Bait

by K Hanna Korossy

Sam and Dean join up with other hunters on a hunt, but there's a reason their dad usually hunted alone...

Bait
K Hanna Korossy

"I don't know, Dean, I still think this could be a lot of natural creatures. Attacked, torn-up hikers? There are at least three large predators around here that could do that kind of damage."

Dean walked beside him with ease, contemplating whether Sam sounded a little winded after the several-mile hike. He still wasn't completely in fighting shape, not after years of civilian life. But since returning to the hunt, he'd saved Dean's life several times over, most recently by going all Rambo on a baykok that had ambushed Dean. Sam wasn't fit only by Winchester standards, but he was getting better and Dean appreciated that too much to give him grief. He'd never made their dad's mistakes with Sam.

He slowed his pace minutely, however, tilting his head to look at his brother.

"Dude, you read the reports—nobody can recognize the teeth marks or the fur left on the vics. Unknown's usually exactly what we hunt."

Sam threw him a light glare and picked up their pace to where it had been. Maybe the kid was a little out of shape, but he wasn't slow. "Recognizing teeth marks is a little hard when the body's been totally mangled."

"Right. So the DNA reports on the saliva, the prints they found at the scene, the one witness sighting, I guess the fact they're all unidentified doesn't really matter, either. I mean, could be just a wolf undercover, right?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Fine. What do you think it is, if it isn't a wolf or a cougar?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. Kinda why we're out here, bro. Maybe it's a werewolf." His eyes lit up at the thought.

"Wrong lunar cycle," Sam said squelchingly.

"Fine. How 'bout a ghoul?"

"Physical evidence, Dean. Ghouls don't leave any."

He shrugged, gave Sam a smirk. "Possessed raccoon."

"Dean! I can't—" He instantly broke off at Dean's hand against his stomach. At least his instincts were still right on the money.

Dean swiveled his head, trying to place what had snagged his attention. Even while bantering with Sam, he'd been listening, casting his senses outward, always on alert. And there was something…

He pinpointed the direction, nodded sharply to Sam, toward the approaching arrival, then the nearby trees. Sam nodded and silently fell back, long frame folding behind one of the larger trunks nearby. He watched as Dean mimicked the motion, fading back to concealment of his own. Then they both turned eyes forward to the new arrivals.

But the only figures that emerged from the trees were people.

Dean immediately sized up the two middle-aged men as hunters, from the plaid wool and denim they wore, to the comfortable way they held their weapons, a pump-action shotgun for one and a Winchester rifle the other. Dean's mouth curved lazily at the sight and, with a glance at Sam, he emerged from the trees into sight.

"Nice day for a hunt," he said amicably.

To their credit, neither man jumped, although surprise lit both faces. One, shaggy and grey-haired with sharp blue eyes, looked briefly familiar, then it was gone. But as he glanced between Dean and Sam, one eyebrow climbed.

He stepped forward, rifle canted downward at his side. "Winchester? Dean and, uh, Sam, isn't it?"

Dean's easy stance immediately tightened, smile fading. Sam shifted a step closer to him, tacit back-up. Dean narrowed his eyes at the speaker, even if the man was nearer his dad's age than his own. "Who're you?"

For an answer, the man glanced to their left. Dean's hand moved his own sawed-off to a little more at-ready as a third man appeared from the greenery. And then, with another glance, a fourth to their right. Hemming him and Sam in on three sides, and Dean's tension spiked as he felt Sam's rise.

The man looked back at them easily, non-threatening. "Not trying to scare ya, Dean, just putting our cards on the table. Fact is, we're all on the same side."

"What side is that?" Sam finally spoke up, voice unthreatening but low and strong. Not a kid anymore, Dean kept realizing anew.

The man held out a hand. "Name's Grant. This here's Moser, Riley, and Tom. We're probably here for the same thing you are: four hikers killed in the last week, torn to pieces? Right?"

Dean dialed back the mistrust a single notch, enough to slowly reach out and take the man's hand. His grip was firm and dry, no sign of deceit. Sam took another step over and to just behind Dean, out of Grant's reach, and the hand was not offered to him, nor did he seem to mind being passed over.

Grant just smiled good-naturedly. "Heard a lot about you Winchesters from Caleb."

Dean finally lowered his own gun, feeling the adrenaline ebb. Their dad's old friend knowing these men wasn't enough, but it went a long way. "Yeah?" he asked noncommittally, inviting more.

"Yeah. Thought Sam here was at school, though."

Dean relaxed even more. The statement both meant the new arrivals really did know about them, and that they didn't know everything. The last thing Sam needed was questions about Jess from strangers.

The fact was, their dad sometimes ran into other hunters, too, and while being carefully wary of anyone who wasn't in his small circle of friends—and sometimes even those few—he had worked with many of them on bigger jobs. Dean had known it would only be a matter of time before he and Sam stumbled on to others like them, too, especially on an obvious job like this one.

Dean rolled his shoulders, glancing at Sam and letting him answer this one for himself.

"I was. Now I'm here."

Dean swallowed a grin. It didn't take eighteen years of expertise in all things Sam Winchester to know he didn't like Grant. Anything that reduced him to monosyllables was something Dean was inclined to keep his eye on, if he hadn't been already.

Grant seemed to take no offense, his smile growing wider. "So you are. Well, you two wanna join forces with us? The more of us, the easier we take these SOBs down."

Dean shifted where he stood. "You know what we're looking for here?"

"Yup. Berserkers. Whole pack of them."

"Berserkers usually solo," Sam said flatly.

"Well, boy, that's why they invented the word 'usually.' This bunch is working together, like a pack of werewolves."

Dean could feel Sam bristle at the use of "boy," and quickly stepped in before it came to some sort of face-off. The fact was, for all Grant's smugness, his obvious knowledge, confidence, and experience appealed to Dean. It reminded him a little of their dad, the rare times John turned his charisma on. "So, what's the plan?"

"Depends," one of the other men—Moser?—said, tone fractionally less wary than Sam's. "You in or out?"

Dean glanced back at Sam. If they said no, they'd be the ones walking away to look for the next hunt. On the one hand, Dean had been chomping at the bit for this one because he'd been anxious for anything to erase the memory of that stupid airplane the week before. Not to mention, a straightforward kill without a ton of research? Awesome. On the other hand, Sam had been the driving force of their hunts ever since Stanford, ever since Jess. His zeal to go after any hunt where Dad might be had alternately pleased and worried Dean. But John clearly wasn't there, and Sam and the hunters weren't exactly hitting it off. Dean was ready to leave this decision up to his little brother.

But Sam met his eyes evenly, arms loose against his sides, hands curled around his axe and the strap of his pack. He was leaving it up to Dean to choose, ready to follow his lead.

Dean swung back around to stare at Grant, taking in the lines around his eyes, the sun-beaten skin, the faded Cardinals cap on his head. The others also looked comfortable in the woods and with their weapons, competent in their own right. There was definitely an undercurrent of secrets and hardness underneath the opaquely neutral looks, but Dean expected no less from hunters. Nor could he help but think it would be nice to have others watching Sam's back, too. He was up for the job—he had to be—but sometimes, like with that Constance bitch, it still scared him.

"Okay," he shrugged, "we're in."

And as the other hunters unthawed and gathered round to shake his hand and welcome them aboard, Dean had to admit, it felt great sometimes just to belong.

00000

If he'd had any concerns about the hunters' abilities, the plan they'd already put together would have assuaged them.

"You sure they're massed up here?" he asked, circling a spot on the map that was spread out over Grant's pick-up's hood.

"That's what we were just coming back from scouting when we ran into you two. That seems to be where the den is." Riley seemed to be the researcher of the group, and Dean had already noticed that Sam, after fighting his initial instinct, had finally gravitated over toward the man. Like attracted to like, Dean thought with private amusement, even though the two couldn't have been more physically different, Riley short and stocky, glasses perched on a blond-trimmed face. Dean moved over a step to make room for his brother between himself and the other hunter.

"Numbers?" Sam asked softly.

"Ten to twelve. We were pretty sure there was another one or two on patrol or guard, but no more than that." That was Moser, rangy and dark like Sam but in constant motion, always shifting and alert. Grant was around at the pick-up's bed, collecting silver weapons, and Tom was apparently the barrel-chested, pony-tailed shadow, standing back and just watching.

"Okay," Dean said, nodding. "So a couple of us move around back, start herding the pack this way where the others are waiting. Why not just kill 'em there?"

"Two reasons," Riley answered calmly, not at all ruffled by the questions. "One, we'll have them cornered here. Rock formations here," he pointed, "and here'll keep 'em hemmed in without us having to surround them and risk crossfire."

Dean saw Sam nodding out of the corner of his eye.

Riley continued, "And the other, been doing some research—Sam here can check me on it—but I think I got some protection symbols that'll work on 'em. Keep them corralled, too."

Sam drew a little closer, eyes alight. Dean couldn't help the grin this time, glad for anything that perked Sam up. "Sounds good. So, when do we set out?"

Grant had returned from the trunk, and held out a handful of silver .45 cartridges to Dean. Dean accepted them, glad they wouldn't have to be drawing on their own meager supplies. Grant turned then to offer Sam some silver shot, but Sam shook his head, drawing aside his jacket to reveal the gleaming knife tucked out of sight. Grant nodded and turned back to Dean. "Morning. Like bears, they're diurnal—"

Day, Sam mouthed over Grant's shoulder, and Dean obliquely kicked him.

"—and aren't gonna go anywhere at night. 'Sides, gives us the advantage in the light."

Dean ran the plan over once in his head, measuring the flaws, tracing the layout of the land, and nodded. "Takes about two hours to get out there, right?"

"Give or take. Should be enough time for Sam and Riley and Tom here to set up the symbols and get ready at this end."

Dean's head stopped in mid-nod and jerked around. "Wait, what?"

"Sam, Riley, and Tom," Grant repeated patiently. "You, me, and Moser can handle herding the berserkers."

Sam's eyebrows had come down a little, but he didn't look especially unhappy with the idea, which made one of them. Dean frowned. "Sam's coming with us."

"I could use his help here," Riley spoke up.

"Fine. Then I'm staying. Tom can go play sheepdog."

"Dean," Sam said quietly, not disagreeing with him, not in front of strangers, but lodging his own opinion on the matter.

Grant just cocked his head. "Thought your dad trained both of you? Sam here need someone holding his hand?"

Dean bridled for his brother's sake, starting to move a step forward, only brought up short by the hand pressed against his lower spine. He hadn't even seen Sam move, and as he turned to glare at his brother, Sam was already talking. "We watch each other's backs."

Oh, yeah. Sometimes he forgot that's how it worked. Dean backed down reluctantly, giving Sam a look that was both apology and watch it, geek. Sam's face softened into what only Dean would have recognized as a smile.

"We could use you up there," Grant said after a moment of watching them both, something Dean couldn't quite read flitting through his face. "Tom hasn't quite got stealth down yet." He grinned at the bigger man, swatting his arm, and Tom, surprisingly, grimaced without resentment and shrugged. "And your brother would sure be of use down here," Grant finished up, facing Dean once more.

Again, Dean sought Sam's eyes, throwing him a tacit question. What do you think?

A tiny shrug of the shoulder and head. Okay by me.

Dean turned back to Grant, not liking what he was about to say but finding no reason not to. "Fine. When do we leave?"

00000

They'd adjourned for the night, Dean and Sam heading back to the Impala about a mile down. It was late and they were making an early start, so by silent consensus they dragged blankets and pillows out of the trunk and settled into the car to sleep.

Or try to sleep, anyway. Dean found himself staring at the interior roof of the car, listening to Sam breathe. He wasn't asleep, either; Dean could tell by the rhythm of his respiration. Knew his brother probably knew the same about him.

"You trust them?" Sam confirmed the guess a minute later with the soft question.

"I'd feel better if we could reach Caleb," Dean admitted. They'd tried almost as soon as they'd gotten out of the hunters' line of sight, only to reach voice mail. Which in their line of business could mean a few days or even weeks of no communication.

"We don't have to do this," Sam said.

Dean shoved himself up in the front seat to peer over the back. In the gloom, the bloodshot whites of Sam's eyes were the most visible part of him. He hadn't been sleeping well, nightmare-plagued, even before this latest situation had come up. "I thought you wanted to hang out with that Riley dude."

Sam looked up at him from the awkward pretzel he was twisted into to fit on the seat. "I don't like you going off after these things, Dean. If they're wrong about them being berserkers or how they'll react…"

"I don't know, Sam, they seem to know what they're doing. Found out from Grant he's been at this longer than Dad."

"So you trust them?" Sam asked again, quiet.

Not with you. There was no good way to say that, though, not without anything to back it up, not without making it sound like Sam couldn't take care of himself. "I trust the guys I'm gonna be with," Dean finally said slowly. "You?"

"I don't know, man," Sam said, surprising Dean. "But I think it's the best plan."

"Could do it with four people," Dean said, tipping his head. "If you don't like it, we're out of here, Sam, let them handle it by themselves."

It had been so long since anyone had looked at him that way, it took Dean a moment to recognize the softness in Sam's eyes: affection. "Thanks, but I think we should do this."

Dean nodded with a sigh. Yeah, he'd kinda figured they were going that way. He lay back in the seat, narrowly missing ramming his shoulder into the steering wheel. "Okay. But watch your back."

"Yes, Dean," Sam said in the exact tone Dean heard teenagers say, Yes, Mom. The one that had always driven their dad crazy.

"Don't make me come back there," he said with mock sternness, and heard a rare chortle from Sam.

Sometimes, in the quiet of his head, Dean could even admit it wasn't watching Sam's back he'd missed so much, or even the reverse, as just plain Sam.

00000

"Okay, you ready?" That was addressed to Dean, but before he could answer, Grant had already moved on to Riley. "We'll call when we're getting close. Figure about ten-hundred hours."

Sam's mouth twisted, and Dean beamed at him. Their dad wasn't the only ex-military hunter out there who hadn't quite gotten the hang of the "ex" part.

Then Grant and Moser were heading out, and it was time to leave Sam there, and suddenly Dean didn't feel like smiling so much. As very many problems as Dean had with Sam's life resting regularly in his hands, at least he trusted himself. Leaving Sam behind with two hunters they barely knew was a whole other story, even if he was handling the safer part.

"Hurry up, dude, they're gonna leave you behind," Sam nudged him with knowing amusement.

"Might not be a bad idea," Dean muttered, but he was moving. "Sammy, watch your back, you hear me?"

"You, too, man."

He nodded, sharing one more look with his brother. But gone was the wobbly, angry loose cannon that Sam was the first few weeks after Jessica's death, in its place a subdued but competent and smart hunter. Dean had an idea he needed to watch after Sam more than Sam needed watching after, especially in his fellow geek's company. He nodded finally, seeing his brother return it, and turned away to follow the two hunters into the brush.

Grinning when behind him he heard Riley call Sam "Sammy," and get a stiff, "It's Sam" in return.

They stalked more than walked, and Dean recognized some of the skills his dad had taught him: not leaving tracks, following a trail, staying silent. The more he saw of the men at work, the more reassured he felt. Grant and Moser traded a few lines sometimes, and Grant checked in with Dean, but he'd seen enough to trust them to lead. He still led with Sam both by virtue of age and experience, although Sam was gaining on him fast in the latter. But Dean had learned to follow his dad and could take either role with ease.

Moser traded off point with Grant after an hour, and the older hunter fell back to Dean's side.

"How long's your brother been hunting again with you?"

Dean kept his eyes on the bushes, intent on not snagging anything as he went. "Couple of months," he answered absently.

"What made him come back?"

Dean spared him a glance, wondering about the interest. But if the guy thought he was going to get their life story, he'd be disappointed. "Things changed."

If Grant got the hint, he didn't show it. "Huh. Guess he got kinda soft, living the civilian life."

Dean's attention and eyes turned instantly and fully to the man. "No," he said tersely.

"Hey, no offense, I'm just saying, going civilian for a few years, he's probably—"

"Not when he's been in training since he was one," Dean shot back, keeping his anger in check only because he wasn't about to show the guy any weakness. And it wasn't like he hadn't had the same thought once or twice, but that was different. He'd never thought less of Sam for leaving for school. Dean gave Grant a patronizing look. "When d'you start?"

Some of the friendliness in the older man's face slid into sullenness, but he just put up a hand apologetically. "Sorry. Didn't mean to step on any sore spots. Just forget I said anything."

It wasn't exactly an apology, but Dean let it go. The unease in him didn't fade, however. He really wished they could have reached Caleb, or maybe he should have called Jim to check this bunch out. But there was no question they'd been doing the job for some time, and rogue hunters wouldn't have been tolerated in the community long. Dean was pretty sure he'd have heard about them if there'd been anything questionable in their past.

Mostly pretty sure.

He grudgingly turned to Grant. "You known Riley and Tom long?"

"Riley's been hunting with us for years. Saved my hide more times than I can count—best man I know on the book side of things."

"You don't know Sam," Dean said with a small smile. "What about Tom?"

"Joined up with us a few months ago. Good guy to have at your back, and his marksmanship is a thing of beauty."

It was hard to imagine the lumpy-faced, hulking Tom and "beauty" in the same line, but Dean nodded. "So, you trust him?"

"I trust he'll get the job done."

It wasn't exactly what he was asking, but Dean accepted the claim. That was what they were there for, after all. And part of the job was looking after your fellow hunters.

They moved on.

The berserkers were just where Grant and his men had claimed. Dean felt his breath catch at the sight of them. Looking like overgrown bears, the creatures were actually transformed humans, so far gone into aggression and a taste for human flesh that it was impossible to turn them back. They didn't even revert to their original form after death. The one good thing about them was that they were relatively easy to kill, vulnerable to silver in any form.

They restlessly roamed the area outside the mouth of a cave, and if the three hunters hadn't been approaching from downwind, the creatures would have been on them already. As it was, they were primed for setting off. Dean appreciated Grant's plan anew as the three men spaced themselves to the north of the pack of berserkers, then, on signal, started shooting.

Two creatures fell at the first volley, and the rest panicked, as expected, and took off for the opposite direction. Right toward Sam and the others. Perfect.

Dean started running. Now he just had to make sure the creatures didn't reach Sam before he did.

It had taken a good two hours and about five miles to get to the herd. Dean figured they made it back in about twenty minutes, which left even his conditioned lungs heaving for air. It wouldn't matter if they succeeded, though, and the pleasure of running full-tilt through trees and cold air, jumping logs and whooping at large, dangerous creatures, was a primal pleasure. Man was supposed to be Hunter—even Sam's precious science backed him up on that one—and it was times like this when Dean really loved his job.

They were getting close, and he heard Grant calling ahead. Another minute, and they were crashing through the tree line. There was a line of berserkers clawing at the symbol-painted rocks, looking for a way out.

Like shooting fish in a barrel, but Dean wasn't stupid enough to be sportsmanlike about this. He brought one down with a shot, then, seeing Riley taking careful aim to his right, ducked that way, hearing a volley of shots behind him as Grant and Moser got their own kills.

"Where's Sam?" he had to shout above the din of the gunfire. His brother wasn't in sight, and for that matter, neither was Tom. If Grant had been right about Tom, Dean would have expected him to be waiting right there on the front line.

Riley pulled the trigger, then cocked the gun, darting a glance that was almost nervous at Dean. His nose looked more swollen than Dean remembered, and he was favoring his right hand. "He, uh…"

Dean picked off a berserker that was lumbering their way, then narrowed his eyes at Riley, gut tightening. "Where is he?"

Riley's gun sagged. "Look, it wasn't my idea—"

And Dean forgot about berserkers and all that thrill-of-the-hunt crap. He stepped closer, aiming his considerable intense attention at the wiry little hunter. "Where's. Sam."

Riley pointed.

The trees were bunched up against the right edge of the rock formations that hemmed in the berserkers, throwing the whole area into darkness. All Dean could see there were shadows, but cold squeezing his heart, he started running, crossing open ground indiscriminately, heading for the trees. And as he got close…

He skidded to a halt, momentarily stunned speechless.

Sam sat on the ground between two smaller trees. They were just far enough apart that with his wrists tied to either trunk, his arms were stretched out from his body without strain. It cleverly thwarted any attempt at escape.

It also let the blood trickling down his left arm collect into an alarming puddle beside him.

"Sam!"

At the sound of Dean's bellow, Sam's hanging head rose a few inches, the effort to lift it obvious. Blood loss and God only knew what else had taken its toll.

And Tom stood nearby, keeping impassive, rifle-armed watch.

"What the—?" Dean spat, shoving past Tom with a seething look that warned against any interference, and then he was sliding to his knees beside his brother. "Sam?"

Tom made a disinterested sound and moved off to join the fight. Dean barely noticed him go, world narrowing down to Sam.

"Sammy?" Dean gently propped up the lolling head with the V of his thumb and forefinger, the tips of the other three skimming a cheek that was clammy to the touch. His palm was pressed against Sam's throat, and a weak and fast pulse throbbed against his skin. The sight of Sam's swollen lip and the split skin above his bruised eye made fury shiver through Dean cold as fear. With his other hand, he was already yanking out Sam's knife, still in its sheath under his jacket, and Dean sawed at the rope that held Sam's good arm. "Hey. Can you hear me? Sam?"

His brother leaned into his grip, the lines in Sam's face smoothing out at the contact. His eyes pried half-open. "Took you long enough," he murmured.

Dean snorted. "If I'd known you were having a party, I'd've come back sooner." One arm freed, Dean examined the other one. A deep cut sliced across the upper arm, exposing vein and muscle. "Sam, what the—?"

"Scent of blood. Draws 'em. Bait." Sam's head seesawed heavily from side to side, eyelashes fluttering. "Please…"

Get off, you jerk, and Uncle! and Shut up was the language of asking in their world. This weak plea just made Dean sick. "Yeah, hang on a minute, just gotta stop you from leaking, then I'll get you free," Dean soothed, pulling his handkerchief out of his pocket and folding it lengthwise twice. With a grimace of apology, he wrapped it around Sam's arm and tied it tightly.

Sam shuddered, clearly fighting the urge to shy away, but didn't move, didn't make a sound. Soft, Dean thought bitterly, and hitched his shoulder under Sam's once-more sagging head before starting in on the other rope. He sawed more gently this time to keep from jolting his arm.

"Hang on, little brother, just…gotta get this last one, then we'll have a few words with Grant and his guys and get out of here. Real bed this time and everything."

"Dean." The voice was hoarse and raspy in his ear, and Dean could remember the incredible thirst that came with blood loss. As well as the dizziness and weakness and nausea. "It was Tom. Snuck up on me…wasn't looking for it. Riley didn't want…"

"No way did Tom get the drop on you without the midget's help. And I'm betting the blood thing wasn't Tom's idea, either." All Grant's questions and odd looks came rushing back, and Dean couldn't curse himself enough for his willing blindness.

Sam didn't answer, just sucked in a breath as Dean's vehemence translated to his cutting. He made himself slow down, tipping his cheek just for a second against Sam's temple. Just to keep him steady.

The growl came from right behind them.

Dean dropped the knife to the ground by Sam's leg and spun away, on his feet and in front of his brother in less than a second. His gun was already in his hand, and aiming took another fraction of a moment. Still, the berserker was nearly on top of him as Dean pulled the trigger.

Its weight rocked him as the creature fell, but at least it was dead. It had been too close to miss, actually, and Dean drew a shaky breath as he surveyed the area, looking for any other approaching threats. Despite the four-person firing squad that had been whittling down the berserkers, three of the creatures were still moving, one fleeing in the Winchesters' direction. Moser was down, bleeding, and Riley didn't seem to be too good a shot. Dean stood his ground, feet set apart, Sam just behind him, and drew a bead on the threat heading for them, waiting for the shambling pseudo-bear to come into range. Trying not to think about Sam still tied and injured behind him.

"Come on, come on," Dean muttered darkly to the creature. Behind it, one of its two mates collapsed.

Grant took aim at the one heading the Winchesters' way and took a shot, but the bullet only seemed to enrage the creature. Its lope turned into a full-out run, and Dean spat a curse as he shot three times, two to torso, one to head. He watched in grim satisfaction as it spun out in the dirt.

The last berserker fell, presumably to Tom's gun, and the deafening exchange of gunfire went silent.

Dean jammed his Colt into his jeans, scanning the scenery once more for threat.

Grant appeared next to him with almost startling stealth, and Dean automatically moved a half-foot over to keep himself between his brother and the hunter, then leaned into the man's face.

"You used him as bait," he snarled.

What almost looked like honest regret flashed across the hunter's expression. "I'm sorry. Riley had mentioned a blood lure, but I didn't realize—"

"They cut him and staked him out like a friggin' piece of steak."

"He wasn't supposed to be cut that deep, but he fought dirtier than they'd expected him to. They didn't want to hurt him—it was just supposed to be a little slice, and Tom was guarding him from the berserkers—and he wouldn't have been tied if he'd volunteered."

Dean growled low in his throat and lunged a step toward the hunter.

Sam's warning cry registered the same moment a knife flashed by just a few inches from Dean's face. He could hear it whistle as it sliced through the air. His gun was raised before he even knew where the threat lay.

But by then it was already past. Behind Grant, the mortally wounded but still-alive berserker that had risen to attack, gurgled around the knife buried in its chest and fell back to the ground, inches from the older hunter.

Stunned, Dean turned to Sam, just as his weaving brother crashed sideways to his knees, cut rope dangling from his bloody arm.

Dean leaped for him, one hand splayed against his chest to keep him from flopping head-first into the grass, the other bunched in the back of his jacket to make sure he didn't go the other way. Grant had also started forward as Sam toppled, but Dean jutted his shoulder forward to ward the man off.

"Don't you touch him!"

Grant jerked back, eyeing them uncertainly.

Dean turned away, measuring Sam's condition. His brother's head was lowered again, but Dean could see his eyes were open, and his muscles were corded with determination. "Sam?" Dean asked, low and privately.

"Get the…knife."

"Forget about the knife."

"Dean." Even half-out of it, Sam's stubbornness could put a cranky toddler to shame.

Dean found himself giving in as he had ever since he was four, groaning his annoyance even though he knew Sam was right: there was no sense leaving potentially damning evidence in the hands of not-quite-friendlies. "Fine. Anything else you want? Souvenir berserker paw? Riley's phone number? Tom's nose broken?"

"Let's just…get out of here," came the reassuringly coherent response, if delivered more faintly than Dean would have preferred.

He patted Sam's chest, then stood, pulling the kid up with him. Sam listed, cradling his bad arm close to his body as he found his feet. Even when he did, Dean didn't let him go.

They started walking, Dean providing balance and direction but Sam managing the power. He followed Dean's lead as the older Winchester stopped by Grant and gave him a disgusted look. He couldn't even remember anymore what had appealed to him about the older man, about hunting with the group.

With a significant glance at the downed berserker just behind Grant, Dean snapped, "Yeah, he's practically a teddy bear, he's so soft." Then he nudged his brother into gear again.

Sam huffed a laugh in his ear.

Dean stopped to yank his knife out of the berserker, wiping it roughly on the fur before sticking it through his belt loop, then they kept going. Sam didn't spare a glance at the other hunters, who were just arriving with Moser slung between the other two. Dean sent Tom a silent warning never to cross his path again, feeling a moment of flush pride at the swelling bruise down the side of the other man's face that he'd only just noticed. Sam might have gone down, but he hadn't done it easy.

Tom's jaw tightened, but after a few long seconds, his eyes finally dropped. Since Sam didn't want him to do anything else to the guy, that would have to be enough. Dean smirked without humor.

Then they were out of there.

He was pretty sure Sam zoned out on him a few times on the way back to the car, especially when he murmured an agreement to Dean's suggestion that they stop off to send Grant and Tom some flowers as a thank-you. But it was pure Sam who dug in his heels as they got to the car and Dean reached for the back door.

"Sam? You can't lie down in the front."

"Can't lie down in the back." Sam's teeth were chattering, mangling already slurred words. "Dean…"

He was a total pushover. Heaving an exasperated sigh, Dean opened the front and stuffed him inside, then stopped at the trunk on the way around to dig out a few blankets. Sliding in on the driver's side, he glanced up at Sam's face as he wrapped the blankets around him. The kid's pallor made him wince. "Gotta stop at a hospital to get you stitched up, Sammy—I can't fix that vein."

Sam made a non-committal sound, curling into the blankets, eyes sliding shut.

Dean shook his head. "You're a couple quarts low, dude—we should be putting your legs up."

Sam slid down the seat by inches until his head was jammed against the door, then laboriously lifted his legs one at a time, dumping his feet into Dean's lap.

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Great. Nice, Sam." But Sam wasn't laughing, didn't even seem to be part of the conversation anymore, just lay there trembling and flinching. Dean made a face and started the car, moving one of those giant clodhoppers so it didn't dig quite so painfully into his crotch, then reaching around to get to the steering wheel. "Brat," he mumbled over the roar of the car and Sam's labored breathing. But he kept his hand on his brother's knee the whole way in.

00000

It took some explaining, the gash together with the rope marks on Sam's wrists. The hunters had tried to be careful not to hurt him more than they had to—more than friggin' cutting his arm half off—Dean reluctantly gave them that, but still. The chafed red circlets had made the ER staff frown at Sam and then at Dean until he had fed them a whole line about a magic trick gone wrong. He'd even pulled a few little illusions on them to sell his case, feeling a tiny flutter of pride when even Sam's glazed eyes went wide at the sight. Hey, Sammy hadn't been the only one to learn some things in the three years they'd been apart. Especially when the person teaching Dean was the most limber little hot acrobat he'd ever met. Some of those tricks Sam wasn't ever seeing.

But it worked because even though he couldn't quite pull his brother's puppy-dog eyes, his concern was more than sincere and sold it. Before long, Sam's arm was cleaned up, sewn up, and bandaged up, and he was tucked into a corner cubicle in the ER and hooked up to IV antibiotics, fluids, and a pint of blood.

Getting transfused was always this side of lousy, however. Even though Sam wasn't remotely in danger anymore, Dean still took it easy with him, humor soft and low, motions slow. He wasn't about to hold the guy's hand, but when Dean discovered that contact with Sam's back made all those tight slab muscles go slack, he hitched himself on the edge of the narrow bed, hip pressing against Sam's shoulder blade, feet tucked up against legs that were long even when they were folded in half. There was a lot of gratification in feeling someone you cared about relax like a loosened bow just because they knew you were there.

Dean leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. "Let me know if you're gonna throw up."

"M'fine."

"Great, but let me know."

Sam sighed, probably trying to sound aggrieved but just coming across as sleepy.

Dean tucked the blanket around his shoulder, watching in amusement as it resultantly slipped up almost all the way to Sam's curled feet. If Sam weren't halfway to fetal, he'd have hung off the end of the bed. They were prepared for fat people in hospitals, not ginormous beanpoles.

The train of thought unexpectedly sobered Dean. Sam had lost a lot of weight to grief. For the first time ever, Dean had found himself wishing lately he remembered more of their dad's grieving, that he could gain a little insight into what to do for his brother. Being there seemed a poor substitute for Jessica not. And that was without loaning his brother out to rogue hunters. Moral of the story: never trust anyone else to watch Sam's back besides himself. Especially not other hunters they didn't know. Caleb was so going to get a little phone call about this soon.

But Sam wasn't helpless or soft, either. He'd grown into the hunter John had always wanted him to be and Dean had always hoped would fight at his side. The thought was thoroughly satisfying, but confusingly also touched him with regret. He'd never wanted Sam hardened, either.

"'M okay," Sam whispered unexpectedly.

Dean smiled at his back because there was no one to see if it accidentally came out sappy. "Awesome. Remember what I said about the throwing up."

Okay, this time Sam did sound annoyed, so he was probably improving. Dean couldn't wait to get him back in the car and out of there: out of the hospital, those hunters' proximity, the state. Bundle him up safe in a motel room where he could relax and recoup. Not that Dean was being protective or anything.

He winced, scratching the back of his head with his free hand. "Hey, Sam? I'm sorry."

There was a beat, confused silence, then Sam rolled back a little to look at him with brow knit. "For what?"

"Leaving you with those yahoos. I shouldn't have trusted them."

Sam tried to roll his eyes, which was kinda comical when he was half-stoned and a little dizzy. "I trusted 'em, too. Should be apologizing for letting 'em get the drop on me. Soft."

"Hey," Dean said, suddenly angry, "those guys outnumbered you, they were hunters, and they're Caleb's friends. It's not like we were supposed to be watching our backs around them. You're not soft, dude."

Sam blinked at him. He looked a little nonplussed, and Dean wondered uncomfortably if that was the drugs or if he should have said something like this sooner. Sam needed things spelled out for him sometimes. Then he suddenly blanched. "I'm gonna throw up," he gasped.

Dean grabbed the handy basin, screwing up his face as Sam made good on his promise.

He helped Sam rinse, set the basin on the roll-top table, and gave it a shove into the farthest corner of the cubicle. Then he settled his semi-aware brother back on his side, bad arm tucked against him, blankets to his neck, and Dean's hand gripping his shoulder reassuringly. When Sam sighed this time, it was pure five-year-old I've-got-everything-I-need contentment.

Okay, Dean thought tiredly, eyes closing as he dropped his head back again. His fingertips curled tiredly into the thin material of Sam's scrubs top. They were good, they were fine, together and relatively safe. This was enough for now.

Epiphanies could wait until tomorrow.

The End