A/N: I'm sorry if anyone missed the first chapter Monday. The site gave me a bunch of errors when I was trying to post it, and so no notifications were sent out. Hopefully that is fixed now. Time for Round One!

Chapter 2

Dean was so over this shit. He was tired, hot, and hungry. They'd been hiking for two hours, with no sign that they were actually getting anywhere. The terrain would descend promisingly, only to rise again later. That plus the thick overgrowth was slowing them way down, too. Who knew how long exactly it would take them to get the hell out of this place. He wanted a bed, shower, and a couple of hamburgers. Perhaps not in that order.

The one good thing was they hadn't come across anymore booby traps. That crossbow had been so old, maybe it was just some leftover relic from the Gold Rush days.

Brush crinkled as Cas made his way back to them. He'd gone ahead to scout or something, having become hyper vigilant since Sam had been shot. The angel strode through the foliage until he met them, and then opened his palm to present an assortment of pebble-size berries and a few nuts whose shells looked too hard to pry open by hand.

"These are edible."

Dean stared at them blankly. "Uh, no thanks."

"Dean," Cas said in clear exasperation. "You and Sam need sustenance."

"That ain't sustenance. Sam can eat the rabbit food; I'll eat the rabbit."

Sam snorted beside him, and held out his hands to accept the slim pickings. "Thanks, Cas."

Cas's brow furrowed as he passed the nuts and berries to Sam, and for crying out loud, the angel looked as though he was seriously trying to figure out how to get Dean a stupid rabbit.

"You might have a better shot at shooting small game," Cas began. "But we would have to wait until we stopped at night to cook it, or we would lose precious time."

Dean ran a hand down his face wearily. He did not want to spend an entire night out here, but realistically they had no choice. If Cas's estimation of distance was accurate—and of course it was—they weren't making it out of these mountains until the next day. Maybe the one after. And that just soured his mood more.

"Alright," he sighed. "Let me know if you sense Thumper anywhere."

Cas quirked a confused brow, but Dean picked up his pace again before the angel could point out that he didn't understand that reference. Guess there were some things Metatron neglected to download into Cas's brain.

They kept trudging along, climbing over fallen pines and around large rock formations. Dean stepped on a hollow log and his foot crashed through a rotted out section, which sent a skunk scampering out the other side. At least he hadn't gotten sprayed. He spotted other wildlife here and there—a raccoon and a porcupine, neither of which were very appetizing to try shooting at. He'd also seen a bear, but it'd been across a gully, and it and Cas had merely held a staring contest for a few moments before they continued on their way.

Then a sound pierced the air that made Dean freeze in his tracks and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Maybe it was just his imagination warping what he'd actually heard, because there was no way that all the way out here…

"Is that what I think it is?" Sam asked in alarm.

They both turned to Cas, who was standing rigid, eyes wide as he gazed past them through the tightly woven trees. Don't say it, don't you dare say it…

The howl went up again, sending chills slithering down Dean's spine.

Cas surged forward to grab his arm and yank him roughly. "Run!"

Adrenaline flooded Dean's system, and he burst into a mad dash, no longer worried about trip wires or exposed roots, only the unearthly baying that signaled a hound had caught a scent. A hellhound. So someone had brought them all the way out here to die after all.

Trees whipped by him in a blur, twigs catching in his clothes like claws trying to snare and hold him still for the hound to snatch. He barely felt the stings of them scoring across his face as he barreled through them. Panic made his heart jackhammer in his chest, which made it difficult to breathe. Where was he even trying to go? They'd never outrun the beast from the Pit.

Cas came to a sudden stop up ahead, and Dean nearly collided into his back. The angel lashed out a hand to grab him before he could trip, and then Cas was shoving him toward a tree.

"Climb!"

Dean didn't even think about it, but scrambled to find purchase in the bark so he could reach the branches above. Cas grabbed the back of his jacket with one hand and his knee with the other, practically launching him into the air with angelic strength like a half-assed acrobat. Dean's chest struck a limb, and he flailed his arms to catch himself before he could slide back down. His boots skidded across the bark as he managed to haul himself all the way up.

The next howl was much closer, its bloodcurdling cry filling Dean's ears as though it echoed from everywhere around him. His erratic heart threatened to leap up out of his throat.

Cas cupped his hands and gave Sam a boost up next. Being taller, the younger Winchester was able to reach the branches more easily, and then he was safely several feet above the ground as well. Somewhere in the back of his rational mind, Dean wondered if it would matter. Hellhounds wouldn't give up so easily.

"Cas!" Sam shouted, laying flat across the branch and stretching down to help Cas up last.

Cas didn't take his hand, though, but instead turned to face the woods behind them. His angel blade dropped from his sleeve into his hand.

"Cas, no!" Sam sputtered.

Dean couldn't find the capacity to speak. Up ahead, he heard the telltale sounds of crashing twigs and branches as a massive brute of a beast came barreling toward them. Though he couldn't see the hellhound, he saw the trail of leaves being kicked up in its wake as it charged straight toward Cas.

The angel spun away at the last possible second, slashing with his celestial blade. A savage snarl sounded from right beneath the Winchesters as a spurt of viscous black blood shot through the air and splattered across some leaves. Cas re-centered himself, blade dripping with oily unguent. Hot breath puffed from the invisible predator, and the snapping of jaws was the only warning before Cas thrust his blade forward.

There was a high-pitched yelp, but Cas fell backward and hit the dirt. He stabbed again—the hellhound had to be right on top of him, pinning him to the ground.

More inky blood sprayed across the ground, followed by a pained yowl, but then three red slashes scored down Cas's chest, misting the air with crimson. Cas threw his head back and screamed.

Dean frantically tried to pull out his gun without losing his precarious balance. But when he took aim, he hesitated, not wanting to hit Cas.

The angel thrust his arm up in a defensive move, and then screamed again. Dean saw red blood and black goo suddenly seeping through the trench coat's sleeve. The hellhound had sunk its teeth into Cas, and apparently wasn't letting go. Cas's body jerked suddenly, as though something were shaking him by the arm. Dean couldn't afford not to act.

He took aim and fired. Sam's own gun echoed a split second after Dean's, filling the forest with firecrackers. More dark blood burst out from the invisible beast, spurting like fountains and making the creature easier to spot. Cas rolled over, signaling the hound had released him.

Dean leveled his gun and fired again, the crack of the gunshots echoing like thunder. The hellhound yelped with each hit, its leaking body swaying several steps before there was a thud and depression in the mulch-covered ground. Dean held his fire, waiting with bated breath as he watched several pools of ichor spreading out across the ground. But the beast was still chuffing out pained exhales.

Cas gripped his angel blade and crawled forward. Dean tensed, ready to shoot again. Pushing himself shakily to his knees, Cas raised the blade above his head, and then plunged it straight down. There was an audible hitch of breath, and then one last wheeze as the hellhound finally bit the dust.

Cas twisted the blade before yanking it out, and the woods were silent once more, save for Dean's own blood roaring in his ears.

Sam jumped out of the tree first, hitting the ground with a grunt and then sprinting toward Cas just as the angel started to list sideways. Dean scrambled after his brother, pushing off the branch and bending his knees to take the brunt of the impact when he landed. His ankle nearly gave out, and he cursed at how close he'd come to twisting it, but was then lumbering forward.

Sam had his arms around Cas's shoulders, holding the angel up as he sagged completely. Blood was everywhere, both red and black, staining the ground and Cas's clothes. There were three gashes across his chest that were still bleeding, and several jagged puncture wounds in his left arm.

"Dammit, Cas," Dean uttered as he shrugged out of his jacket first, then his flannel shirt, wadding up the second to press against the claw marks. Cas jerked and sucked in a sharp gasp. "Easy, easy."

Cas's breaths were coming shakily. "We…need to…move."

Dean stiffened, and started whipping his gaze around. "You sense more out there?" If that was the case, they were dead. Hell, they were screwed anyway, cut off from civilization, from resources, weapons, and safe houses. Cas was bleeding all over the ground in ways angels weren't meant to bleed, and whoever had brought them all the way out here must have sent that hellhound after them too.

Though, if Dean could push aside his mounting terror for just a second, he might wonder why anyone would go to that kind of trouble. A hellhound could just as easily hunt them down in the city as way out here.

Cas gritted his teeth and shook his head. "Not yet."

Dean allowed himself to relax just a fraction. "Then we can spare a minute for you to heal." Or several. Dean lifted the compress he'd made of his shirt to look at the slash marks, and then quickly pressed down again when it was clear the bleeding hadn't been staunched yet.

"Cas," Sam spoke up worriedly. "How bad are hellhound wounds on an angel?"

Cas seemed to be focused on breathing for the next few seconds, so Dean didn't call him out on putting off his reply. The obvious answer was bad, because Cas's complexion was turning sickly grey and he was practically trembling.

"I'll survive…" he finally started to respond. "But…"

"But what?" Dean demanded.

"The bite…" Cas averted his gaze. "Hellhound saliva is poisonous to angels."

Both Dean and Sam immediately jerked straighter in alarm, exclaiming, "What?"

"It needs to work its way…out of my system." Cas sucked in a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes shut against what looked like a wave of pain.

"What do we do?" Sam asked desperately.

"Wait." Cas shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm slowing you down."

Dean ignored the implication behind the way Cas said that, and focused on their immediate needs. First, they had to find shelter, somewhere away from all this blood, which might attract other predators in addition to hellhounds. If Cas wasn't healing like normal, they'd have to tend those wounds, which meant needing a water source as well.

Would you like fries with that?

Dean shook his head, and quickly slipped his jacket back on. "Okay, can you walk?"

Cas nodded resolutely, and Dean had to hope the angel's sheer will would be enough.

It usually was.

Dean gingerly moved Cas's injured arm so it was tucked tightly against his own chest, holding Dean's shirt over the gashes there. Then Dean slipped one arm under Cas's back while Sam took the angel's other arm, and together they hauled him to his feet. Cas immediately stumbled, but they managed to keep him upright, and the Winchesters started tugging him away from the brutal scene and invisible carcass.

Dean had never been much of the praying type, and even though Chuck was supposedly gone far, far away out of radio range, Dean found himself praying that they'd find shelter soon. It was probably too much to ask for a ride out of there.

Cas's steps were growing heavier, and Dean kept having to readjust his grip to keep the angel from completely sliding to the ground. Finally, though, they came across a large rock formation that had a small overhang and a cranny wedged underneath, enough to provide cover over their heads and some concealment. Not that such things mattered against hellhounds. But maybe it would be just the one…

Experience had taught Dean to know better, but he shoved his fear and defeatism aside; as long as Sam and Cas were counting on him, he was gonna fight to his last, even against insurmountable odds.

At least these craggy boulders weren't an actual cave; they didn't need to add bears to their list of shitty encounters on this whacked-out camping trip.

"Here we go," Dean said as he and Sam half-dragged Cas to the back of the nook where they eased him down onto the ground. Cas immediately went boneless, head lolling limply to the side, eyes closed.

Dean's heart rate spiked. "Cas?"

Sam quickly slipped two fingers under Cas's jaw, mouth pressed into a grim line for a long moment. "He's got a pulse."

Guess that was something. Dean pried the angel's bloody shirt back to get a look at the claw marks, and let out a relieved sigh. "Looks like those stopped bleeding." He reached for Cas's injured arm next. The flesh around the bite wounds was inflamed and swollen, with bright red lines starting to streak through his veins.

"Dammit," Dean muttered. No matter what Cas said about just needing time, the word poison wasn't something to be taken lightly.

A muscle in Sam's jaw ticked as he took in the wounds. "I'll take a quick look around for water."

"Be careful," Dean said.

Sam stood up and strode around the perimeter of the rock formation, leaving Dean alone with only the sounds of a woodpecker somewhere in the trees above, and Cas's shallow breaths wheezing past his lips.

"You'd better not die," Dean told him quietly.

Several minutes went by in which he started worrying about Sam, but then his brother finally came weaving back around the foliage, a platter-size chunk of tree bark in his hands.

"Found a small stream just a couple yards that way," he said. "Took me a bit to find some way to transport the water, though."

Dean lifted his brows at the hollowed out shell of wood Sam had turned into a bowl. He'd take it.

Sam carefully set it down next to Cas, some of the water sloshing out as it teetered on the uneven ground. Then he picked up Dean's bloodstained t-shirt. "I'll go rinse this out, then I guess we can use it to clean him up…?"

Dean nodded. It was the only thing they had to work with. He surveyed the rest of their articles of clothing, debating whether something would have to be cut up for bandages. Maybe Cas's trench coat, though Dean was reluctant to use that. Maybe they could just clean the wounds and leave them for now. After all, Cas said he'd heal eventually.

Sam returned, Dean's shirt now a sopping rag in his hand. The blood hadn't washed out completely, which made it easier for Dean to resign himself to ripping the piece of clothing in half. Then he and Sam set to wiping the blood from Cas's person, both his own and what belonged to the hellhound. Dean figured the last thing the angel needed was getting that filthy refuse into his bloodstream. They also tried to flush the bite wounds a little, but it was difficult and they were deep.

Once they'd cleaned Cas up as best they could, they rinsed out the rags and dumped the soiled water. Cas hadn't regained consciousness at all through the ministrations, and Dean kept checking every few minutes to make sure he was still breathing. And wasn't that weird, because since when were angels supposed to breathe?

Dean looked up to meet his little brother's frightened gaze, which mirrored Dean's own dread. There was nothing left to do now but wait.

And try to stay alive.

The lodge was in an uproar, various entities shouting over each other in frustration about the wagers they'd lost. From what Crowley could gather, the betting parameters laid down had to be specific—which target the hound would take down first; would the hound maim or kill one of them; which one of the infuriating trio would be the one to slay the beast; etc. So many variables left plenty of room for people to lose, and Crowley had to mentally scoff at the buffoons for taking such odds.

He turned toward Malloy, who was standing in the corner and gaping at the screen, which was still focused on the dead hellhound, a shellshocked look on his face.

"Thánatos," the demon murmured, then seethed, "Those bloody Winchesters."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "I could have told you sending one hellhound after those three was a bad idea. They're wily ones. Especially with the angel in tow."

Malloy balled his hands into fists. "It's not my decision how many to send in."

Crowley arched an intrigued brow. "And whose is it?"

Malloy lifted his chin and nodded toward the center of the room where a large hearth was, just as the Native American figure who'd heralded the start of the "game" took the floor again.

"Calm down, gents and imps. This is only just the beginning. What fun would it be if the first attempt took out our dashing heroes?"

The way he said "heroes" was far from reverent.

"These games are meant to last," he continued, and Crowley was finally able to sense the power signature radiating from him. The pagan deity, Coyote. Lovely. "The hellhound knocked the angel down a peg, so now if there is anyone who would like to enter the arena themselves, the payout will be double."

Murmurs raced through the crowd.

"But if not," Coyote added. "We could always send in another hellhound." With that, he slipped away to leave his guests a few minutes to think it over.

Malloy hung his head. "I shoulda known better. But the price was too good."

"How many hellhounds did you consign to this?" Crowley asked out of curiosity.

"As many as he wants."

Crowley sighed. Hadn't he taught his subjects better deal-making strategy than that? Malloy deserved this pickle.

"Are you joking?" a high-pitched, heavily accented voice rose up above the din, making Crowley's hair stand on end. Could this day get any worse?

He slowly turned to scan the room, and spotted the familiar locks of stark red hair up at the betting counter. "Bloody hell," he muttered, and started making his way over.

"Re-watch the footage, you buffoon! The hellhound clearly took down the angel."

The cretin on the other side of the counter gave her a bored look. "The hellhound is dead; the angel is not. Ergo, no earnings."

Rowena's cheeks puffed. "I didn't bet on whether they lived or died. I bet on whether the hound took down the angel, which it did!"

"The angel was the last one standing," the bookie replied, eyes narrowing in annoyance. "Them's the rules. You want to place another bet, go ahead."

Rowena's shoulders were shaking with rage. "Do you know who I am?" she nearly shrieked.

The guy rolled his eyes, stood up, and walked away. Rowena sputtered.

Crowley took that moment to come up behind her. "Mother, what are you doing?"

She whirled, eyes going wide for a split second before she mustered a semblance of calm and smoothed down her burgundy dress. "Hello, Fergus. Fancy seeing you here. I wouldn't have thought this event to your tastes."

"I do love a good fox hunt," he replied blithely. "How did you warrant admittance?"

Rowena lifted her chin. "I've made quite a name for myself in recent months, I'll have you know. Helping to defeat the Darkness everyone was so terrified of has put me up there with the elite. Why, there are witches from all over now begging to join my Mega Coven."

"Spare me," Crowley drawled. He cast an unimpressed glance around the lodge. "So this is what you're doing now? Making losing bets on puppies and dented halos?"

Rowena glowered at him. "A lot went into this rather prestigious event. My only complaint is that you weren't included in the game pool, given your disgusting affinity for the Winchesters." She paused, smoothing her expression. "Perhaps I could make a special request."

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "Don't forget, Mother, how every attempt of yours to strike at me has failed." He drew his shoulders back. "Besides, I have my own hellhounds."

Rowena's face puckered into a pouting moue, and she spun on her heel to storm away.

Crowley lifted his gaze to the television monitor, paused for the moment on the hellhound carcass. The Winchesters and Castiel couldn't have gone far; they'd be found easily enough when the next round began.

He didn't know whether to be disappointed or glad the hellhound had failed to kill one of them. He wasn't surprised. Those three had a knack for surviving anything, and certainly for not staying dead. Which was why Crowley wasn't overly concerned about Castiel getting torn up a bit. But he was left with an odd dilemma—did he intervene on the trio's behalf, or sit back and watch things play out? Maybe place a bet or two of his own.