A/N: Thank you so much to Melody Sypher Carston for being my beta on this! I did some pretty extensive edits after she gave me her edits, so any remaining errors are mine.

PLEASE NOTE the rating change from K+ to T. This is mainly for language, but also for descriptions of injuries. Disclaimer: I am not a medical professional.

Cold was the first sensation Sam registered on his return to consciousness, quickly followed by the realization that he was shivering. A particularly violent shiver wracked his body and pain erupted on his right side. Sam let out groan and opened his eyes.

A sliver of moonlight peaked through the break between the cellar doors, providing the only illumination in the otherwise dark basement. Sam needed light.

Cell phone.

With a sinking feeling, Sam realized the pocket containing his cell phone was the one he was currently lying on. He really didn't want to move if could help it. Hell, he wasn't even sure if he could move.

Sam leveraged his left hand on the floor in front of his chest and pushed hard. With a dull thud, he rolled onto his back, the movement sending a jolt of pain through his dislocated shoulder. White spots erupted in front of his eyes, and all he could do for a few seconds was breathe.

Gotta get out of here.

Sam came back to himself with renewed determination. He needed to get out of that basement before someone realized he was gone. He hadn't told anyone at school where he was going just as he hadn't told anyone about his past life. And he was determined to keep it that way. Plus, no one needed to find him injured on the floor of a basement of an abandoned house, six bodies around him, piles of discarded skin, and a dead shape shifter with some of its skin missing lying nearby.

Gingerly, Sam sat himself up. The change in elevation sent a wave of dizziness over him, and he stared down waiting for it to pass. He reached across himself with his left arm, pulling his cell phone out of his right jeans pocket. He flipped it open, letting the feeble light wash over his injured right leg.

A deep gash framed by tattered and bloody jeans ran the length of Sam's leg, blood still oozing lazily from it.

Shot. The shifter had shot him.

Sam angled his cell phone to assess the damage more. He paused, shocked, when the light glistened back at him. There was a slowly growing puddle of blood beneath him.

Oh God.

He must have been out for a while if he had managed to bleed out this much. Sam gingerly turned his leg, wincing with the motion, and examined the gash. From about the middle of the limb and stretching diagonally down to just above his knee, the wound was ugly looking. Still, Sam counted himself lucky; the bullet had only grazed him. It was painful to say the least, but it seemed to have missed any major arteries or Sam would be dead already. Thank God for small miracles.

Sam breathed out a deep sigh of dread as he fully realized the extent of his injuries. The amount of effort he had put into even slightly moving his leg spiked the worry that the limb may not support him. The bullet must have torn through some muscles. With his injured leg and dislocated shoulder on the same side of his body, there would be no conceivable way for Sam to climb the ladder. He would be trapped.

Bleeding and potentially trapped, Sam's instinctual reaction was to call Dean. He shook his head, as if to clear that thought from his mind. He had gotten himself in this mess, and he would get himself out. Plus, Sam seriously doubted Dean would pick up or that he was even close by. They weren't exactly on speaking terms.

He probably thinks I hate him, Sam thought bitterly.

Sam glanced around the basement, using his cell as a pathetic excuse for a flashlight. His eye caught on his knife lying a few feet away near the dead shifter. Laying himself flat, Sam stretched to reach it; his fingertips grazed the hilt as his leg painfully protested the strain.

"C'mon C'mon," Sam groaned.

With a small noise of triumph, Sam pulled the blade to him. He pushed himself back into a sitting position and proceeded to cut several strips of fabric from the bottom of his pant leg using the blade.

You can do this.

Sam hadn't often needed to fix himself up with his brother around. But now, Sam was alone. He had no choice but to take care of himself.

Fumbling in the near darkness, Sam began awkwardly wrapping his leg. Limited to one working hand, it was an arduous and long task. By the time he managed to crudely bandage his leg Sam was breathing heavily, and his brow was glistening with sweat. His leg throbbed with each heartbeat, but it had more or less stopped bleeding. The rest of his injuries were of less concern.

His most pressing concern taken care of, Sam turned his attention to getting out of the basement. Despite his injured leg, Sam figured he could push through the pain and force his body to move. Determination fueling his adrenaline, he took a deep breath, and, with a shove off the ground, he forced his legs under him.

He didn't even make it out of his awkward crouched position before falling back down on his ass.

"Fuck," Sam exclaimed as pain shot through him. He glanced down at his injured leg, realizing it had started bleeding again with his efforts, the loose wrapping having come undone. He cursed again.

His leg just wasn't going to support him. Sam started to panic in earnest now, blood loss and pain starting to take their toll.

"Pull yourself together, Winchester." Sam muttered.

Sam took a few deep breaths to steady himself and came to terms with the hard truth that he wasn't going to get out of here alone. Dejected, he flipped open his cell and dialed an all too familiar number.

On the third ring, a gruff voice answered, "Hello?"

"Bobby." Sam said, his voice raspy.

"Sam! Haven't heard from you in months, boy. You doin' ok?"

"Well. That's kind of why I'm calling." Sam swallowed, trying to get some moisture in his dry mouth. "Do you- do you know if any hunters are nearby? I'm stuck in a basement with a dead shifter."

"Excuse me?" Bobby's indignation obvious.

"I'm stuck."

"Sam- Are you hurt?" Bobby asked, suddenly concerned.

"….yeah. It shot me in the leg. I can't climb out." Sam admitted.

Bobby let out a sigh.

"Shit, Sam. I thought you were in school? What the hell are you doing hunting?"

Sam didn't answer.

"Sam where are you?"

"Basement. Brick house on the east side of Palo Alto." Sam felt another wave of dizziness overtake him, and he shut his eyes tight as the room began to sway.

"You don't have anyone you can call? A friend maybe?"

"No."

Bobby sighed again.

"There's one hunter close to you. A couple hours out."

Sam opened his eyes, glad to find the room steady again. He felt relief filling him at Bobby's words.

"What his name? Can you give me his number?"

Bobby didn't respond.

"Bobby?"

"It's Dean."

Sam felt the floor beneath him fall away, and he closed his eyes again to try and regain purchase on himself. He suddenly realized Bobby was calling his name.

"Sam! You still with me?

"…Yeah, Bobby. I'm with you." Sam groaned.

"Do you want me to call him Sam?"

"I…" Sam sighed. "Yeah, Bobby. Call him."

"Alright. You keep your cell close, you hear?"

"Yeah." Sam flipped his phone shut, putting it back in his pocket for safe keeping. He resigned himself to lying on the cold floor until his brother could come rescue him. Again.

As long as Sam can remember, Dean has been taking care of him. Acting as friend, teacher, and healer Dean has always been more than just a brother to Sam. Despite their now icy silence, the two share a unique bond, forged by an unconventional and dangerous lifestyle.

When Sam left for Stanford, he had left to find a normal life. Sam knew Dean didn't understand his desire for a life away from hunting. But it seemed the hunting life had wound its way back into Sam's life anyway, the dead shape shifter lying nearby the evidence. And soon, Dean would be back in his life again too.

Sam chuckled darkly. No matter what he did it seemed like hunting the supernatural was just inevitable for him. He had been naïve to think going to school at the edge of country could change that.

Sam sighed. He felt so useless, lying here on the floor. It had been beyond stupid for him to investigate a hunt without back up, his lack of practice only compounding that truth. He was never going to hear the end of it from Dean.

With a start, Sam realized his eyes were slipping shut, exhaustion starting to overtake him.

Stay awake, Sam. Get off the floor.

Sam rolled his head around, realizing the wall behind him wasn't too far away. Maybe if he could maneuver himself there, he could sit up to get at least some of his shivering body off the cold ground. And maybe have some dignity whenever Dean found him.

Sam took several deep breaths, steeling himself for inevitable pain. He forced himself to sit up again, shutting his eyes as dizziness overtook him again. He maneuvered his uninjured left leg to get his foot flat on the floor, and, balancing himself with his left hand as well as he could, he pushed himself backwards.

Pain erupted in his right leg as it dragged along the ground, torn muscles protesting the movement. Sam gritted his teeth, holding back the yell he so wanted to let loose. Years of experience told him that yelling never made the pain better, so he held it back.

He repeated the action, foot-by-foot moving closer to the wall, determination etched into his face. With each shift, a darkness distinct from that of the basement edged into his vision. He fought the pull of unconsciousness, telling himself he was nearly there. Finally, Sam felt his back meet the wall. He laughed, delirious with dehydration and blood loss and pain.

He slumped against the wall, suddenly sober as the adrenaline left him.

"Hurry Dean." Sam whispered. He gave up his fight with consciousness, letting the welcoming darkness take him.

A/N: As always, please review and let me know your thoughts!