Dean didn't scare easily.

...except when Sam didn't answer his name.

Because that was another one of their rules – that you answered your name when the other brother called you just to confirm that you were okay; that you were still there and alive and breathing and shit.

And then once that was confirmed, you could go back to being pissed and silent treat the hell out of your brother.

But first...you answered your fucking name when it was called.

It was a rule, dammit.

And it was one they never broke.

So Sam not responding when Dean called him right now was...

"Not good," Charlie announced, understating the obvious as she stood slightly behind Dean inside the Batcave. "Do you think – "

Shut up, Dean interrupted; not speaking, not even turning to look at her but still effectively silencing her as his hand sliced through the air, cutting her off.

Or maybe it symbolized a karate chop to her throat.

Either way, the message was clear – shut up.

Charlie swallowed.

Yeah, okay.

She could shut up.

Sure.

No problem.

Charlie swallowed again, her wide-eyed gaze flickering around the entryway.

Where in the world was Sam Winchester?

Like that Carmen Sandiego game she used to play.

It was old-school, but that was still a kickass game.

Charlie nodded appreciatively at the memory and then shook her head – annoyed with herself for always getting lost in her own wandering thoughts – and then returned her attention to Dean, staring at his back.

Dean remained motionless in the middle of the room where they had last seen Sam – the main room of the Batcave with all of those matching chairs and lamps...and the books and the long-ass table and...where the hell was his brother?

Dean listened intently, tilting his head and even briefly closing his eyes since removing one sense automatically sharpened the others.

But there was nothing to hear.

No coughing, no wheezing, no uncoordinated movement.

The silence was so loud it hummed.

Dean opened his eyes.

Charlie waited, afraid to move – hell, afraid to even breathe – as Dean continued his well-practiced, methodical process of honing in on Sam's distress signal...or whatever.

Blood linked to blood and all the instincts that went along with that kind of tie.

Charlie shrugged, not pretending to understand the depth of the brothers' connection though she was fascinated by it.

Because Dean was definitely sensing something she wasn't.

Charlie held still.

"Sam..." Dean called again, his eyes scanning every corner of the room as he now walked a careful circle around the table.

But there was nothing.

Dean's gaze then moved to the wooden floor, searching for any sign of blood – the tell-tale specks of red that always escaped even a well-covered cough.

But again there was nothing.

There was no blood and no sound and no Sam because the kid wasn't in this room anymore...or in the open room behind it since the room with the glowing map table was just as Sam-less as this one.

But Dean knew that Sam was there somewhere.

He could sense the kid in that way he could never explain.

But Sam was there.

...which meant the search was on.

And the Batcave was a big-ass place to search, especially when you were already worried about a missing little brother who also happened to be sick and feverish and unsteady on his feet.

Dean sighed harshly. "Dammit, Sam..." he growled, snatching off his tie and then shrugging out of his coat before tossing both on the table...and noticing that Sam's phone wasn't laying on the polished surface like it sometimes was.

Which meant wherever Sam had gone, there was a good chance his phone was with him.

At least Sam had followed that rule – to always have his phone in case Dean called, in case Dean needed him.

But these other rules between them needed a little work – like answering your fucking phone and answering when your brother called your name.

Speaking of...

"Sam..." Dean called once more, his voice echoing through the Batcave and receiving no reply.

Dean snorted his worried frustration, unfastening the top button of his collared shirt and then doing the same with the buttons on his cuffed sleeves; rolling one sleeve up and then the other.

Still standing behind him, Charlie watched, vaguely wondering if Dean was preparing for a fight or a rescue.

Maybe both...

Charlie cleared her throat; daring to speak, wanting to help. "Maybe he's in his room..."

Because that was definitely the first place she would look.

But Dean shook his head, rejecting that theory.

Because if he knew Sam – and believe him...he did – then Dean would bet his brother was down in the shooting range. The stubborn little shit emptying round after round of ammo as he tried to hit that target he had so embarrassingly failed to hit earlier.

Dean nodded at the thought, visualizing his brother standing behind that waist-high concrete wall downstairs; Sam's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed, maybe even one hand supporting the other to steady his aim as he fired...and fired and fired, desperate to pass Dean's test for resuming the hunt – hitting that target.

But not just hitting the white space because they both knew that didn't count.

No.

Sam needed to hit the black outline of the man, preferably in the chest or head.

And then Dean would consider letting him back on the hunt.

Which meant that was what Sam had been doing for the past hour that Dean and Charlie had been gone – target practicing.

Dean knew it because he knew his brother.

But there was no echo to indicate practice shots being fired in the range below...and Sam was nowhere in sight up here.

So...

Dean sighed, not liking the way this was adding up but now knowing the first place he was beginning his search for his brother.

Charlie frowned as Dean suddenly turned and walked past her. "Hey. Where are you going?"

Dean didn't respond, knowing it was obvious that he was heading downstairs, especially since he had taken Charlie in this direction hours earlier when he had required her to pass the target test as well before agreeing to take her with him on the hunt.

And surprisingly, she had passed with remarkable accuracy.

Dean snorted, still somewhat impressed with Charlie's marksmanship, and kept walking; opening the door that led to the stairwell and then disappearing from sight.

Charlie's frown deepened – because why was Dean going to the shooting range?

Now was not the time to blow off steam.

Unless Dean thought that Sam was down there and was going to look.

After all, he was the one with the sixth sense about his little brother.

Charlie quirked a smile, remembering all of the times in those books when Dean had known exactly where Sam was based solely on instinct.

These brothers were that connected...and seriously, why was Charlie an only child?

It was not fair.

She wanted a superpower like that.

Charlie sighed, realizing that she was still standing alone in the room like a dork while Dean was moving forward with finding Sam.

She should get in on that.

"Right," Charlie agreed with herself and followed Dean; crossing to the door and entering the stairwell, surprised to see the lights already on in the shooting range below; their glow filtering up the stairs.

Huh.

Okay, maybe Sam was down there.

But if he was, then why couldn't they hear him?

Even if he wasn't shooting, there should at least be the general sounds of somebody moving around.

But no...just silence and the quiet scuff of Dean's boots on the stairs.

Charlie lingered at the top of the stairs, not liking the way this was adding up, and chewed on her bottom lip, feeling like she was suddenly caught in either a suspense movie – "Hurry up!" – or a horror flick – "Don't go down there!"

Because there were only two ways this was going to end – an empty shooting range with no Sam, which would lead to more questions...or a shooting range with a too-quiet, too-still Sam, which Charlie didn't even want to think about.

She cringed as she thought about it anyway.

"Please be okay..." Charlie whispered to Sam – wherever he was – and saw Dean only a few steps ahead of her; his phone once again out of his pocket and now pressing to his ear.

Down below, another phone rang.

Three guesses whose it was.

Charlie swallowed, dread twisting her stomach as the phone rang...and rang.

Dean kept walking, lowering his phone from his ear and holding it in front of him instead, like it was a tracking device used to find wayward little brothers.

And Charlie guessed that in a way, it was.

Because Dean seemed to recognize the ring tone that kept echoing below and went faster down the steps.

Again, Charlie followed; her hand sliding over the rail as she descended the stairs behind him.

The phone below stopped ringing as suddenly as it had started.

The silence that took its place felt strangely hollow and ominous.

Charlie paused on the steps, her heart hammering in her chest.

She briefly closed her eyes, not sure if she was ready for this; if she was ready to see what waited for them in the shooting range.

Because this was not good – this was so not good.

Charlie exhaled a shaky breath and opened her eyes; her hand aching from how tightly she was gripping the railing as she remained motionless on the steps.

Below her, Dean ended his call when Sam's voicemail picked up, pocketing his phone as he reached the bottom of the steps and made the slight right turn that led into the actual shooting range.

Charlie tensed, waiting for a reaction.

But none came.

Only silence.

Charlie frowned, her curiosity instantly overriding her fear, and began moving again.

She continued down the stairs and made the same right turn as Dean had moments before...and then smacked into Dean's back as she belatedly realized that he had paused just inside the doorway to scan the room for potential lurking danger.

"Whoa..." Charlie blurted, stumbling backwards and bracing herself on the doorjamb even as Dean moved forward – the hunter in him apparently satisfied that the area was safe and thus allowing the big brother side of him to completely take over.

"Sammy..." Dean called, wasting no time crossing to his brother sprawled on the floor; his hands eager to touch but only hovering as he quickly triaged Sam's condition.

Charlie blinked, seeing Sam for the first time now that Dean was crouching beside him.

"Oh my god..." she whispered, momentarily frozen in place at the sight of the youngest Winchester.

Because Dean's earlier prediction had been right – Sam was on the floor coughing up blood.

Or at least, he had been coughing up blood.

Sam wasn't doing much of anything right now, except breathing...nosily breathing as though even that was an effort.

But the red that stained Sam's lips and chin and had even dripped to the floor testified that Sam had been coughing up blood.

And it was too much.

Dean had been right about that as well.

There was too much blood pooled on the floor beneath Sam's mouth.

Charlie swallowed, her gaze following Dean's hand as his fingers pushed back Sam's sweat-damp bangs and then lightly skimmed over Sam's forehead; the big brother assessing the fresh injury Sam had sustained when he had collapsed.

Charlie came closer, angling for a better view of the jagged gash at Sam's hairline.

"Ouch..." she commented, because that definitely looked painful; was bloody and swollen and already bruising. "How did that happen?"

Dean ignored her question, instead narrowing his eyes and glancing over his shoulder.

Charlie looked in the same direction, seeing the blood on the edge of the concrete ledge – the same ledge where a gun and Sam's phone were still laying – and quickly realized what had happened.

Sam had more than likely leaned forward earlier, doubled-over by the intensity of his coughs, and then had hit his head on the ledge as he had suddenly lost consciousness; striking the edge of the concrete with his forehead before falling back.

Or maybe Sam's shaky legs had refused to support him any longer, and that was why he had fallen forward.

Maybe Sam losing consciousness had nothing to do with a breathless coughing spell but could be blamed on simply losing his balance, hitting his head, and then passing out.

It was like the whole chicken and egg debate – it was hard to conclusively say one way or another which came first.

But regardless of the sequence of events, the result was the same in this situation – because here Sam was, sprawled at an awkward angle on the floor of the shooting range with a bloody mouth and a bloody forehead.

Dean sighed. "You're a mess," he told his unconscious brother. "And a pain in my ass..." he added, worried affection in his tone as he carefully wiped his hand over Sam's chin and lips and then rubbed Sam's blood on his own pants.

Charlie watched, touched more than she expected by such a simple gesture.

Dean did it again, clearing more blood from Sam's face and wiping it on his pants before palming his brother's forehead.

Charlie continued to watch.

Dean scowled and shook his head.

Charlie frowned. "Fever?"

Dean glanced at her. "He's burning up..." he reported about Sam's temperature and shook his head again. "But the stubborn little shit doesn't tell anybody or let them help him until he fucking passes out by himself..." the big brother continued to rant. "Dumbass."

Charlie quirked a smile, wisely keeping quiet even as she detected the candid worry and fear in Dean's tone.

There was a beat of silence.

Dean sighed, his hand slipping from Sam's forehead as his gaze swept over his brother to check for any other injuries.

Charlie's gaze did the same, not really sure what she was looking for.

"Is he okay?" she asked and then cringed at how ridiculous that sounded.

Because of course Sam wasn't okay.

His body was slowly deteriorating from the effects of the trials.

He was unconscious and bleeding; was sweaty and pale; had been coughing up blood and was running a fever.

Anybody with eyes could see that Sam was far from okay.

But...

"I mean...you know..." Charlie shrugged, suddenly feeling awkward and intrusive. "Relatively speaking, is he okay?"

Dean arched an eyebrow at her clarification.

Charlie forced a smile, hoping Dean realized that she was only asking stupid questions because she was concerned; because she loved these guys and didn't want anything to happen to either of them.

Dean sighed. "Yes," he finally replied, glancing at Charlie and then back at Sam. "Relatively speaking, I think he's fine. I just need to get him upstairs...clean him up, cool him down, put him to bed..."

Charlie's smile softened, wondering if Dean ever realized how much he sounded and acted more like a parent than a brother.

...which made sense, especially given Sam and Dean's history and all that she had read in those books about their life – Dean always being responsible for Sam and taking care of his little brother more so than their dad ever had.

It was beautifully sad, heartbreakingly sweet.

Charlie sighed, her smile lingering...and then slipping as the first part of Dean's plan sunk in.

"Wait...get him upstairs?" she clarified.

Because Charlie was definitely all about helping take care of Sam - that is, if Dean would allow her to help.

But Sam was tall...which meant he was heavy. And he was probably even heavier when he was unconscious.

So how the hell were they going to get him upstairs?

TBC