. "The worst is yet to come, fucker," she hissed, before leaving the cell, slamming the door shut. The last thing Dean remembered before passing out was the sound of keys jingling in the lock.

XXX

Silence at the end of the line.

Sam stared at his cell phone, a feeling of dread and borderline panic threatening to overwhelm him. This couldn't be happening. He listened for a moment, waiting for, _begging_ his older brother to answer, apologize for dropping his phone, move on. But Sam knew what he had heard, and it sure as hell wasn't the sound of a phone dropping to the ground.

In fact, it sounded more like a human.

Sam stood for a few moments, still registering the shock of what had just happened. It didn't take long, however, for hunter instinct to kick in. He couldn't just stand here, feeling sorry for himself. He had to find Dean. Time was precious at the moment, and if Sam didn't act soon, the odds of finding him in one piece would diminish. And Sam Winchester wasn't about to lose is brother again. Grim determination set over him as he ended the call, searching his apps for the GPS tracker. Sam had insisted that they instal the gadget shortly after upgrading to their smart phones, and both brothers had relied on the new technology a few times since. Only those cases had been false alarms.

This? This was all too real.

Trying not to think of the alternative, Sam waited for the device to connect. A moment later, a red icon flashed on the screen, a few kilometers to the north east. At first, Sam felt a surge of relief; at least now he knew where his brother was, or at least had been. That relief turned to dread when he noticed that the flashing red light on the screen hadn't moved once since the system had been activated. Meaning Dean had dropped his phone.

And was more than likely nowhere near it.

"Fuck," Sam muttered, and that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach threatened to take charge. This was not good. For a moment, he thought of Cas; had even began to pray to him, begging him to bring him to his brother. But Castiel was human now, no more angelic than he was; and in fact, more likely to succeed in getting himself in trouble along with Dean.

For several minutes, Sam manoeuvred through the forest, occasionally shivering in the cool, early summer night. The flashlight did little to penetrate the darkness, and Sam was afraid that he would miss any sign of his brother; it had clouded over, so that not even the pale glow of the moon could pierce through the black of the night. The only way, in fact, that Sam could tell he was on the right track was the GPS, beeping softly in the stillness. He knew he had to find Dean, and fast. Though Sam had not heard the telltale screeches from the other end, he knew that the Wendigo was still out there; and if it had not been the one to take Dean (for Sam suspected, judging from the stillness, that it was not the super charged native American creature which had potentially abducted his brother), it was definitely out there, ready to attack. It may even be pissed that something else had beaten it to the punch. Shuddering at the thought that _two_ supernatural sonsofbitches were after Dean, Sam picked up his pace, barely keeping in the urge to sprint through the forest. As it was, wandering around in Wendigo territory, and unprotected no less, was suicide.

Ten minutes later, Sam found what he was looking for. The soft beeping of Dean's phone could be heard from the right. He shone the light in that direction, the beam reflecting on the screen of the mobile device, its owner nowhere in sight. Heart pounding, Sam scanned the surrounding area, fighting the panic which had, until then, only gradually building, like a pressure cooker. And now, at the sight of his brother's abandoned phone, and the little pool of what was no doubt Dean's blood beside it, Sam felt, for the first time in a year, that he might not see his brother again.

"Dean?" He knew it was foolish to call. Again, fucking Wendigo territory. But fear for his brother trumped that of his own safety. As expected, his risk proved to be unrewarded; no return call of "Sammy" echoing in the distance. Undeterred, he called again, still with no reply. _Get it together, Winchester. You need to calm the fuck down. You're a hunter. Remember what Dad taught me. And Dean._ For a moment, Sam blinked. Had he not heard those very words from his brother, six years earlier, moments before Dean's deal had been due? _Now is not the time. Focus._ Suddenly calmer, Sam began to examine the attack site more thoroughly. Sure enough, drag marks led the way to the left, to his surprise, in the direction of the road. Away from the abandoned mine, away from anything dark and dank enough to be the Wendigo Ritz.

"What the hell?" But there was no time to determine logistics now. Not when Dean's life was potentially at stake. He started down the path, eyes peeled for any sign of danger, cringing as his sneakers crunched against twigs and legs brushed against bushes. The sounds seemed deafening in the stillness, a blatant announcement of his presence. But he didn't care. With each step, further from the camp where not an hour earlier both he and his brother had been safe, together, Sam felt the knot in the pit of his stomach tighten.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: First of all, I really appreciate your patience! Again, real life (and a little writer's block) can be brutal. Second, thank you mb64, kjdw, LilyBolt, and deanstheman for your recent reviews. Thanks also to those who have read, favorited, or followed this. And no, I unfortunately don't own **_**Supernatural.**_

**Chapter 5**

By the time Sam had returned to the motel, he had managed to at least somewhat regain his composure. During his trek in the woods, following the path created by Dean's abductor (he _wouldn't _say killer, not yet), he had more than enough time to calm down, or at least as much as he could considering the circumstances. He would be of no help to Dean in a state of panic; he could miss a vital clue, or end up captured himself. To lose one's wits in a hunt could very well be a matter of life or death and, as much as Sam was reluctant to admit, this scenario was technically another hunt.

_We just gotta chill out, that's all. You know, if this was any other kind of job, what would we do?_

Dean's voice, clear as day. Sam had closed his eyes briefly in remembrance. They'd been in Kansas, investigating potential spirit activity in their childhood home, the one where his mother had died all those years earlier. It had been an emotional one for both brothers, taking its tole on Dean especially. Though he would deny it until he was blue in the face, Sam had known that he had left him by the car in that fill up joint not to use the bathroom, but to gather his emotions, mentally prepare himself for the road ahead. And they had done it. They'd found their dad's former co-worker, tracked down the psychic Missouri Moseley, and had ultimately solved the case and saved young Jenny and her kids.

"We'd find the source," Sam had murmured, opening his eyes. But where was the source? Yeah, he had located the scene of the abduction, was following the trail as we speak, but why? Why Dean? Sam had continued along the trail, not that surprised to learn that it lead to the highway. The fact that the trail had been leading _away_ from the usual Wendigo hotspots was enough to convince him that the creature was not the culprit. Though he hadn't brought an EMF with him, Sam was certain that there was no spirit activity involved either; he hadn't felt the telltale temperature drop. The absence of sulphur hinted that demons, for once, weren't responsible. The lunar cycle was off for werewolves... Sam mentally eliminated from his list of potential culprits as he scanned his surroundings, in search of anything which could lead him to is brother. Vamps? Could be. He'd have to check when he got back to the motel.

And then he had found nothing. No sign of tire treads along the shoulder of the highway; though that meant nothing. If the abductor was smart, any getaway vehicle would be parked on the other side of the road, somewhere where tracks could be easily wiped away. Sam had sighed in frustration; he had reached a dead end. At least the trail had lead him back to the Impala. Grateful for small mercies, he had slid behind the wheel (it should be _Dean_ driving, he had thought as, upon turning the key, Metallica's "Master of Puppets" blared over the stereo), making his way back to the motel. He had to regroup, come up with some sort of game plan.

And now, standing in the doorway of the room where, not twenty-four hours earlier, he had been listening to his brother bitch about hiking, Sam remembered the unsettling feelings from the day before; how he had felt some presence in the room, the moved duffel. Initially he had been quick to accept Dean's theory that it had been nothing. But now, he wasn't so sure. _Someone _had been in their room, and he was damn sure that the culprit was involved in Dean's disappearance. Time was passing; it had been five hours since he'd last had contact with his brother, and every minute without him, not knowing where he was, or if he was even alive, was unbearable. For a moment, Sam thought he was going to break down, completely lose his shit right there, in this crappy motel. But after drawing a few deep breaths, he felt himself calm down. _Don't lose it, calm the fuck down. Don't lose it..._

Finally settled, Sam began a thorough search of the room, searching for any sign of breaking and entering. Nothing. Either the intruder was damn good at the job, or there really _had_ been no break in. And Sam's gut feeling screamed that Option B was really not an option at all. Determined, Sam continued his search, hoping to find something, _anything,_ that would prove that someone had been there. "C'mon you sonofabitch," he murmured, echoing his brother's seemingly favourite catchphrase. Several minutes of futile searching later, Sam was ready to admit that perhaps he had been wrong, that his belief in a perhaps nonexistent intruder and his missing older brother were completely unrelated. Until, hiding beneath the table in the corner, was a torn scrap of fabric.

Sam felt his heart pounding in his chest. This didn't seem to match any of the clothing he or Dean wore. Quickly he pulled a pair of rubber gloves from his arsenal, gingerly lifting the scrap from the carpet to inspect. Sure enough, it didn't match any item from either of the Winchester's wardrobe. Immediately Sam's mind raced as he tried to remember if the torn fabric had been in the room before he and Dean had checked in; if so, its presence would mean nothing and he would be back to square zero. He felt confident that he had not seen it before, but he wasn't completely satisfied with the conclusion. Regardless, Sam carefully stored the material in a Ziploc bag and pocketed it. No doubt a trip to the local police station was in order.

Because Sam's gut feeling was telling him that, in fact, this scrap of clothing had not been there earlier. And Sam Winchester's gut feelings were almost always on the ball. Swallowing the fear that refused to settle, he changed into some clean clothes and headed to the motel's office. No doubt someone was caught on camera, if in fact there had been an intruder.

The proprietor of the motel was a portly man, about fifty years old, dressed in a faded tee with the logo PEI Dirt Shirt across the front and khaki shorts. His thin, greying brown hair, styled in a terrible comb over, did little to disguise the bald spot on the crown of his head, his matching beard in desperate need of a razor. But despite the ragged appearance, the man's soft, brown eyes were friendly, if a little tired, and a warm smile spread across his rather reddish face when Sam walked into the tiny office.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"Yes, I'm a private eye. Name's Sam Ulrich." As he pulled out his latest fake ID, Sam felt relief that it had been Dean who had checked into the motel, while Sam had remained in the Impala. At least he wouldn't recognize him.

Immediately the warm expression on the man's face faded. "Yeah, what business you got here? We don't sell rooms to minors, not once have the cops been here. We haven't even had a noise complaint."

"I have reason to believe that my client is being stalked. He said he checked into this motel a few nights ago. The name's Dean Morse." The man arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by Sam's credentials. "Lemme check, give me a second."

Sam waited impatiently as the man began typing, pulling up information on Dean. He didn't need conformation that a Dean Morse had checked in. He needed access to the damn security cameras. But to demand access immediately wouldn't be wise, and could very well blow him his cover. So he tried to remain calm as the man wasted a few minutes, until finally he looked up from the screen.

"Yes, Mr. Morse checked in two nights ago."

No shit.

"Thank you," Sam smiled instead. "Now would it be any trouble if I could take a peek at your security cameras? Mr. Morse is rather unsettled about this potential threat."

"Then why did he pay with a very traceable credit card? And he didn't seem upset to me, just grumpy."

_So now you remember him, asshole. God, I'm sounding too much like Dean. _"Sir, I can assure you that my client is very upset. Not the smartest guy, I admit. Gonna have to warn him to ease up with the credit."

"Yeah, you do that."

Undeterred, Sam continued. "As I was saying, it would be greatly appreciated if I could have access to your security footage."

"You got a warrant?"

Sam immediately pulled out his wallet, retrieving a handful of crumpled twenties and fifties. Placing the money on the counter and sliding it over, he looked up again at the man, his face stone cold. " Now, if you don't mind. I need to see the camera."

Another glare at Sam, and the man reached for the cash (almost all that Sam had left, but there was no price on Dean's life), pocketing it. "Picture quality is shit, but you can take a look if you want. This way." Sam obliged, following the proprietor to the back of the motel, to a small room with a few ancient television sets, a small desk that looked like something from the local high school, and a cheap, plastic folding chair. "Knock yourself out, just make sure you put everything back when you're done. I don't own a dump, you know."

_That's debatable. _But Sam nodded his thanks, waited for the man to leave, and set to work. As expected, the picture quality was terrible, many of the screens snowy. Rubbing his temples to fight back an impending migraine, Sam watched the footage for several hours, hoping to find something, _anything,_ which would lead to a potential intruder. Nothing.

Finally, after nearly three hours of scouring the grainy footage, Sam found what he was looking for. A figure, no more than five-four in height, dressed completely in black, had crossed the parking lot, finally stopping before the Winchesters' room. Unfortunately, he could see no identifying marks, or even discern a gender. And the suspect was wearing gloves, eliminating the possibility (albeit fleeting) that he or she had left fingerprints. But the sight, at least, confirmed what Sam had always suspected.

There had been an intruder after all.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hi all! I felt so bad about the extremely long wait for the previous chapter that I decided to write this one a little early! So here it is! Thanks to mandancie, LilyBolt, Littlefish, mb64 and deanstheman for your reviews and everyone else for reading, following and/or adding this to your favourites! And you know the drill, I sadly don't own **_**Supernatural. **_**Hope you all had a wonderful holiday and Happy New Year!**

**Chapter 6**

Her cousins don't like the guest in the cellar. Rick said he's gonna attract attention. Benders might be reclusive, but there aren't many young men driving vintage Impalas in the area, and the locals might be suspicious. Sure, they may mind their own business and live off the grid, but the folks who do know of them are mighty suspicious. Jake didn't like how the brother was still out there. "Remember what happened to Jared 'n Lee?" he told her after bringing the one named Dean home. "He's gonna want to find 'im Missy, and when he does..." Jake said nothing but left the kitchen with a shrug. The threat did nothing to upset Missy, though. She was a Bender. Benders hunt. The man's brother had hurt her family. And _no one_ kills her pa and gets away with it.

But even though her cousins weren't happy with Missy's plan, they did nothing to stop her. Hunting was still in their blood, and they definitely wanted to teach those boys a lesson. They could hear the yells of pain from the cellar, the curses and threats. Sometimes Missy would come back in with a devilish smile on her face, satisfied with her handiwork and the sheer fun of inflicting pain. Other times she would return quietly, as one who has just gone through a day's hard work and wishes only to kick back her feet and relax with a bottle of Pinot Noir and a warm bath. But not once did Rick and Jake notice anything resembling regret.

The boy'd been here for days, the longest the Benders had ever kept a hunting trophy. Missy would bring him enough food to keep him alive until the brother, the one he called "Sammy" found him. A few stale slices of bread and warm water. At first, he wouldn't touch it, probably out of spite, but after a day or so, he ate it. She had chuckled the moment he had taken that first bite. He was caving. She was sure. He still put up a fight, but Missy knew that eventually, he'd be hers. And soon, so would her brother. It was time to start baiting the shark.

XXX

He was weakening. Dean knew it. It had taken a while, he _was_ John Winchester's son, but the restraints biting into his writs, his hunger, the blood loss... the goddamned cold was getting to him. He had resisted at first, fighting back as best he could. He couldn't die. Because then, who would look after Sammy? And so he had held on, eventually even eating the shit she served that Missy called food to keep his strength up. But the days had worn on, and Dean could feel his strength fading, his optimism failing. He had no doubt that Sam would find him; he always did. But Dean was terrified that he would find him too late...only to end up being another of the bitch's playthings. The thought sent chills along his spine...and they had nothing to do with the cold.

He could hear the door to the cellar opening and Dean braced himself. She came down three times a day, like clockwork, always taunting, torturing in ways that would almost rival Alistair himself. And even though he expected these visits, the creak of rusty hinges never failed to sicken him. But there was no way he would show fear. The minute Missy Bender saw any signs of terror would be the minute she'd walk away the victor. She'd have crushed his spirit, like an insignificant ant. And there was no way in Hell that Dean Winchester was going to let her have the satisfaction. And so, when the cell door opened and Missy walked in, Dean responded with one of his trademark smart ass comments:

"Nice of you to drop in. Maybe next time you'll remember the room service."

Missy ignored Dean's remark, instead slapping him across the face. Dean winced in pain, willing himself not to cry out. He could definitely take a lot, had broken his damn leg, dislocated god knows how many shoulders, had been shot more times than he could count...and was now being tortured by a fucking teenager. It was too much. He looked up, green eyes seething with anger at the young woman before him, a woman who should be worrying about pimples and getting into a great university instead of the "safety school," one who should be dreaming about prom dates and worrying about homework, not torturing people. For a moment, Dean thought about his own life, and how circumstances had affected it significantly, just as they had for young Missy Bender. What if she had grown up with a normal family, with Christmas dinners and birthday parties and family trips to the beach? It was a thought that Sam would normally conceive, and immediately Dean pushed it from his mind. Because circumstances _had_ played their part, had ruined Missy Bender's life. But she was still the evil, demented person standing before him. The one who had used him as bait to lure Sammy here.

As if to prove his point, Missy approached Dean, hatred in her eyes, careful to avoid places where the hunter could lash out. "You hurt my daddy," she whispered. It was like a broken record. She repeated the phrase every time, to the point where Dean almost wished that she would say something else. "You know, there are other words in the dictionary. Look 'em up." In response, Missy punched Dean viciously in the face.

"On second thought..."

"You've brought death to my family. You need to pay for that."

"Like the ones your daddy and your brothers killed, huh? What about them? You're what, so much better than them?"

Anger flashed in Missy's eyes as she pulled out a dagger and pressed it against Dean's carotid artery. "Say that one more time and I'll kill you right now, brother or not."

"Fuck you." In response, Missy pressed the tip of the knife deeper into flesh and Dean winced. "I'd be careful, boy. You're not the hotshot you pretend to be down here. One word and I slit your throat." Obediently Dean nodded. Death would be welcome, to be truthful, but he knew he had to live. For Sammy. Because if Dean died there would be no one to save his brother when he inevitably arrived to his rescue.

"Better." Missy smiled, removing the cold steel from Dean's throat. Instead, to the hunter's surprised, the girl pulled out a cell phone: the last thing he'd expect her to have. Upon further inspection, he recognized the device as his own. "I ain't never had no iPhone," she announced, but Jake an' Rick stole enough for me to figger out how to use 'em." Dean watched in disgust as Missy backed away, fingers sliding agross the screen until she had found the camera ap. "I think Sammy'll like this one."

"You bitch..." The flash of the camera phone illuminated the dimly lit space, temporarily blinding Dean. A minute later, she pocketed the phone. "Ricky taught me how to send emails," she smiled. "I think your brother'll like the one I just sent him. Without a word, she turned and headed back upstairs. Once alone, Dean vomited, dry heaving what few stomach contents remained. When finally the heaves had eased, he leaned against the side of the wall, trying to swallow the fear growing in the pit of his stomach. Sam would get that text; and he'd do the exact same thing Dean would have done if the situations were reversed. He knew his brother would drop move heaven and earth to find him. He might even try to contact Cas, even though that was unlikely. The ex angel was now vulnerable to attack and Sam would never allow him to risk his life, even for Dean's. That, too, terrified him; he knew that if Cas was aware of his captivity, his friend would risk his own life for Dean's. Not an option.

"Sonofabitch," he murmured.

XXX

The video camera was a no go. Truthfully, Sam had had a sinking feeling that the lead would get him nowhere; the picture quality had been crap, at best, and the image vague. Judging by the body type, Sam had a feeling that the intruder was female, but this revelation was of little help. Desperate, Sam searched the local newspapers, hoping to read of any string of female breaking and enterings; and when no results could be found, he extended his search to males, regardless of his conclusions regarding the suspect's physique. At one point, Sam even researched possible hauntings, despite the fact that there seemed to be no sign of spirit activity.

Nothing.

Hours had turned to days, and Sam Winchester was nowhere near finding his brother. A scenario he was all to familiar with. He closed weary hazel eyes, looking back on the times he had failed his older brother:

"_I'm not letting you go to Hell!" "Yes, you are."_

"_...It had to be you, Sammy. It always had to be you. You saved us. You set him free..."_

"_Dean, I'm sorry..."_

Words Sam found all to familiar. Allowing Dean to go to Hell... releasing Lucifer from the Cage... not looking for Dean while he was in Purgatory. His brother had always been there for him, had forgiven him for every single shit storm he'd caused since his fucking _birth._ And he'd screwed up.

"_You wanna know what I confessed in there? What my greatest sin was? It was how many times I let you down."_

"Not this time," Sam muttered. Determined, Sam picked up another paper and began to read, ignoring the pounding of his head and the overwhelming exhaustion which threatened to take over. He needed rest, a stiff drink and a good night's sleep. But he couldn't. Not when Dean's life was at stake. Ignoring the agony, Sam continued until finally he fell into a restless sleep, one plagued by nightmares of his brother.

_Dean lies lifeless on the ground, face bloodied and bruised, green eyes staring sightlessly at a greying sky. Sam can feel his heart pounding in his chest as he approaches, praying for the best but expecting the worst. His brother is dead. He knows it in his heart...he' could feel that same numbness he'd had after New Harmony, Broward County, Dick Roman's headquarters at SucroCorp. Sam reaches his brother, tears blurring his vision. Dean is dead. Gently Sam picks up his body, cradles him in his arms,_"_ warm tears gently dropping on bloodied cheeks. Suddenly Dean blinks, stares at his brother with hatred. "You did this," he hisses, smiling ghoulishly. "You killed me. Little Sammy Winchester fucks up again..."_

"_No." Sam shakes his head in denial, Dean still in his arms. "I tried Dean. God. I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry..._

Sam's eyes snapped open, startled by the buzzing and vibrations of his phone. The nightmare lingering still, Sam reached for the device, scanning the caller ID. It was an email. From Dean's number. Daring himself to hope, Sam opened the text, praying for news that his brother was safe, had escaped and was on his way home.

Instead, Sam found no message, only an attachment. Suddenly a wave of nausea began to overwhelm him. Dean was one to call, leave voicemails. On rare occasions he would text, though he preferred to avoid that means of communication, claiming it to be far from manly. Never emails. Swallowing his fear, Sam opened the attachment, dreading the image that was about to fill his screen.

Dean is lying on the ground, wrists chained to a stone wall by heavy cuffs. He is wearing only dirty jeans, his feet and torso bare, chest riddled with superficial wounds. One eye was swollen shut, his face dirty and caked with blood. He looked freezing cold and on the brink of starvation, but Sam recognized the grim determination on his face. The look that clearly said "fuck you, I'm not letting you get the best of me." Sam dropped the phone, face ashen.

Then he promptly hurried to the bathroom to rid himself of his breakfast.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thank you LilyBolt, kjdw, mb64, and deanstheman for your reviews! And thanks to everyone favoriting, following, or just reading this story. And as always, I don't own **_**Supernatural. **_** All rights reserved.**

**Chapter 7**

Sam stared at the image on his phone, hands shaking. The image of Dean, weak, seemingly helpless, threatening to break... for a moment, he almost felt the urge to wretch again. This could not be the same man who faced supernatural crap on a seemingly daily basis, who stood his ground against Lucifer himself. Sam was aware that images could be deceiving, and that there was no way his brother would just give up that easily. He was Dean Winchester, after all. The though provided small comfort, however, the sight of his sibling beaten, tortured, boring into his skull, agonizing, twisting at his thoughts. "God, Dean," he moaned, finally tearing his eyes from the screen. He couldn't look at Dean in this condition, at least not now. Logically Sam knew that this photo was the only evidence he had so far in regards to his brother's abduction, and could be a vital clue to his whereabouts, but now, it only served as a grim reminder of how he had failed him yet again. Once again, the selfish desire to contact Cas, regardless of his new found human status, nearly overwhelmed him. But he couldn't put his friend in danger; and Dean would kill him for doing so: Cas was family, no matter how badly he had screwed up in the past. And Sam knew a thing or two about making seemingly irreparable mistakes.

For this one, Sam was on his own.

Sam's thoughts were interrupted when his phone buzzed again. Dreading what he might see, he accepted the new message, swallowing the bile forming from beneath his throat. Sure enough, the sender had sent yet another message, this time (thank God) image free. Three simple words, yet they chilled Sam to the core: _Ain't this fun?_

"You sick fuck," Sam hissed, repulsed. Disgusted, Sam tossed the cell onto his bed, the phone landing with a gentle thud on the bedspread. For a few minutes, he indulged in anger and fear, pacing along the tiny room in search of something, _anything, _to save Dean. And then, he suddenly froze in mid pace, heart pounding in his chest. He had forgotten about the best clue he had so far. "Dean's phone," he breathed, reaching for his neglected device. Earlier, at the moment of Dean's disappearance, Sam had relied on the GPS to find Dean's phone. But, being a hunter (and a Winchester, at that) the man had several back up cells in case of emergency. He must have been carrying one on him, and his captor had found it. Or, if not, the IP address would pinpoint to the abductor. Sure enough, the email had been sent from Dean's back up phone.

"Thank God," Sam murmured, activating the GPS. For once, the dreaded Winchester luck was seemingly on his side. At least for the time being. Impatiently he waited for the signal to catch, praying that the battery life on the phone was at least half. For a moment, there was nothing,and Sam began to wonder if his plan would even work. And then, faint, a beep coming from the phone. Dean's phone was somewhere to the North-East of the province, along the edge of a relatively vast woodland area. _Makes sense. Of course Dean would be taken someplace reclusive. _Fortunately for the youngest Winchester, the province was small; it would take maybe an hour or so to reach the phone (and, hopefully, Dean). Sam could only pray that the _had_ an hour.

"Hang on, Dean," Sam muttered, racing to the Impala.

XXX

Missy stared at the phone, the little bar on the corner rapidly diminishing. She had never had, or even actually _seen_ a smartphone before, but knew enough about electronics enough to know that the battery life was next to nothing. Another half hour, maybe, and she didn't have any way to charge it. Not that it really mattered. Perhaps she couldn't send anymore pictures to the brother,but Missy Bender knew that he was coming. And what better way to trap the brother? Smiling to herself, Missy left the kitchen, phone in hand, and climbed into Jared's old pick up.

XXX

The phone was somewhere off Baltic Road. Eyes focused, heart racing, Sam steered the Impala to its destination. To Dean.

XXX

Dean could hear the crunch of tires on gravel even from his underground prison. He cringed as the sound grew fainter in the distance, eventually disappearing entirely. Dean felt his heart sinking. Those goddamned Benders had never left in the five days he'd been here, and suddenly they were out for a joy ride? Sam was close. He had to be. And it was too easy. Sam was a brilliant hunter, one of the smartest, but it should've taken him at least another four days or so to find him. PEI was small, but not _that_ small. It was obvious that the bitch was setting a trap for his brother. And Dean knew damn well that Sammy would fall for it.

Because if the roles were reversed, Dean would have done the same thing.

"If you hurt my brother _I'm going to fucking KILL YOU!"_

XXX

The trap was set. Missy smiled to herself as she climbed back into the beaten Ford, the nearly dead phone lying abandoned on the side of the road. This was going to be fun.

XXX

Once more the door opened, the bright light sensitive, blinding Dean. He winced in pain, shivering despite himself. Sam was coming, and while it gave him slight hope that he would kill the bitch and get him out of here, he knew that in all likelihood, his younger brother would be placed in a cell beside him. Despite himself, a single tear threatened to spill, but Dean quickly blinked them back. He couldn't give up. Not after everything his father had taught him. Not after everything _he_ had taught _Sam._ And so Dean Winchester put on one of his toughest faces, pure hatred radiating from mossy eyes. A moment later, Missy appeared from the shadows, a malevolent smile spreading across her face.

"Guess who's comin' for supper?" she chirped, one finger sliding carelessly along a steel bar. "My daddy said it ain't polite to not have neighbours for supper. An' I reckon a nice little fellow's on his way right now."

"Don't you _dare_ lay a finger on him."

"Now, now, that wasn't polite," Missy singsonged, her smile widening. "Daddy told me to always be polite to your host." She stared coldly through the bars, pulling out her set of keys. "That'll cost ya. _Boys_!" The last yelled, and a moment later, two larger men, dressed in torn jeans and dirty t-shirts made their way downstairs, each armed with a heavy bat. Dean winced, bracing himself for the inevitable pain. "That'll teach you from being rude to a lady," Missy sneered, opening the doors to Dean's cell wide.

XXX

The Impala skidded to a stop on the shoulder of the highway, along the end of a narrow, rutted driveway leading into the forest. Without hesitation, Sam dashed from the car, desperately searching for the phone. Above, the heavens threatened to downpour, the low rumble of thunder echoing in the distance. He had to find the phone before the rain.

It didn't take long. Dean's abandoned phone lay on the gravelled shoulder, beeping faintly, reminding its owner to connect to a charger immediately. As Sam reached for the nearly dead device, an feeling of unease threatened to stop him in his tracks. This was all too easy: the texts; connecting the dots on finding the IP address; the GPS on the phone which happened to conveniently be losing its battery only now. This was a perfect set up, the clear signs of a trap.

"_I lost my brother, Dean, a few months ago. It felt like my world imploded and came raining down on me, and...I ran."_

"Not this time." Trap or no trap, there was no way Sam Winchester was going to abandon his brother again. He was well aware of the repercussions; if he was lucky, Dean would be more than pissed at his recklessness; and if he wasn't, one, or both of them, would be dead. But it was a risk he had to take. Determined, Sam picked up the abandoned phone, heading for the trunk of the Impala. He still had no clue what he was up against; he had a feeling that he would be facing humans, but a hunter had to always be prepared. Quickly Sam grabbed his Taurus, armed with both salt and live rounds, Ruby's knife carefully tucked beneath his belt, and made his way along the lonely drive. The walking was rough, the narrow passage overgrown and riddled with wide ruts, and Sam had to be careful to avoid twisting or spraining an ankle. Fortunately, after five minutes, the driveway smoothed into a gravel packed lane, and walking was significantly easier. Careful to avoid any sign of detection, Sam eased off the driveway and into the woodland, eyes peeled for any sign of activity, supernatural or otherwise. Tire tracks lead along the way, ensuring Sam that he was at least on the right track.

After another few minutes of walking, the tree line finally broke, revealing a dilapidated farmhouse, standing almost proud beyond an open field, littered with abandoned cars.

_Hibbing, Minnesota. The monster with the rumbling growl... locked in a cage in the basement of an abandoned farmhouse. _

"Shit." Sam felt his knees buckle slightly beneath him. It had happened seven years ago, but suddenly it seemed like just yesterday. He closed his eyes, repulsed by the memory. A memory of humans being hunted like dogs, their pictures hung like trophies on the wall; of abandoned cars riddling the yard, reminders of previous owners long gone; of his brother, tied to a chair, a hot poker aimed at his throat by a young, deranged girl...

For the second time in his life, Sam Winchester was about to be face to face with a Bender.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Huge thank you to those still sticking with this, even though RL had been killer lately! Thanks so much to mb64, LilyBolt, kjdw, and mandancie for reviewing chapter 7! And thanks also to those who have taken the time to read, follow and/or favourite this. Your support is overwhelming! And as always, I don't own the boys or **_**Supernatural,**_** just borrowing them!**

**Chapter 8**

Dean Winchester had never felt so helpless as he did at this moment. Chained to the wall like a goddamned animal, bruised, beaten, flesh carved across his chest... it was humiliating, to say the least. And that the bulk of the torture was inflicted by a teenager added insult to injury. And now, to be beaten like a fucking pinata at a child's birthday party... it was too much. Dean tried to fight back, aiming a few week punches despite his secured hands, and even landing a kick here or there in the two assholes's family jewels, but in his weakened state, hacking coughs, and seemingly uncontrollable shivers, the volleys did little to hinder his attackers. Between whacks with the bat, the two Bender boys took turns kicking Dean in the ribs, along the leg. Initially it surprised the hunter that the duo were avoiding blows to the head, which would likely kill him within a few minutes. But then, he remembered the plan to lure Sam here, to make him watch while they murdered his brother. No. That was not going to happen. With a newfound determination, Dean concentrated on quelling the pounding headache and nausea that threatened to overtake him, the elder Winchester dodged yet another blow to the ribs, grasping at one of the bats; the Bender cousin paused in surprise, and Dean saw a brief window of opportunity open. Grasping at the bat with sudden strength, Dean quickly rammed the butt of it against the one named Jake's head; he staggered backwards, clutching the side of his face, temporarily blinded by blood.

But it was still three against one, Missy, who had been watching from the sidelines, suddenly stepping in. As Rick continued to pummel Dean with the bat, Missy kicked Dean across the side of his head; waiting be damned. Darkness, followed by pain, as Dean slipped into unconsciousness, his weapon crashing uselessly to the ground.

XXX

Sam could hear the sickening sounds of his brother, groaning in agony, and the echo of blows coming from near the farmhouse. Willing himself to keep from sprinting in the direction of the horrific noises, Sam drew his weapon, made his way cautiously to the source of his brother's pain. Sure enough, the cries came from beneath a heavy set of wooden doors below the home, like a storm shelter or cellar. A heavy set of chains, secured by a padlock, held the double doors in place, ominous, like a prison cell. But as smart as the Benders were, none of them could pick a lock as well as a Winchester. His heart sank with each agonizing cry as Sam pulled out a lock pick and began working on the padlock, eyes darting around in search of anyone who might want to disrupt his plans. _Hang on, Dean,_ he thought to himself, swallowing the intense fear as he worked.

And then, it became quiet. _Too _quiet. And suddenly, caution was thrown completely out the window. "DEAN!" Thankfully, the lock released, snapping open, and Sam threw open the doors to the cellar, Taurus aimed into the darkness below. He hurried along a set of wooden steps, rotten with age, towards a more secure metal door. "Fuck," Sam muttered, pulling at the door knob. Maybe, if Dean's attackers (he still refused to say "killers", not yet) were still in there, the door would be unlocked.

Sure enough, the heavy door gave way with relative ease, creaking slightly as he pushed it open. Common sense prevailed, and Sam carefully stepped into the dimly lit chamber.

Where once again Sam Winchester vomited what little remained in his stomach.

There, bloodied, beaten, in a small, dirty cell, lay his brother, blood pooling from a large gash across his forehead. He was naked from the waist up, several lacerations crisscrossing across his bare chest, the blood long since congealed; he was chained to the wall like a dog, heavy cuffs securing his wliprists, arms now dangled loosely at his side. He looked so still, that for one horrifying moment, Sam thought he was dead.

"DEAN!" His brother's name escaped from trembling lips as Sam clutched the bars of the cage. Again, the doors swung open with ease, and again, Sam ignored his hunter's instincts as he rushed to his side. He knew it was a trap, or at least had a sinking feeling as such, but at the moment, he didn't care. All he saw was his brother, chained and tortured and likely dead, and it was _his _fault.

_I should have never let him go out in the woods._

_I should have never agreed to split up._

_I shouldn't have kept feeling so tired from him..._

He cried his brother's name again, frantically feeling for a pulse. He found one (_thank God_) but it was weak, thready. His skin was cold to the touch, lips slightly lue, a sign of hypothermia, and Sam realized just how cold and damp in here, despite the relatively warm early June temperatures outside. "God, Dean," Sam murmured, fumbling with a trusty paperclip to free him from his cuffs. Again, an overwhelming sense of guilt washed over him, and for a moment, Sam's emotions threatened to overcome him. He knew he couldn't lose his cool, not now of all moments, but the sight of his big brother, the strong one, in such a state... it was too much. And suddenly, every moment Dean had been hurt, or worse, flashed before Sam's eyes, every memory in vivid detail.

He saw his brother, unmoving, amid a pool of water, his tazer useless at his side.

Dean's lifeless body jerking under the powerful current of the defibrillator as doctors tried desperately to revive him as the steady hum of the flatline echoed in the hospital room.

Unseeing green eyes staring at the ceiling as Sam cradles his bloodied body, his body shaking with his powerful sobs.

The sound of the click as one cuff snapped free echoed in the tiny chamber, Dean's hand limply falling to his side. Immediately Sam started on the second one, but as he slipped the pin inside the keyhole, he could sense a presence behind him, the gentle sound of the footsteps of one trying in vain to remain silent. On alert (Sam still _was_ a hunter, and a damn good one), the younger Winchester reached gently for his Taurus, still working on the lock. He hoped that the intruders would be naive enough to believe that Sam hadn't caught them in the act, but considering the relatively elaborate plan to abduct and torture his brother, not to mention his suspicions that the Bender family were the culprits, there was nothing that would surprise Sam Winchester at the moment. With a little prayer to whatever higher power or angel or whatever who was still listening, he finished with the final cuff, and immediately turned around, gun drawn.

Sure enough, Sam was standing face to face with three humans, two men no doubt in their late twenties to early thirties, and a young woman, probably in her late teens. The trio looked dishevelled, wearing worn, dirty clothing and faces hard of stone. One held a bloodied baseball bat (_Jesus,_ Sam thought as he quickly connected the weapon to his unconscious older brother), one brandishing a sawed off, and the girl clutching a hunting knife. And all three looked as if they knew how to kill.

"Let me guess. You're Benders," Sam hissed, weapon aimed at the one with the shotgun. They nodded, eyes peeled to their prey; there was an audible snap as the gun wielding Bender cocked his weapon, and the other one with the bat slowly began to advance. "We was waiting for yer brother to wake up," he snarled, a wicked grin creeping across his face. "We wanted him to see when we killed his little brother."

"So this is it, huh? You wanted revenge on your family." Something Sam, believe it or not, understood. He had lost his mother before he had even had the chance to know her or call her Mommy; he had witnessed Jess burning from the ceiling. Sometimes the smell of burned flesh still haunted him in his nightmares. Sam turned to the young woman, weapon still aimed at Gun Guy. "Missy, right? The little girl we locked in the closet."

"You killed my pa," she answered simply.

"Your pa tried to kill me and my brother." Sam could feel the rage burning inside, and he drew a deep breath to steady himself. "I'm sorry you lost your dad, but we did what we had to do. Now step away, let me take my brother and go."

"Or else?" Bat Guy demanded, tapping his weapon casually, and yet coldly, against the palm of his hand.

"Or else you live to regret the day you fucked with a Winchester."

Bat Guy hesitated for a moment, actually backed a cautious step, but the other two Benders refused to back down from Sam's threat. "Was gonna wake up yer brother," Gun Guy snapped, "but looks like we's gonna have to kill you first." Anticipating the action, Sam attacked, the bullet from the gun harmlessly lodging itself in the ceiling above. Undeterred, Sam fired a round in his leg; Gun Guy screamed in pain, the weapon falling harmlessly to the ground as he clutched at the wound. Sam kicked it away, the weapon skittering across the floor. In retaliation, Bat Guy was on the attack, landing a few solid hits on Sam before he was able to draw Ruby's knife, slashing at his attacker.

Sam Winchester was a brilliant hunter; one of the best, second only to his brother and, when he was alive, his father. But all three Winchesters had had but one weakness, the one Achilles Heel which threatened to take them down every time without fail. Every fatal mistake had been the result of family and that intense desire, _need,_ to protect the other: their father's possession by Yellow Eyes, and ultimately the accident which nearly claimed Dean's life, had been initiated by Meg's call and subsequent threat; though his failure to kill Jake had been the initial reason, when Sam had been stabbed in the back at Cold Oak,the sight of his brother had left him so relieved, he had temporarily let his guard down; and the most obvious example was the deal Dean had made afterwards, the one bringing little Sammy Winchester back from the dead in exchange for his soul.

And now, in this shitty little root cellar in rural Prince Edward Island, that Winchester curse once more reared its ugly head. Fearing for his brother's life, for a fraction of a second, Sam let his guard down. For any other baddie, perhaps it wouldn't have been a significant error; but these weren't just ordinary foes, or even ordinary humans. This was Missy Bender, the little girl whose father and brother had been killed by his hands. It mattered not that the young deputy, Kathleen, had been the one to pull the trigger. In her eyes, those boys had killed her family. And that fraction of a second was all Missy Bender needed. Eyes wild with hatred, she thrust her blade into Sam's chest; with a heavy thud, he collapsed to the ground, clutching at the blade. Little did she know that she had gotten her wish. Because, roused from unconsciousness by the sound of gunfire, Dean Winchester had once again watched his brother die.

XXX

Dean regained consciousness at the sound of a gunshot echoing in the darkness. Slowly his eyes fluttered open, only to squeeze shut again at the searing agony from his temple. For a moment, he struggled to regain his senses, gather his bearings. He was in his cage, stiff fucking freezing his ass off...and his wrists were free. Blinking back the fog of his vision, Dean struggled to push back the haze and fight the urge to be sick (not that he had eaten enough in the past week or so). He blinked, finally gaining control of his fuzzy senses...

In time to see his brother being stabbed before his very eyes.

_No! _ This couldn't be happening. Not Sam. Not his Sammy.

_I'm gonna take care of you. I've got you. That's my job, right?_

"SAMMY!"

It was over in moments. Dean grabbed the abandoned shotgun which, somehow, was lying a few feet away and fired. Neither Bender knew what hit them. Missy turned in time to hear the blast, the impact slamming her against the door of the cage; seconds later, her cousins lay beside her, dead. But Dean ignored them, the weapon falling uselessly to the ground, as he knelt by his brother, struggling to keep his composure.

"Sam? S-Sam?" Sam looked up at his brother, hazel eyes already starting to gloss over, blood trickling from his lips. But he smiled, reached for his brother's arm. "Dean..."

"Shh don't talk, okay? I've got ya, I'm here, but you've gotta do your part, right, little brother?" Sam nodded, a look which clearly said _stop lying Dean, I'm dying and you know it so stop already. _He opened his mouth to speak, gasping for breath, clutching at his brother's arm as tightly as he could, but no words came. Slowly, Dean felt the weakened grasp of his brother's hand dropping uselessly to his side, as life slipped away, like receding tide.

And once again, Dean Winchester's world shattered before him.

**A/N : PLESASE DON'T HATE ME! lol** **But this story isn't over yet, so please stick around! (and not to spoil, but I will remind you that when I publish a death fic I give fair warning, just sayin'). **


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: I knew I couldn't drag on this chapter, not after that horrible cliff hanger (mwahahaha!) so here's the next chapter! Huge thanks to mandancie, deanstheman, LilyBolt, FallenAngelWolf aka lilysmom09, and mb64 for your latest reviews! And thank you also to those who followed, favorited, or even just read this! And as always, I don't own the boys, just borrowing them. Enjoy!**

**Chapter 9**

"Sam?" Dean's voice, quiet, broken, seemed to echo in the stillness of the cellar. "Sammy?" He held his brother's body in his arms, shaking him gently, as if that simple movement would somehow bring Sam back. Nothing but silence, hazel eyes once bright with light now dim, cold, unseeing. And yet, somehow, Dean wouldn't, _couldn't,_ accept that his little brother was gone. Gone was the warm smile, the brow that furrowed when he frowned, the random facts Sam would sometimes recite, just to get a rise out of his older brother. Never again would Sam bitch at him for freezing the laptop on or worry about his poor eating habits and excessive drinking. Never again would they sit on the hood of the Impala, sharing beers and just watching the endless scattering of stars.

"No. Nononono. God, please no."

A single tear squeezed from one swollen eye as Dean held Sam close, shaking with grief. This was all his fault. It was _his_ idea to go after those noises in the woods; _his _idea to ignore Sam's gut instinct about the intruder in the motel. Because of him, his brother was lying dead in his arms, only this time, there would be no demon deal to bring him back. For several minutes he cried, softly, quietly, running his fingers through his brother's too long hair. And when he finally stopped, wiping his eyes with the back of a trembling hand, he remembered that night in Detroit, when the reaper April had killed Cas. Sam had somehow snapped into Ezekiel mode and had brought him back. And there was Charlie too, back at the bunker. She had been gone, but with one touch, Ezekiel had saved her, too. Would the angel have the power to do it one last time? Was he even still there?

"Ezekiel. Come on, Zeke, you've still got to be around here. Listen man, I really need your help here. Sammy's gone", Dean's voice wavered slightly as he finally admitted what he desperately didn't want to. "I know you still need him to charge your batteries, right? Look, I know he said he wanted to die and all that. But I can't let him go. Not yet. So you have to help me. You've gotta bring him back." Dean closed his eyes, and a fresh tear slid down his cheek. "Please, Ezekiel," he whispered. "Please."

For a moment, nothing, and Dean began to fear that the angel had abandoned ship, in search for a new vessel. He looked down at his brother's body, unable to stare into those dead eyes, and gently brushed them closed with his hand. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm so sorry."

And then, suddenly, a bright light illuminated the dark chamber. Dean leaned back, heart skipping a beat, face still damp with tears. And then, a gasp as Sam sat bolt upright, eyes wide in surprise, the knife suddenly falling harmlessly from a would that no longer was.

"Sammy!" Without hesitation, Dean pulled his confused, gasping little brother in as strong a hug as his weakened state could provide, relishing in the warmth of skin that only mpioments ago was so deathly cold. Confused, Sam acknowledged the embrace, but eventually pulled gently away.

"Dean, what the hell..." Dean opened his mouth to try to come up with some reasonable explanation for his brother's sudden resurrection, but was fortunately spared the awkward lies when Sam's fear for his own brother's well being kicked into overdrive. "Dean, are you alright? You need a hospital." Once more Dean tried to protest, but wisely chose to say nothing. To admit to his brother about his recent stab wound and subsequent death would be to share about Zeke. And the angel had warned Dean of the consequences therein."No hospitals," he muttered instead, trying to sit up; and failing miserably. Now that the danger had passed and the adrenaline had warn off, Dean once more felt like he, too, was on the brink of death. But there was no way in hell that he was going to the hospital.

"You don't have a say in this one," Sam replied through gritted teeth. Gingerly, he sat up, mercifully oblivious (or perhaps, opting to ignore) the blood covered knife at his side. Dean, however, noticed the sight, aware that Winchester DNA was all over the place. Luckily, the Bender farm was secluded, but eventually someone would notice that something was not right. And Sam had probably taken the Impala. Jesus Christ. "Yeah, but first we gotta clean this place up." Sam reluctantly agreed. "I will, but you're getting out of this shithole first. And you lie down."

Again, Dean tried to protest but remembered how one misspoken word would let the cat out of the bag regarding Sam's angelic companion. With a slight nod, Dean allowed himself to be led from his prison. He was still incredibly lightheaded, no doubt malnourished and hypothermic, and had lost a fair bit of blood; moving was proving to be more than a little challenging. And the fact that the one helping him had been clinically dead not five minutes ago... well, defying the natural order was the Winchester way. It should be printed on the family crest, Dean thought with a hint of a smile.

The June sun was warm, but after a week in near total darkness, the bright sunshine felt agonizing on his sensitive eyesight. Dean blinked, fighting off another fit of dizziness, as Sam led him to a safe spot near the home. It bothered him to leave his brother unattended, but he knew that Dean couldn't spend another minute in that cellar, for both physical and psychological reasons. Dean Winchester was a tough man, had endured thirty years of torture under the hand of Alistair, and he would likely bounce back relatively quickly from his ordeal. But Sam wasn't about to take any chances with his brother's well being, physical or otherwise. So he quickly left him, Sam's jacket draped around his shoulders for warmth, while he hurried as fast as he could to rid to crime scene of any evidence. Finally, satisfied that the brothers would not be linked to the crime, or at least the risk minimal, Sam made his way back outside, where Dean was still leaning, fighting off unconsciousness.

"Okay, man, it's time to get you outta here." Sam grasped his brother by the shoulders, still frightened by how sick he looked, and guided him along the long drive to the waiting Impala. As expected, Dean didn't even make it to the car before passing out, and Sam was resorted to a fireman carry. Finally, after what seemed like hours but was, in fact, only about ten minutes, Sam made it back to his brother's pride and joy. He had never felt more relieved to see the car in a long time. Gratefully, he helped Dean into the passenger side and slid behind the wheel, heart racing a mile a minute. His brother, regardless of his macho demeanour, was in bad shape; and Sam was deathly afraid that if he didn't get medical attention soon, the next time, there wouldn't be an older brother to save.

"Hang on, Dean," Sam told his unconscious brother, gunning the engine and cutting the wheel in a quick U-turn. As he drove, he quickly did an analysis on his brother's injuries: his biggest worries were the blood loss, possible infection, and the threat of internal injuries. Dean had been in worse scrapes before and had come out of them relatively unscathed; but this... this was torture. Even if Dean did walk away from this one, the potential for hell related nightmares was high. Sam sighed, added a little pressure to the gas pedal. He didn't know where any of the nearest hospitals were, but Sam felt that for damn sure they weren't here in the middle of butt fuck nowhere. His guess would be that the only hospital with the care Dean needed would be in the province's capitol of Charlottetown, about a forty minute drive if he remembered correctly. And there was a good chance that his brother might not have forty minutes.

Sam pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

XXX

Sam reached the hospital in record time, in just over half an hour. Dean was still out cold when Sam half carried half drug him inside the front doors of the city's only hospital. "I need help!" he yelled, trying in vain to quell the panic in his voice. In moments, nurses and orderlies were at his side, laying Dean on a gurney and checking his vitals. Sam could only watch helplessly as his brother was whisked away; and when the younger Winchester tried to follow, he was immediately held back by a gentle, but firm hand on his shoulder.

"Stay back son. We'll let you know about your brother as soon as we can."

Sam wanted to protest, to shout out that no one tells Sam Winchester to just _stand there_ while his brother is hurt; but instead, the man nodded faintly, watching the heavy double doors close before him. And then, as suddenly as the commotion had begun, all was still. For a moment, Sam stared unseeing at the door, until an orderly gently directed him to the nearby waiting room. Mechanically, he followed her to the crowded room, dropping in the only empty chair available. Surrounding him was complete chaos: a baby was screaming at the top of his lungs, as his father tried desperately to calm him down; family members were trying to contact loved ones about the latest news, or answering ringing phones, their voices sometimes a little too loud in their panicked states; a bored girl of about six or seven was trying desperately to get the attention of her mother, who was staring sullenly into space, tugging at her shirt and calling out for her. Sam found himself drawn to the child, reminded of his own childhood and visits he'd had to emergency rooms across the continental United States. One particular memory was of when Sam was not much younger than that little girl, sitting in a similar waiting room with his father. Though he was unaware at the time of the Winchester Family Business, little Sammy _did_ know that his big brother had been hurt; _bad._ He could clearly remember trying to get his father's attention, sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair at John Winchester's side, gently tugging at the side of his leather coat, the same one Dean had worn for so many years before it had somehow gotten lost. Instead of comforting his boy, however, John had stared straight ahead, eyes bright with tears and fear for his son's well being. And while Sam would certainly relate to his father's demeanour, it had not only hurt, but frightened the boy. Sam closed his eyes, pushing back the memory. And as the minutes passed, agonizingly slow, Sam Winchester once again found himself praying to whatever higher power was listening for his brother's life; and even though the waiting room was packed to overflowing, he had also never felt so alone.


End file.

Supernatural, Angst, Hurt-Comfort