Hello again! Thanks for all the reviews! I had a bit of writers block starting this chapter (Dean apparently didn't want to be saved) but it all worked out eventually. The brothers are reunited...ish. Enjoy.

Under Sam's insistence, Brandon parked the Impala over a mile away from Nick's house, twenty yards off the road, and down a moderate embankment covered with rocks and uneven soil. Sam slapped a rifle in his hands, selected a pistol for himself since he only had one good arm, and started jogging toward the house.

Jogging.

Brandon could only take so much in one day, and his mind nearly gave up at that point. Guys don't go for a jog after they've been shot four times the previous evening. They stay in bed, unconscious. And they don't move, thank you very much. No, Brandon concluded, Sam must be some kind of Arnold Schwarzenegger terminator. He expected to see bits of machine poking out through his skin from where he had been shot. He expected to see glowing red eyes. He expected some metal blade to shoot out of his arm and into some unfortunate baby rabbit or possum that wandered too closely into his path.

"You sure you're not some kind of robot from the future?" Brandon panted as he and Sam reached Nick's property and inched forward toward the house. "You don't even look winded."

Sam's eyes swept back and forth across the yard, taking in every detail. "No. I'm human," he said, and paused, "Human-ish."

Brandon let that one slide.

"Car's gone," Sam said, pulling out his shotgun, "He does have a car, right?"

"Uh…yeah. He owns a white van. Bad paint job, dirt streaked windows…looks like something pedophiles use to lure kids in with candy."

"Appropriate," Sam muttered, searching the windows for signs of life. "Do you see movement?"

"No," Brandon said, kneeling beside a wilting sunflower plant, "I don't. So…what? The killer runs out of Frosted Flakes and chocolate milk so he makes a Wal*Mart run?"

"I doubt it," Sam said, "That's too easy."

"Maybe we got lucky."

Sam snorted. "I don't get lucky," he said.

"What do you mean you don't get lucky? You're alive, aren't you?"

"Oh, well, yeah. But that's not all that big of a deal. I always survive fine; it's everyone else that dies."

Brandon coughed. "What?"

Oops. Sam cleared his throat apologetically. "I didn't mean everyone, just, you know, it was a generalization. Like all white people can't dance…or people with red hair don't have souls…" he trailed off, "Forget it, okay? You'll be fine."

"Uh," Brandon said, clutching his gun tighter.

"Just stay close," Sam said, edging closer to the porch and wishing he had full use of both arms, "Keep your guard up."

"Mm," Brandon muttered. Now that they were so close to the house, his throat seemed to be closing up. He didn't trust himself to say anything intelligent. He didn't trust himself to do anything, either. The rifle was too heavy. His aim was mediocre at best. The house loomed over them, its windows laughing at him with mouths of broken glass. Why the hell had he come? This kind of rescue mission was way out of his league.

They made it to the sidewalk and then carefully treaded up the creaky porch stairs to the main entrance. Sam kneeled over and examined the lock. He scowled. While the rest of the house looked like it was going to fall over at the slightest touch, the door was new. The lock was tough. "Keep a lookout," he said, getting out his tools.

Brandon groaned and scanned the area, praying to every god he'd ever heard of that he wouldn't see anything. "So…hypothetically speaking…" Brandon said nervously, "If we were in a movie, which one of us would be the main character?"

"You're not dying, so drop it," Sam said shortly. The lock clicked and he promptly stood. "Keep an eye out for traps."

Sam slowly inched the door open with his palm. He needn't have bothered. Relieved at the lack of a trip wire, he stepped across the threshold and ushered Brandon inside after him. Just in case Nick returned while they were inside, he closed the door behind them and locked it to avoid suspicion. Brandon's face paled a bit at the action but he didn't protest. After a glance at their surroundings, Sam decided he wasn't too thrilled about being locked in either. The walls were a canvas of symbols etched in blood. Butcher knives jutted from the walls at odd angles. Slimy organs floated in jars atop dusty shelves.

"Let's find Dean," Brandon said, shifting his weight nervously. The floor creaked. "Now."

Sam nodded and stalked across the blood crusted carpet and into the dining room. Each step jolted his insides and made his body ache a little more. His torso was throbbing. He held his pistol ready to fire at anything that moved.

Half a ribcage was lying on the dining room table. The bones were picked clean.

Brandon gagged and looked away, trying not to be sick. Flies buzzed around the bones in their search for rotten meat. Sam gritted his teeth. Not Dean not Dean not Dean not Dean—

They hurried through the dining area, passed through a roach infested kitchen, and wound up at the bottom of a rickety staircase. Brandon's phone buzzed. Wincing apologetically, he pulled it out of his pocket and silenced it. "Sorry," he whispered. He glanced at the caller ID. Chris.

Sam was already halfway up the stairs when Brandon pocketed the phone, and he took the stairs two at a time to reach him. He expected a reprimand but didn't get as much as a glance. As they continued through the second level, Brandon's phone rang silently a total of seven times. All the calls were from Chris, and he didn't notice any of them.

Sam was about to give up searching upstairs and try to locate the basement when he saw the door. It was a magnificent structure, forged of iron and bound with five padlocks. It stood arrogantly in their way, the mother of all doors.

"Shit," Brandon said, rubbing his eyes, "Shit. How long is this gonna take to open?" He crouched over Sam as the younger Winchester began picking at the bottom lock.

"Don't know," Sam grunted, his face lined with concentration. His tools made soft clicking noises as they ground against the inner locking mechanism. He worked steadily, trying to keep his mind on the job. It was best not to imagine what he might find behind the door. The first lock snapped open after five grueling minutes, and Sam pulled it off and tossed it at Brandon before wordlessly starting on the second.

Brandon caught the heavy padlock with a grunt. He took a closer look at it and saw that symbols were etched crudely into the metal. Thinking they might be important, he pocketed the lock. The motion nearly pulled his pants down, and he hurriedly tightened his belt around his waist to support the extra weight.

Sam managed to pick the second lock within only three minutes. It was still taking too long. He needed two hands to wedge his tools in and open the locks, and the process was significantly slowed since he could barely move the fingers of one arm. Sweat dripped down his forehead and he brushed it away, frustrated. He picked the third and fourth locks without incident.

When he was a few minutes into the final lock, he heard gravel crunch in the driveway. A light shone briefly through the bay window behind them.

Brandon moaned. "He's back," he said, clutching his rifle with shaking hands, "Oh shit he's back."

"Get over here, point your gun at the hallway door, and don't say anything," Sam hissed, working feverishly. After a few tense moments the two men heard boots thudding up the wooden porch steps.

The final lock clicked open. Sam wrenched it off and tossed the remaining locks to Brandon so he could stow them in his pack. He took a deep breath and pulled the door open. A wall of darkness fell forward through the gap and covered him. He clenched his teeth and took a step forward, disturbed when his boot splashed softly into liquid. The room smelled like bodies left out to bake in the sun. Several pairs of eyes glinted at him, lit by the lamp behind him. Something growled.

Downstairs, keys thudded onto a table. Notes of an overplayed Black Eyed Peas song drifted up from a portable radio. Thankful for the noise, Sam pulled a shaking Brandon across the threshold and shut the door behind them. "Flashlight," he demanded.

Brandon fumbled around in his pack until he found it. He flipped the switch and instantly wished he hadn't. White eyes glared sightlessly at them from inside tiny cages. Every face was twisted into a decaying mask of fury and desire, and some of the victims were reaching out for them, hungry.

"I like the lights better off," Brandon squeaked, backing up against the door.

"Give that to me," Sam said, taking the flashlight. "Keep your rifle trained on that door. If you hear anything, you tell me. Got it?"

Brandon nodded.

Sam turned away, his eyes searching the mess in front of them. "Dean?" he limped forward through the rows of cages, desperate. "Dean? Come on…"

Brandon didn't know how Sam expected to hear anything over all the growling or see anything in the darkness. He was astonished when Sam turned abruptly and bolted over to the front corner of the room, dropping to his knees in front of a cage.

"Dean," Sam breathed, horrified. His brother was shirtless, wet, and shivering, crammed awkwardly into the small cage. His shoulder was…his shoulder…

Sam pushed the rage back; it wouldn't do him any good right now. He had to get Dean out. He reached in through the bars and gently grabbed his brother's arm.

Dean mumbled gibberish and swung his handcuffed arms feebly toward what held him.

"No," Sam said desperately, grabbing Dean's wrists and holding them still, "Dean, no, it's me. It's Sam," he choked out, heart lurching, "You have to…please, it's me."

Dean stilled, mouth open slightly. His eyes were completely white and clouded over; they stared right through him.

Sam could have cried. He bit his lip and tightened his grip on his older brother's wrists, aware that his hand was next to Dean's open mouth. He didn't care. If Dean was already a zombie, it didn't matter if he got infected too. "Dean?" he whimpered.

Dean blinked, hard, as though trying to clear his head. He said something, but it was wordless babble in Sam's ears. Sam swallowed hard and allowed a tear to fall. He was too late. They had taken too long to get here—

Dean grabbed his hand and squeezed, hard.

Sam's thoughts faltered and screeched to a halt. Hardly daring to hope, he pressed his face closer to the bars. "Dean?"

Dean squeezed his hand again and held it this time, fiercely.

Sam breathed out heavily and smiled, wiping his tears on his sleeve. "Hey," he whispered, "You scared the shit out of me, bro."

Dean's grip tightened again.

"Sam," Brandon said, beside him.

Sam glanced up, startled. The cages and the dark room pinged back, reminding him of their situation. "I told you to—"

"Stare at the door, I know. It's not doing anything interesting," Brandon said, and held out Sam's lock picking tools, "Here. I would do it, but I don't know how to pick a lock and we should hurry."

Sam nodded and turned his focus back to his brother. "Dean. I have to get you out now," he said, and reluctantly released his brother's hand.

Dean mumbled something incoherent and leaned his head against the bars where Sam's hand had been.

Brandon stared at the older man while his brother picked the lock. He looked dead. He sounded like his brain was fried. And his shoulder…his thoughts trailed off as bile rose up in his mouth. He forced it back down as he waited for Sam to finish. He seemed to be having difficulty with the lock. Concerned, Brandon looked closer and saw that Sam's face was paler than before.

"Sam," he said quietly, "Are you…okay?"

"I'm fine."

Brandon rolled his eyes. "Right. Of course Sam the terminator is fine. My mistake."

"Just stop talking, Brandon. Watch the door."

"For the final time," Brandon said, exasperated, "The door does not need watched. It isn't moving, and even if the crazy dude barges in, what then? I tell you that he's here? Hellllllo Mr. Obvious. That'll be super helpful."

"You're being distracting," Sam said through gritted teeth, "I know you're nervous but you need to chill."

"How am I supposed to chill? We're trapped in here with a psycho killer and you're shaking so badly you can't even pick the lock," he said. On cue, the lock clicked open defiantly. Brandon glared at it. "Traitor," he muttered.

Sam reached into the cage and wrapped his arms around his brother. He tugged gently to pull him out, relieved when Dean weakly pushed his feet off the cage to help. Once he was out of confinement, Dean tightened his grip on Sam's shirt and buried his face into his brother's chest. Taken aback by Dean's open show of affection, Sam's worry skyrocketed. "It's okay. I've got you now," he whispered.

"Here," Brandon said.

Sam looked up and gratefully took the jacket Brandon handed him. Together, the two men slid it onto Dean and snapped up the front. Sam hoped that it would keep Dean's shoulder from getting filthier. He doubted that it was possible for the infection to get worse than it already looked, but it didn't hurt to take precautions.

"Someone's coming up lower staircase," Brandon hissed, "Ah hell, he's coming..."

"You're going to have to carry Dean," Sam said, wrapping his arms protectively around his shivering brother as he looked up at Brandon. "I…I can't do it."

Brandon made a face. "Of course you can't, you've been shot—give him to me."

"Watch the door—"

"I'm watching the damn door," Brandon snapped, "Just hand him over."

"Dean," Sam said, speaking into his ear, "Brandon is going to carry you, alright? He's a friend, he's helping us."

Down a level in the house, the previously steady sound of footsteps morphed into a run on the hardwood floor.

"Shit," Brandon said, reaching for the flashlight and turning it off. "He's coming. He's coming and he'll see the missing locks. Give Dean to me. Do you have your gun?"

"It's in my jeans," Sam grunted back as Nick thundered up the final staircase, "Dean, please, you have to let go—"

"Pry him off! He doesn't know what's going on, he's probably disoriented," Brandon whispered frantically, and then baulked as the full weight of the eldest Winchester was dumped on him. He caught the man under the elbows and managed to remain standing, though he wavered a bit and stepped too close to another cage. Fingers snatched at his leg, and he stamped down on them hard. The creature inside shrieked and let go.

"Who's in there?" Nick roared from outside. There was a click of a rifle being cocked, "I know you're there, there's no use hiding."

Please Review! I know it's a bit of a cliffhanger, but that seemed like the best place to leave off (sorry!) Motivate me with braaains...uh...feedback. :)