A/N: As always, hugs and much love go to godsdaughter77, MysteryMadchen, Rachel Carter McKenzie, Kaewi, supernatfem76, MidgeVS5, geminigrl11, becci, jenilee, bhoney, and cindy123

To Dean, vengeance has always been a word in the dictionary – albeit, a word in bold black letters with his father's picture stamped directly beneath it. John Winchester breathed vengeance, was consumed by it. For years Dean watched it from afar, understood it, admired it even, but never really felt the need himself. A whisper of it maybe, anger definitely - anger at the thing that took mom and ruined their life - but not the clawing, tearing need that frenzied every thought and drove both his father and his brother to push themselves beyond their limits.

He's always known that vengeance is the core, the very backbone of their family, and damn, if that isn't messed up. But he's also understood that it's different for him than it is for Sam or for his dad. Hunting is ingrained into his very being because it's all he knows, all he's ever known. Hunting is his passion because he's good at it, because it's something he enjoys, and because it's necessary, not just because – like so many other hunters - he's been torn asunder by grief at the sudden and brutal loss of a loved one. Sure, he'd lost mom, but he'd been four at the time. Not like his dad, who had been young and in love and just settling down to start a family. And not like Sam, who had run and run from his birthright like the plague he believed it to be and finally thought he'd found where he belonged in Jess's arms. No, for dad and Sam, the grief and loss had been fresh, open wounds.

But now Dean understands, because nobody messes with his little brother, and if anything happens to Sam, killing the worthless scumbags responsible won't be enough. He won't rest, not until he's inflicted back tenfold every single pain Vallis has caused Sam – caused him – and it's all Dean can think about as the rage tightens his finger on the trigger.

But something isn't right.

It's prickling at his senses, like the sweat that's trickling from his hair and running down his neck. And when Vallis leaves Sam bleeding on the floor - freaking bleeding on the floor! – before making his exit, Dean itches to follow. But the proximity to his brother pulls at him and he lingers behind, watching helplessly as two of the remaining henchmen rip his brother from where he lay on the ground. Sam, either too weak to cry out or finally unconscious, doesn't protest as they begin dragging him away.

It's tempting to just barrel in firing but he won't be doing Sam any favors if he gets himself killed. He's outnumbered and shots will only bring more running. Besides, something just isn't right.

Sam's gone now and Dean's about to follow when a sound from his left has him whirling. The gun's kicked from his grasp, flying across the concrete, and it's What the-? and Stupid! and I should have been paying attention!

"Winchester," a voice declares, and Dean knows it immediately.

"Shriv," he smiles, straightening, his fingers creeping silently to the second gun concealed under his shirt. "Long time no see."

Shrivey is shaking his head. "You stupid piece, Winchester. Couldn' stay away, could ya?"

Dean's irritated, but he gives a nonchalant shrug in answer. He really doesn't have time for this. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by and check on things," he says blithely. "Seems the gang's grown. Who's your friend?"

Shriv doesn't answer, but the incredulous face he's making is a definite giveaway to the fact that, in his mind, Dean's clearly suicidal.

Dean grins back at him before gauging his companion. It's the guy he and Jim knocked out before; back for seconds and, apparently, looking pissed he wasn't awake for the first round.

"You know, tattling isn't very nice," Dean says seriously to him. "Oh, and sorry about the, uh…" he motions to the back of his head and clicks his tongue. And did the guy seriously just growl?

Dean holds out his hand, making the friendly gesture a challenge. "Name's Dean Winchester. Or, if you prefer, the-asshole-who-put-your-boss-away. Either will work."

The big guy, at least 250 with thick, meaty arms, chubby cheeks and a ball cap, takes a step forward before Shriv stops him with a hand on his chest. "Easy Fat," Shriv orders.

Dean catches the name and it's too good not to run with. "Fat?" he nods, pleased. "That's a cute gangster name. Isn't it like some kind of gangster-wannabe rule – nobody uses their real names?"

He's pushing it and if Sam were with him, like he should have been, Dean would have already been able to feel the disapproving glare shooting from his brother. There probably would have been a jab to the back, too, to rein him in, followed by some kind of comparison to Dean's joking and a death wish.

But the smile is gone from Shrivey's face. His buddy doesn't look amused either.

"Yeah, that's real cute, Winchester" Shriv says. Then Shriv is lunging at him, his fist flying. Dean ducks, moving out of the way easily before Fat makes a grab at him from behind. Dean's elbow connects with his face. Bone shatters and Fat stumbles away, holding his face in disbelief and pain.

Shriv is back and rushing him. He's drawn a knife, the dim light glinting off the weapon like a warning. He tackles Dean, sending them both tumbling to the floor. Dean twists, barely avoiding the blade before he's on his feet again.

But Fat's on his feet again, too. The big man half lunges, half falls on top of him. He's a lot faster than Dean anticipates for a man of his size and as Fat manages to get his hands around Dean's neck, Dean's already groping around blindly for something – anything – to grab onto.

His hand closes around something the same moment he brings his knee up, connecting with the bigger man's groin.

Fat's lungs empty and he doubles over, inadvertently releasing Dean's neck. Dean swings the object upward and smashes it into the bigger man's face. Hot blood spills from his nose; another crack, this one to the skull, and Fat's down and he's not getting up.

That leaves Shriv.

Dean glances at the object – a pipe wrench – and gives it a playful toss up in the air, catching it before grinning at the stunned Shrivey.

He recovers quickly and Dean dodges his slash, then a fist from the complete opposite direction. Oh joy, Dean thinks irritably. The freakin' calvary's here.

Dean's moving now on instinct, shifting from one opponent to the next. These guys are big, but they're untrained. He takes out a blond with an elbow jab to the stomach then, without stopping, sends a sideways kick to a brunette in a flannel jacket. Both go sprawling to the floor just in time for Dean to barely avoid – again – the blade of Shrivey's knife.

The wrench is gone – he may have used it on somebody's face, probably the blond's, and boy did his nose bleed – but it doesn't really matter now because this time, Dean doesn't move fast enough. Shriv's blade pierces his left shoulder. Well, crap, Dean thinks sullenly before the pain finally registers.

Dean hears himself gasp and Shriv leers at him, roughly yanking the knife out and lashing at Dean's exposed midsection.

Surprise registers on Shriv's face when Dean catches his thrust, stopping it just in time, and with the other hand delivers a punch to the kidney.

The blade is dropped and Dean whips a booted foot up, kicking his last opponent full across the face. Shriv doesn't even yelp when a second kick follows, snapping his head back.

Dean's panting but he's the only one left standing.

No, wait...

The kid's there, a gun in his hand. Dean's gun.

Dean's hands automatically move to the back of his pants. He hadn't drawn his remaining weapon during the fight, not wishing to kill any of his opponents, though it would have been easy. Though they probably would have deserved it.

The kid who had stood by – and freaking watched– while Vallis beat the tar out of his brother is standing several yards away. He doesn't move, just aims the stolen gun in Dean's direction, and Dean takes a moment to scrutinize him.

Sam would have dwarfed him in height, but Dean's probably only a few inches taller. He can't be any older than 17, his eyes heavy in his sallow face but with the wiry build of one who's been on the streets for a while. Dean can tell he's trying not to look terrified, but in actuality is failing. Miserably.

Dean narrows his eyes, mulling over his new adversary. The gun doesn't shake in the kid's grip, but he hasn't pulled the trigger yet. That fact alone is enough to give Dean pause, given how far Vallis has gone to get back at him. Vallis wants Dean dead, and it's definitely no secret how badly. It doesn't seem to matter who does the job, either.

That coupled with the last words Dean had heard him say - "Boss, you gotta stop. I mean, you're killing him."

This kid isn't a killer. It's in his eyes; the very way he holds himself screams it. And, Dean muses, in his own way, he'd stood up for his brother. For that, Dean decides he can give the kid a little leeway.

Dean raises his hands to show he's weaponless. The kid doesn't need to know yet he's still got the gun he picked up for Sam tucked in his pants. "Look kid, drop the gun. We'll talk this out," he says calmly.

"You Winchester?" the kid asks, his voice thick with suspicion.

There's no point in lying. The kid had to have been standing there while Dean took out four of his buddies.

Dean shrugs. "That'd be me."

"And Sam is…?"

"My brother," Dean finishes for him.

The kid nods, as if confirming something to himself. Then, unexpectedly, he turns the weapon so that he's holding it by the muzzle, extending his arm toward Dean. Offering him the gun. "I want to help you," he says hesitantly.

Okay. Dean wasn't expecting that.

Dean drops his hands, wary. The eyebrow he raises is quizzical. "Why?"

The kid surrenders the gun to Dean without protest. "I got my reasons."

"Well I need to know them before I can trust you."

"Look, your brother's alive. I can take you to him…"

"And you're just gonna do that outta the goodness of your heart?" Dean demands.

The kid opens his mouth, like he's got something snide to say, but a loud blast interrupts him. The metal shelves on either side of them shake precariously, making both Dean and his prospective ally duck and cover their heads from falling debris.

"What was that?" the kid cries.

The explosion came from nowhere near them, but there's no doubt in Dean's mind the fire will be spreading fast. Must've hit one or two of the boilers to cause an explosion like that. Damn, when Jim sets a fire, he sets a fire.

Dean doesn't answer, just glances at his watch. He's running out of time.

"Come on!" he yells to be heard over the din and grabs the kid by the jacket. "Take me to my brother."

The tapping on his face is back, but Sam can't move.

"Sam?"

Can't move, can't focus, can't breathe.

He moans. Hurts. God, it hurts.

"Sam?"

Salt. Damn it, he needs salt. Dad's gonna be ticked he can't find it, but he can't move. Can't move, can't breathe, can't…

"Sam? Say 'wake."

It's too dark and Dean must've left the window open because it's too cold. He's on his knees, heavy body listing forward, heavier head boneless and drooping on his chest. Seatbelt choking him, he's got to move, got to balance himself, because his wrists are screaming and his position is smothering him and his throat keeps closing up from his weight and…

"Sam?"

He tries lifting his head, the tiny voice a beacon to follow, and when did Dean start sounding like a little girl? He manages a jerk, only to splutter and choke from the movement.

There's darkness and cold and something like smoke thick and heavy in the air.

"Sam? Sam, say 'wake."

He wants to answer, wants to tell Dean he's awake, but he can't because he's strangling now, body seizing against lack of air, eyeing watering.

Hurts. He just wants it to stop.

As if in response, little hands touch his cheeks. They're cool against his fevered skin, with the slightly uncoordinated grip of a child. His breath finally eases, his head clearing a fraction, and he remembers.

Cora, he thinks hazily, and she's gotta be terrified.

The very thought of lifting his head is too much, too impossible, exhausting in it's own right, but he's got someone else to wake up for now, and thinking about someone else gives him the boost he needs to haul the heavy and uncooperative thing up.

Sam blinks, vision tunneling, - and God, is breathing really necessary? – before he raises his head just enough to see big, glistening brown eyes watching him.

It's enough to make his own eyes go wet – or rather, eye, as he can't seem to open both. Cora's there, leaning over him; she looks scared, and as she flickers in and out of focus – get a grip Sam – he opens his mouth, his only thought to reassure her.

But his head is pounding like a fist-sized heartbeat, the drumming pain it's causing making his stomach churn sickeningly, and no words come out. He tries again, attempts to swallow first, but swallowing hurts as much as breathing and there's not enough saliva left in his mouth to be heard and he can't throw up now because Dean'll be ticked he messed up the car…

When he wakes again her little hands are gone and Sam blinks stupidly at the empty space in front of him. She's gone. She's gone and he's alone.

What the-? Had he imagined her?

"Cora?" It's rocks and sandpaper scraping against his throat.

No answer. She's gone. His full weight is back on his wrists, his arms feeling like they're being pulled out of their sockets and sending a steady thrum of pain shooting up and down his body to match the pain in his skull. But, try as he might, he can't bring himself to care. His dad's gone, Jess is gone, his brother's gone, Cora's gone, and he's leaning forward, no strength left to hold himself upright. And there's nothing to hold him upright, no one to hold him upright, to keep him fighting, to lean on or to support him.

The feeling of sudden abandonment is staggering, a wave rolling through him, gathering momentum, and for the first time, Sam doubts. Dean should have been here by now. There's no way he would leave Sam to die like this. What if the brother he's defending is dead? Tears sting and blur his one-eyed vision and they're from the pounding of his head and not because he wants his brother so badly he can practically feel him there.

Not like this. God, not like this. Dean, where are you?

And then there's nothing.