Author's note: Thanks for all the reads and reviews, you guys! It's really cool to know folks are coming back and getting some joy out of the story. I'm having a kinda pissy day and this makes it all just a little bit better. *HUGS*

Sam swam up from the dark, struggling past a suffocating grogginess and swell of pain that radiated from his left shoulder outwards. The hurt was so obstinate he hardly noticed the way his skull wanted to split open and spill out its fragile, aching brain.

His confusion was systematic, pressing in from all sides. It went from the tips of his bare feet—where the hell were his boots?—to the odd-smelling pillow under his head. Smelled like grass and mustiness, not dust. As John Winchester's son, he was accustomed to circumstances that fringed the edges of normal. For the past seven-ish years, he was used to having no fixed address, a car for a bedroom, salt under his fingernails one day and blood the next, the stink of decay or fast food or gun oil in his nose, and waking up in a different state every morning. It was dependable in its instability, Dean being the thread that held it all together. Now he had none of it, no bearing on anything that resembled their screwed-up brand of normal.

Once again, he didn't know where he was or why. Last thing he remembered was miles of baking desert, an endless sky, smoke in the distance, a missing brother. Somehow, he'd gotten inside. There was no humming of a home's normal functions, no ambient sounds of a TV in the background, just the wind battering against the building. The walls were made of log, from what he could gather, though his vision went swimmy any farther than a yard past his nose. His shoulder was tight with a bandage, red seeping through white, and he couldn't even think of moving without instigating misery. But Sam was nothing if not intractable, or "fucking stubborn" as he'd been told a hundred times before. He struggled upright, quivering, shirtless. The fraying quilt that had been laid across his middle was barely long enough to cover his shins, but it was all that sat between him and the naked air. Daylight burned in through curtains made of thin material, the kind used for cheap shirts.

He tried to swing his legs over the bed even though he barely had the strength to sit, let alone shift directions. He managed to move his right foot before stopping dead, snared in metal and cuffed to a rough-hewn bedpost. Squinting down at an iron manacle around his bare ankle, he tugged at the chain once in a token effort at escape before giving up, inching back down onto the bed and stifling a groan. He was still far too hot and dry, and he was pretty damned sure he should've been sweating but he wasn't. Fine. Not going anywhere. Just another page in the book of how much his life sucked. Nothing new.

Sam had to satisfy himself with a stationary inspection of the room, now that some of the wooziness was ebbing. The room itself was snug, barely space enough for the bed and one small dresser, lit by strong sunlight coming in a single window. Dried herbs rustled in the breeze, strung from the roof beams, window frame, and tied across the headboard. Meadowsweet, yarrow, wormwood, some little white flower Sam couldn't recall but it looked familiar, monkshood, sage, marigold …

There were no electrical outlets, no alarm clock on the dresser, not so much as a single light bulb suspended from the ceiling. The mattress was lumpy and uneven under his backside but at least it wasn't the ground. He thought he saw scratches in the notched logs at the corners and where they broke to make the window, but he couldn't be sure. Could've been spider webs just as easily. Everything wore a thin sheen of dust, himself included, though it seemed like someone had taken the trouble to smear off most of the blood and filth. He still didn't smell like a rose; maybe that was the cause for all the herbs. Natural air-fresheners. Not that he cared all that much; personal grooming wasn't a priority. He just stunk, was all. The whole situation stunk, and his head was pounding like a jackhammer and he wouldn't mind dying, in truth. Just for a few minutes.

Sam's eyes were starting to drift closed again when he heard the secretive hush of voices—outside, beyond the window. His lids pulled apart and he strained to lift his head, to see the people whispering. They were just out of range, a male and a female standing close to the cabin by the front door, and they spoke in a language Sam didn't recognize. This was no small feat; Sam knew bits and pieces of a great many languages, some long dead, but the words, the cadence, made no sense. The front door opened and closed with a creak and a slam and within seconds, Sam caught sight of a mounted rider cutting away from the house. The shape became a distant speck as the horse ran, kicking up clouds, yet Sam was still able to see long hair on the man, and the horse was spotted in big chunks of cream and chestnut.

He dropped his head back onto the pillow and waited, listening to the other person navigate the tiny building. Heavy footsteps for a woman, booted probably. He was certain he heard the slosh of water and God damn, he was thirsty. He tried to call out but the only thing that escaped was a short hack and a whimper when pain shot through his chest. The bootsteps came closer until a woman appeared in the bedroom doorway. As suspected, she was carrying a bucket that dripped when she moved, and a basket with a dishtowel over the top. She wore trousers, a man's shirt and broad-brimmed hat, and a kerchief around her neck. She watched him with tough, unyielding eyes over reddened cheeks; her skin was too fair to tolerate much of the weather. She took several steps into the room and poured water from the bucket into a large bowl on the dresser. Sam's lips parted desperately, in spite of himself. He felt like a trout on a dry bank, so close to the river he could feel it in the air.

She set the basket on the floor, unknotted her bandana and sopped it into the bowl, squeezing the cloth lightly before approaching the bed. She wordlessly wrung out some small bit of water onto Sam's lips before touching the bandana to his forehead.

"You're feverish," she noted in English, though there might've been a hint of a brogue. She pulled off her hat and dropped it onto a bedpost. Her hair, caught in a disheveled braid, was an extraordinary shade of almost-white that Sam could tell wasn't a bleach job; her eyebrows were the same curious color, eyelashes too.

His words came out a little easier after wetted. "Where'm I?"

"My bed," she told him with a hitch of her brow.

"No, I meant—" Sam sucked in breath when she tugged at the bandage. She didn't seem inclined to conversation, her mouth pressed into a stern line, so he temporarily gave up the quest for answers as she slid the soiled gauze from around his shoulder. She prodded gingerly at the wound, causing a hellacious throb.

"You're healing fast," she said, and for reasons known only to herself, didn't sound pleased.

"How … God, ouch … how long have I been out?"

She stopped poking and drew a watch on a chain from her pocket. "Eleven hours and a quarter. Or thereabouts." She stuffed the pocketwatch away again and began assembling the things necessary for a re-bandaging. "I don't suppose I need to tell you this'll hurt. Powerfully."

"My brother …"

"Mmm?"

"Did you find another man? Not quite as tall as me, brown hair cut short?"

"I fear I haven't." She shook her head and began dressing the wound.

"Wait. Let me see," Sam begged. She hesitated, sliding him a cautionary glance. "Please. I want to see how bad it is."

After another moment of indecision, she took a hand mirror from the dresser and angled it in front of Sam. A dart of reflected sunlight shot around the room. He inched up to assess the damage, blinking away bright spots of pain, and saw she was right. It looked brutal, and the size of the bite alone made Sam nauseous. Dried blood crusted his skin, the opening of each pencil-sized puncture capped by a scab. His entire shoulder was one great, blue-black bruise, already creeping to dirty yellow at the perimeter. This should've needed stitches, a good baker's dozen of them.

Dribs of memory drifted back. The feral stink of something big and wild. A mass of darkness moving with predatory grace. An unearthly howl.

"Got your eyeful? You're lucky he didn't scuff up your warpaint, here." She set the mirror aside whether Sam was satisfied or not, and tapped lightly at the tattoo inked over his heart.

"He? Not 'he'. It." Sam watched her gaze as it flicked away from his chest to the basket of medical supplies. When she'd said "he", she'd meant it. Wasn't just a slip of the tongue.

Her hands moved adroitly over his damage, applied a salve that smelled something like licorice and damp earth, and wound fresh cloth around the area. By the time she was finished, Sam was trembling from trying to lift that side of his body. His upper torso felt like the no-nonsense end of a battering ram.

She didn't speak throughout it all and began gathering up her things, hardly even blinking when Sam cleared his throat for attention.

"Hey."

Maybe she grunted, tucking the basket between the wall and dresser.

"Hey. What bit me?"

This time she distinctly huffed air through her nose but didn't reply.

"What. Bit. Me."

She dipped a small tin cup into the basin and set it, dripping, on Sam's belly, away from her clean handiwork. "Drink, then sleep," was all she said. And Sam found he didn't have the energy to disobey. The fact she didn't answer was answer enough.

xXx

The third time Sam yanked on the manacle, the footboard splintered with a brittle crack, like a popsicle stick. It sounded absurdly loud in the quiet cabin, though dusk was bringing with it the chirrup of crickets. The woman had been out when he'd woken up just a bit ago. She'd left an apple and another cup of water on the edge of the dresser, within reach; she'd seemed to know that Sam would awaken ravenous. He made short work of the apple, eating right down to the core in a single minute, gulped the water, and then realized he was feeling pretty damned good for what he'd just been through. He tested his left shoulder, found it stiff and achy but tolerable. A hollered hello got no answer. He didn't feel overt threat from the situation—she had probably saved his life twice over already—so he didn't see the need to stay chained to the bed. It really wasn't as sexy as it sounded.

He'd leaned forward and pulled on his trapped ankle with both hands. Once, twice. He'd felt the bedpost give and a last stern, dizzying tug sent splinters flying. He was free.

Free, but sans clothes. Now that the sun was vanishing, the familiar chill of the dry desert air was settling throughout the room. Sam tested his stability, swaying only briefly as he settled the quilt over his shoulders. He didn't spot his clothes, but then the single window wasn't providing much light anymore. A quick search of the dresser revealed not just women's clothing, but men's as well. The woman must've had a husband at some point, maybe still did. Sam found a pair of well-worn pants and slipped them on. Too short, of course, but fit well enough in the waist once fastened. The first shirt he set hands on was a long-sleeved thermal, hand-sewn with a few buttons at the neck. Perfectly serviceable.

He padded into the main room of the home, the wooden floor gritty and cold underfoot. One glance sealed the suspicion that he'd somehow landed in Once Upon a Time in the West, same general ballpark as when he and Dean had been blipped to Sunrise, Wyoming to confiscate a pinch of phoenix ash. The big question was: why? 'How' wasn't nearly such a concern; there was more than one way to skin a cat or send a person pinballing through time, as improbable as it sounded to anyone but a Winchester. However, experience had taught Sam that the reasoning for such a forced trip usually involved an entity far more powerful than him, and often times dangerously driven.

Sam found a box of wooden matches and he lit an oil lamp, warm light flooding the small space. The place was thoroughly rustic but from what Sam could remember of history, rather well-appointed for the period. The walls were lined with tools and weapons—knives, axes, all manner of pointed things—as well as shelves for dishes and books. The skulls of antlered creatures filled every bit of empty wall space and Sam had to admit he didn't recognize all of them. That one was a prong-horned antelope but … over there to the right? A single, central horn? Seriously?

A bowl of apples sat amongst dry goods in the corner of the room that served as a kitchen, and Sam helped himself to another piece of fruit as he explored. The place was crammed with stuff, like Rufus' cabin, and when he noticed the salt lines on the windowsills, it reminded him a lot of Rufus' cabin. Didn't come as a huge surprise. In fact, it made him feel a whole lot better. This woman would be someone he could work with, someone he wouldn't have to lie to or misdirect. Or, hell, even protect. She could likely hold her own, from the looks of things. And better yet, she'd never heard of Sam Winchester. She wouldn't know his baggage. She wouldn't judge.

Sam poked around the books, flicked his finger over a feathered dreamcatcher that dangled from the edge of a shelf. He squinted at the labels on jars and vials, an apothecary of macabre ingredients. He found a small séance mat, made of tough smooth leather and embossed with sigils, set out as though recently used. It had bones and blood and oily residue on it, but nasty spell components notwithstanding, something else about the thing gave Sam pause. One of the sigils, drawn in chalk, looked too familiar and served no purpose in a ghostly summons. It was Enochian. Sam carded through his memory for the word, the name, but it wouldn't come.

There was a sharp thump on the door, the latch rattling. Reflexively, Sam snatched the closest weapon from the wall—a sickle—and sunk back into the shadows at the cabin's edge. The door opened with a swift kick. A human figure stood there outlined in fading sunlight, wisps of fair hair backlit brightly, the shape of a rifle in one hand and a pair of chicken-sized animals in the other, caught by their feet and hanging limp. As soon as she stepped through the threshold, she saw Sam. The birds hit the floor and the rifle leveled at him in almost a single motion.

"How'd you get loose?" she snapped.

Sam immediately dropped the blade and lifted his hands, palms outward. Sickle vs. gun, the gun wins. "Okay okay, sorry. I … I think I broke your bed? Maybe?" He widened his eyes and slapped on a tenuous smile.

"Step away." The rifle jerked, directing Sam to move towards the center of the room.

Which he did without hesitation. "Don't shoot me. Please. I know you're a hunter—"

"What gave me away? The grouse or the gun?"

"No, no. A hunter hunter. Like, um, wendigo. Thunderbirds." Sam paused. "Shape-shifters."

The gun lowered slightly and she stepped into the faint glow of the oil lamp. "Well, isn't this just somethin'."

Sam kept his hands up and would remain doing so until instructed otherwise; she had the boomstick. "I am too. A hunter."

She stared at him and her eyes flickered with something pained. "Not anymore."