For R, who wanted to see Sam hunted!

Brought Back
K Hanna Korossy

Sam Winchester ran.

He couldn't see his pursuers, but he could hear them, the odd crashing through branches, the splinter of dry wood beneath booted feet. They were behind him, getting closer, and he ran for his life, in the grip of mindless fear.

This was not how he wanted to die. Sam stumbled, steadied himself, and raced on.

Branches swatted his face, stones rolling out from under his feet. His breath came in stuttering gasps, and, oddly, it was their uneven rhythm that eventually penetrated his blind panic. Distance and the cool air and the godawful racket he was making finally sank in.

Wait. Sam slowed, stopped.

Training and common sense flickered in the forced quiet of his thoughts. The instinct to flee ran deep, but he was not a Winchester for nothing and knew other ways. Smarter ways. Running like this would only get him killed.

Catching his breath in the moment's pause, Sam looked around him, taking stock of the trees all around, the path his feet had automatically followed. Loud and predictable; he'd already broken two of the rules of evasion. But even though he was the hunted, he knew very well how to become the hunter. Sam hunkered down and went silently sideways into the brush. He held his breath and waited.

He couldn't remember how he'd gotten there, just like the time before. His last memory was of hunting something with Dean in woods just like this one, his brother's step soft beside him, sleeve brushing Sam's. They hadn't talked much, not needing it, comfortable in the patterns they'd formed since childhood. But it had been a good night.

Then, pain, darkness, disembodied voices. He'd woken on cold ground with the dark shadows of trees overhead and the sound of approaching pursuit. He'd started to run, worried about Dean, scared for himself. But the Benders were all locked up, weren't they?

Then again, had anyone even asked if that was the whole family?

Sam crouched lower, invisible, as the dark form of a figure approached and obliviously passed him. He let out a breath and turned from the path he'd been following, going deeper into the brush.

Step carefully, on rocky ground if possible, grass if not. Avoid the brittle lower branches that could snap and give him away. He heard the sound of water in the silence and turned toward it. Sam stumbled into the stream and followed it gratefully, dragging his feet so he wouldn't splash, stepping on rocks to make sure he left no prints. The water flowed over his tennis shoes, washing away the kicked-up dirt of his passage. His feet were quickly soaked, and Sam shivered.

The sounds of his pursuers grew stronger.

He did have a weapon. A knife had lain by his side when he'd come to, and Sam had slipped it into his pocket before he'd started running. It was probably just a token, the "fighting chance" the Benders prided themselves on giving their prey, but Sam had trained with a knife. Hunting rifles still had the advantage, but he could be lethal with a blade at half their range. He hefted it now, squatting lower to hide his silhouette.

Was Dean also somewhere out there, trying to get away? Thoughts of his brother kept distracting him. Dean was more proficient with a knife than Sam, and kill-or-be-killed was practically his element. If anyone could get out of this, it was Sam's brother, but still he found himself straining for a cry, a shot, something to tell him Dean was alive and fighting. If they'd killed him when they'd grabbed Sam, he'd already lost.

Someone was close. Sam glanced up, checking his position by the north star, then once more darted off to the side, settling into the deep blackness of dense foliage. He breathed through his nose, held his knife ready, and waited.

There was a splash, someone following the same stream he had, albeit more clumsily. Then a distant holler—not Dean—and the splashing stopped, turned away. Footsteps faded into forest noises, and Sam's hammering heart began to slow.

They were moving off. He had no idea where or why, and hoped it wasn't after Dean. But Dean could take care of himself, and this was the chance Sam had been waiting for. He slipped silently out of the brush and turned north again, determined to put as much distance between himself and his hunters before daybreak. Then, he'd figure out the closest way to town, and help. Sam hefted his knife, stepped back into the stream. If he could just get a good lead on them, they wouldn't be able to catch him. He'd survived the Benders the first time, and he would this time, too.

Behind him in the distance, someone screamed.

Oh, God. Sam whipped around, heart dropping into his feet. "Dean," he whispered, knowing.

He craned to see into the ink-black forest. They had Dean. And Sam could count on one hand the things, all horrible, that had ever been able to make Dean scream.

He turned back to the north, face crumpling in despair. There could be a town as close as a mile away, and help, better equipped than he with his one knife. It made sense; it was what Dean would have told him to do.

But Dean was hurt, possibly dying. There was no way Sam could turn away from that.

Knife clenched in a white-knuckled grip, Sam headed silently back into the hunting grounds.

00000

"Dean."

The broken whisper shot Dean's head up. But there was no more recognition in Sam's eyes than there had been the last two hours, no warm gaze meeting his. Nothing but the stretched-thin features of a man engaged in unseen battle, and, Dean feared, losing.

He laid a palm briefly on Sam's forehead, mystified again by the lack of fever, then moved down to check the wound on his leg. No sign of infection, and the herbs he'd put on it had all but dissolved into the punctures. There was nothing else he could do there, either. He hated this. Sam was fighting for his life, and all Dean could do was sit helplessly and watch.

"Easy, Sam," he whispered, fingering the dark hair. "I'm right here."

Dean still didn't know what the creature lurking in the Montana woods had been. But the delirious and hysterical woman they'd found on their way in had given them some clue what it could do. Sam had taken her back to the car while Dean had crept on, senses on high, rifle loaded and cocked. Sam always got the escorting-civilians-to-safety job, no matter how much he glowered and complained about it. Dean wanted to keep him safe.

It hadn't worked this time. His brother had just rejoined him when thething had sprung. In the fraction of a second it took Dean to aim and fire, it had already latched on to Sam's leg, a nice circle of bleeding puncture wounds marking its bite. They'd been limping back to the car when Sam had started slipping away, mumbling a string of gibberish before he passed out.

Dean had left the woman at the ER entrance of the nearest hospital, but his brother he'd taken back to the motel. The hospital wouldn't know what to do with strange venom any more than Dean did, and would just keep them apart while it tried to figure it out. At least Dean had some ideas what to try. He'd flushed the wound out with tap water, then holy water, followed by an herb poultice. After he'd rolled Sam into bed, he pulled up a chair and sat down to keep watch.

The hallucinations had started soon afterward.

The trailing bits of words didn't make any sense, but Sam's agitation was loud and clear. Whatever world he was trapped in, it was a nightmare, and Dean had abandoned the chair more than once to sit on the bed and try to still Sam's restlessness. Words didn't seem to help much, and holding him down only made him more anxious. Dean wasn't about to tie his brother down, no matter how bad things got, but when Sam nearly rolled off the bed, chest heaving, Dean had finally wrapped himself around him. He was trying for comfort rather than restraint, but Sam's heart had still pounded against Dean's ribs, his breath coming in short bursts against the hollow of his throat. Sam hadn't fought him as hard as Dean knew he could have, but he was fighting something. Dean returned to the chair whenever Sam calmed down, but it never lasted long.

Calling his name was new, however, and Dean intently watched the shift of expressions on Sam's face. Fear and horror were easy. Indecision was less so—he didn't often see Sam torn like that. Determination. Anger. Desperation. God, what was going on in that drug-addled head of his?

With new dread, Dean dug out his phone and dialed the hospital.

"Yeah, this is Trooper Wilson, Montana State Police. I'm trying to find a Jane Doe, approximately thirty-five years of age, five-foot-five, brunette. Did you admit anyone today with that description?"

He listened stonily, only his lip twitching at the news.

"Died a half-hour ago? What was the cause of death?"

Heart arrhythmia, the nurse said. And, did he maybe know anything about any family?

Yeah, he knew about family. Dean had folded his phone away in a daze. Heart arrhythmia. She'd been driven to death.

And Sam's heart was pounding like he was running a race.

"Sam," Dean leaned forward urgently, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. He already had Sam's hand, and he kneaded the palm, hoping some sensation would get through to tether him to the world outside. "Listen to me, whatever's going on, it's not real. You've been drugged." Poisoned, attacked, whatever. "Don't let it get to you—you're safe, you're okay. Just snap out of it, Sam."

On TV, he would have made some stupid plea for Sam to follow his voice, or to do this for him. Dean would've gone syrupy in a heartbeat if he'd thought it would help, but the two of them had never needed to say that kind of stuff out loud. This was the language they spoke; if Sam heard or felt him at all, he would understand.

The only question was the "if."

Dean swallowed, continuing his massage up Sam's arm even as he felt his brother tense for the next onslaught. "Listen to me, Sammy," he begged quietly. "You have to shake it off—I need you back here."

Okay, maybe a little bit of syrupy, but only because he was truly scared.

Sam's mouth moved silently, heart hammering as he started struggling once more against unknown dangers.

Dean did the only thing he could: hung on and kept talking.

00000

He found the dirt path again and turned back in the direction he'd come.

Sam could hear his hunters now, snatches of voices and shuffles of movement. He was down in a crouch, off the road but following it, staying out of sight. Heading into the lions' den, but his steps never faltered. That was where Dean was, so that was where he would go.

But smart, the way Dean and Dad had taught him.

He found the wire when he got close and started looking for traps. Ankle-high, its intent was nothing more than to slow a runner down, but Sam had another purpose in mind. He cut it from the trees it was fixed to, and found a new place for it.

The sounds were getting louder.

Adrenalin sharpened his senses, giving his tired body a boost of energy. He wasn't afraid to die, was afraid far more of Dean's death, but Sam didn't want this to be his last stand, either. Ironic, after a lifetime of hunting the unnatural, to be killed by a family of human monsters. Dean would bring him back to life just to kill him for being so stupid.

The humor focused his determination. He had no intention of researching zombie reanimation rituals for Dean, either.

The voices were gone, and Dean's was never amongst them. Sam tried not to think about that as he made his way closer to where he'd last heard them, where the ghostly frame of a building appeared against the night sky. They were back in Minnesota, he realized with a start, back at the Benders's homestead. How long had he been unconscious? And why weren't there still cops there? The newspaper had said the search for bodies would go on for weeks. They really should have been searching for more Benders.

Heart pounding in his ear, Sam peered around a tree, and saw his quarry.

Only one, a man about the age of the Bender boys, armed with a shotgun and warily looking around. Sam had heard at least two people, but that was okay, made things easier for him. He turned silently away from the tree and crept toward the path, flinching as a dry branch broke under him a second earlier than he'd intended to give himself away. No matter. He made a break for it.

Buckshot blew past his ear, maybe even brushing him, but he didn't feel it. Sam rode the adrenalin to a speed that probably would have won him some track awards, if he wouldn't have needed the combined responsibility of his and Dean's lives to prompt it. He heard a curse behind him, then a shout and heavy steps following. Sam zigzagged the path, making himself more of a moving target, and flew.

The wire was up ahead. He ducked it, diving off the path into the hiding oblivion of shrubbery. Running footsteps followed him. Sam knew the moment they reached the wire from their sudden stop, and the sickly wet gurgle that followed. He'd estimated the height right, apparently. A peek out onto the path shows one hunter down in a pool of blood, his throat sliced open with surprising neatness. One down. Sam felt no remorse.

He rose, reached up. More steps were coming, and while he could take two more down, Sam was hoping for only one. He scrambled up the tree, melting against the trunk with a thick branch under his feet. Just above head-height, so he was looking down on the hunting cap as it burst into view and lurched to a stop. Sam hoped with unusual viciousness that it was the guy's brother lying in the road.

He waited impatiently for the steps to start moving again, the cap to come closer. No others followed, no other sounds in the distance. Perfect. Sam braced himself, and jumped.

Surprise and a hard blow sent the second hunter flying and gave Sam the advantage, but he landed wrong. His ankle gave beneath him, Sam dropped the knife, and suddenly he was struggling to rise before the hunter did. Forget that—Sam lunged for the fallen rifle instead.

But the guy was on top of him too fast, and Sam reeled from the punch as much as from the fetid breath on his face. Had to be a Bender, with that kind of oral hygiene. Sam swung back, and thrust up, dislodging his attacker. They rolled together.

The guy wasn't as stupid as the rest of his family had been, though. He locked himself around Sam's torso, clear of his legs, and spun him over so Sam was on the bottom again. Then, steel hands locked themselves around his neck, and for the too many-eth time in his life, Sam struggled for air.

This was usually where Dean came flying to the rescue, but Sam waited in vain.

Black spots were starting to block out the leering face above him. While Sam could have done without seeing another Bender in his lifetime, the signs of fading consciousness spurred him to new frenzy. His body wanted air, his spirit wanted life, and his heart was screaming for his brother.

Sam wedged his arms between the hunter's, yanking them apart and off his throat.

He fell to one side, choking and gagging, his attacker to the other. Thankfully, because something had to go right that night, his side happened to be the one near the rifle. Sam grabbed at it, his fingers regaining their strength as they tightened around wood and metal. He rolled back to face his enemy.

Empty eyes hovered just inches from his. Sam instinctively swung hard, cracking the rifle butt against the man's face.

He dropped like a stone, right onto Sam.

Sam backpedaled with frantic weariness from underneath the body, then reached out shaking fingers. A pulse still beat at the neck. Sam took a breath, and used the rifle as a crutch to push himself to his feet. Two down, hopefully the only two. Which left only Dean. Sam turned away and started a stumbling run.

His steps grew steadier as he went. The barn came back into sight, and Sam's mind sang with the déjà vu of walking this path with his brother not that long ago, teasing each other, grateful beyond words they'd both survived. He refused to believe it had only been a temporary reprieve. God had His reasons, but he wasn't cruel.

The area around the barn was empty, and Sam headed doggedly for the buildings. The barn was likewise, the cages hauled away by police. The house was supposed to be sealed, but Sam headed for it anyway, remembering finding his bloody and bound brother inside.

Blood.

Sam jerked to a stop. There was a puddle of the stuff in front of him, black in the moonlight but unmistakably blood. Sam could smell it, but he leaned down anyway, touching the surface. Still wet and warm, fresh. Too much for a simple injury; this was the remains of a kill. But as he frantically did a 360, looking for the source, there was nothing, just the barn and the house, no footsteps or drag marks visible in the frozen ground, no blood trail to follow. Dean?
He couldn't bear the thought.

Sam broke into a run, bounding up the porch in one leap, scouring the emptied house from top to bottom. Nothing. He returned to the porch panting for breath, desperate fear squeezing the air from his lungs. Not in the barn, not in the house; where else was there to look?

Sam's jaw tightened, and he took off back down the path.

The two Benders were where he'd left them, but Sam didn't hesitate to grab the collar of the second one and shake him, hard. The man groaned, blinked, eyes widening when Sam shoved the rifle barrel into his face.

"What did you do to my brother?"

The eyes slid up to him, and crinkled into a smile.

Sam cocked the rifle, finger nestled comfortably in the trigger guard. "You've got five seconds to tell me," he said, and meant it. He was pretty sure the guy knew it, too, but all he did was grin.

They were insane, all of them. Sam felt his own mind shift with the unreality of it, and his finger tightened. They didn't just kill people, they tortured and ate them. His stomach heaved.

"Sam."

It was the faintest whisper on the wind, but it ran through him like electricity. Sam's head snapped up, eyes searching the area around them. But there was only darkness and trees. "Dean?"

"Don't, Sam."

That was all, even though he strained to hear more. No, I'm haunting your ass, no, I'm okay. Just, don't, Sam. Which was really kinda funny considering Dean had a lot less qualms about killing evil humans than Sam did. "Where are you?" he asked cautiously, and just a little desperately. He wasn't even sure there had been a voice outside of his own head.

But there was no answer.

Sam licked his lips, stared down at the face at the end of the rifle. If Dean were okay, he would have shown up by now, would have gotten in Sam's face, shoved the gun away, stared him in the eye so Sam could see he was all right. If this was some message from beyond Dean had forced through, it meant these animals had killed him. That made them fair game to be hunted.

His finger quivered on the trigger.

And he felt more than heard his brother sigh his name one more time. He could hear the despair, and Dean didn't despair.

Sam lowered the rifle. Staring at the soulless monster that had possibly taken his most prized possession, he felt only emptiness. "I win," he said quietly, and let the rifle hang loose from his grasp.

The woods around him trembled.

Sam looked up, bewildered, to take in the rippling scenery, then looked back down to find the ground around him empty, both Benders gone.

Now Sam was shuddering. Was this another vision? He stared around him, feeling the world crumbling and having no clue where that left him. Except, "Dean?" he called.

"I'm right here, Sam. Let it go."

Let what go? The only thing he was holding was the rifle, and Sam stared at it a moment, then flung it wide. But nothing changed. "Dean!" he yelled.

"Break out of it, Sammy. Come on, little brother."

But he had no idea what Dean wanted so badly for him to do.

Dean cursed. Sam felt his initial fight-and-flight panic return as he heard his brother's frustration and fear, and forgot about his own fear and triumph. Sam wanted nothing more than to get out of this place, to leave it all behind and just find Dean.

"Sam!" Dean bellowed at him.

And then Sam shook, as if someone had grabbed and jerked him hard back and forth.

Which maybe what had happened, because the next minute, he was blinking up at his brother as Dean leaned over him, his fingers digging into Sam's biceps.

There was a startled moment when their eyes met. Sam had no idea what was in his, but Dean's were bright and scared and, quickly, overjoyed. But it didn't matter because his face was crushed into Dean's shirt, his brother's hand warm on the back of his head and neck, and Sam shut his eyes in relief. He wasn't sure what had happened, but he was safe and home and Dean was, too.

Whatever this game was, he had won.

00000

Dean lay on his bed in the darkness, Sam sawing logs at his back, and stared at the wall.

Sam had been shaky and weak when he'd woken from his little trip, but his eyes had been lucid as he stared at Dean, if a little puzzled. Whatever the poison had been, it had apparently run its course. Sam had even insisted on taking a shower before crawling back into bed. And, yeah, in case anyone wondered, it was more than a little surreal helping someone to the bathroom who you'd been convinced an hour before was dying. Dean had stared at the shower curtain until Sam had affectionately lobbed a sponge at him. Then he'd gone out and stared at the bathroom door.

But Sam really did seem okay. He told Dean a little about what he'd hallucinated—dreamed? imagined?—although it seemed to Dean he'd left some parts out. Dean told him about the poison and the collapse and the hours of not knowing, leaving out the call to the hospital and the desperate praying and the small fact that the furniture in the room had been trembling during that last struggle. Sam was freaked enough as it was. It was he who'd finally grabbed a pillow and blanket and gone to join Dean in his bed, shrugging him presumptuously over to make room. To Dean's pointed query about what was wrong with his own bed, he only got a muttered, "It's over there," and that had settled that.

Although he did wonder a little if Sam hadn't relocated as much for Dean as for himself.

He hadn't expected the hunt; Dean had been just as happy to forgo that little experience the week before. Trust Sam to find a way to get trapped in one, anyway. Either he had a sizeable masochistic streak, or there were some real nasties crawling around in that subconscious of his.

Then again, who was lying there unable to sleep?

Dean took a breath, turning carefully back to his other side to look at Sam.

And found Sam already silently watching him.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Bed too small, Junior?"

"No."

He waited a moment, but Sam didn't seem inclined to elaborate, or to become embarrassed or bored. "Wanna play cards?" Dean finally offered, half-playfully.

An amused snort. "You can go to sleep now, Dean—I'm okay."

Dean made a face. "I was asleep until someone got a little restless." Which was a pure lie, because Sam hadn't moved a muscle, almost as if he were afraid he'd be kicked out of the bed.

Or just afraid.

Dean folded away the act for the night. "So, being stuck in a cage overnight—that must've been fun. No wonder you went back to visit." He leaned a little closer to Sam, so his brother's forehead touched his shoulder and Dean could no longer see his eyes.

"Remember that time you shoved me in the closet when the poltergeist was throwing things at us, and then you couldn't get the door open again?" Sam shivered a little, fears he'd stomped down before finally making an appearance. Sometimes Dean thought they weren't so different after all.

"Dude, that was like, ten years ago."

"I remember it."

Dean did, too. They'd slept curled together that night, too, even though Dad was out that night and they could have had separate beds for once. And even though Sam was twice as big now, he still fit against Dean like a missing puzzle piece. Dean had wondered if that was a brother thing or a him-and-Sam thing, but had never known any brothers well enough to ask. "That bad, huh?"

"Mmm." Sam was starting to drift, heavier where he leaned against Dean.

Dean found himself getting sleepy, too, because he needed to look after his brother about as much as Sam needed the looking after. Even the big, deep-down worries, about fires that started in Sam's bedrooms and his new freaky powers, couldn't argue with a safely sleeping Sam right beside him. "I brough you back, Sam," Dean murmured.

Sam was asleep.

Dean wasn't long to follow.

The End