Hi y'all! Bad allergies and Benadryl knocked me out, so I didn't have a chance to look this over last night. But here's the next chapter! Thanks so much for the awesome reviews. I really appreciate it! I also just wanted to mention that in this chapter, Dean rides a horse. I wrote this a while ago, before we found out in Frontierland that neither of the boys ride. Sigh. Please forgive me. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 4

It hurt. Worse than Dad's most strenuous workouts. He'd known he'd feel the burn of the push-ups for a day or so, but this… Every muscle in his neck, his back, and across his shoulders was on fire. His arms, too. Sam groaned, and it sounded funny. Kind of like…an echo…

Sam opened his eyes, lifted his head from where it had lolled forward, and peered into the darkness.

Dark. Cold. Echo. Cave…

Big Owl.

It came back to him in a dizzying flood of memory, and he staggered, losing his footing. The pain intensified, muscles pulling taut. It was another moment before Sam realized why.

His arms were stretched up above his head, bound wrists secured by another rope that disappeared into the darkness above. He got his feet under him and pushed up, but it was only mild relief. His feet touched the floor, but there was no slack. Sam was stripped to the waist and hanging like… He swallowed, but it lodged in his throat. Like those bodies in the larder.

Nausea threatened to choke him. Sam knew what would be next, and the thought stole his breath, made his head swim. He'd read the stories, but what was worse were the images those stories had created in his mind. The deadly sharp knife stained with the blood of its previous victims; thousands of tiny cuts to the skin, inflicted with precision to cause the most pain; victims lasting for days as the flesh was flayed from their bodies…

The smallest of whimpers escaped as Sam struggled furiously against the ropes until his already-raw wrists were slick with blood. The bonds were too tight, and there was so little strength left in his arms. "Please," whispered past his lips.

A noise caught Sam's attention, and he lifted his head, his gaze darting about the cave in search of the source. Gooseflesh puckered his skin as he waited, listened.

It stepped from the shadows—or maybe coalesced—not twelve feet away. Sam's tongue darted out over his lips, terror making his heart pound frantically. Somehow, Sam remembered not to look into its eyes…not a difficult feat when there was a huge knife in its right hand that drew his full attention.

"No," Sam said on a breath, his head shaking in denial. This wasn't happening. He'd been in some tight spots before, had his life threatened before, but nothing like this. Where were Dean and Dad? Did they even know where he was? Would they find him before it was too late?

Nchaa Bu flickered and took a lumbering step forward. But in the next blink of the eye, it was standing right before Sam.

Sam could feel its gaze, and he shrank from it, but one backward step put him off-balance. There was nowhere to go.

It began to speak in a language Sam didn't understand, in a voice that sounded like it hadn't spoken in years. The chant sent a shiver through Sam, its—

The chant. The song.

It had worked for Victoria. Not for long, but it could buy him some time. Only…he wasn't sure he remembered the words…

Voice quaking, Sam began to sing.

It was a moment before he realized the creature had stopped its chant. Its head canted to one side and it flickered.

Bolstered by the reaction, Sam pushed himself upright and sang louder…until the massive hand sealed his mouth once more. Sealed his fate.

Sam's cry was lost against it. He saw the knife lift, felt it touch the skin of his chest. The blade was so sharp, he barely felt the cut. Nor the second or third. But by the fourth, his brain was beginning to register the pain. He could feel himself trembling, feel the warm blood trickling over his cool skin. He wrenched, trying to get away, but it only made the pain worse. It wasn't stopping. No end in sight.

Dean, where are you? Dad! Help me, please!

But he was alone.

oooOOOooo

Dean cursed under his breath. They'd torn across the plain at a full gallop, moving as fast as they could across even ground, but now they were in the mountains. The rock-strewn landscape was dotted with trees; one false step and no more horse.

They'd reached the place where the bones had been found and searched two caves with no luck at all. What were the odds they'd find Sam before it was too late? No, Dean couldn't think about that. They would find Sammy. They just would.

Dean blinked back to the present when his horse stopped. Up ahead, Dad had the map open and was working figures. It always amazed Dean that his father was so good with maps and coordinates. Military training, sure, but it still seemed to come so easy for him.

"This is it," John said, his eyes roaming the area like he was memorizing it. "The next cave should be in this area. Be careful."

Dean nodded. He slid from the saddle, sawed-off gripped firmly, and let his gaze travel along the ground. Maybe it had left tracks here, too. He pulled on every tracking skill his father had taught him, but there was nothing.

Nothing…

Dean straightened and yelled, "Sam?"

"Dean!" his father admonished.

Dean spun on him. "Dad, there's no tracks here. I mean nothing. No wildlife of any kind. Something has to be scaring them away." He was certain there was a look of desperation on his face, but at the moment, he didn't care. "Besides, don't we want to get this thing away from Sam?"

John's mouth snapped shut, and he regarded Dean a moment before he finally nodded. Then he bellowed, "Sammy!" He urged his horse forward, heading west where the trees became denser and the jutting rock formations suggested caves.

Dean followed his father's gaze, his chest tightening with anxiety. Could they really be that close? He rounded his Palomino and grabbed a handful of mane, placing one foot in the stirrup.

"Dean!"

Dean looked up in time to see John's mount rear up, tumbling his father from the saddle. John hit the ground hard, but he had a firm grip on his shotgun.

The screech of an owl rent the air, and Dean ducked his head against the piercing noise. His own horse stomped, its ears laid back. Dean barely managed to jump back before a whip of its head yanked the reins from his hands and it took off after the other horse.

Dean took a step toward his dad, but a staying hand stopped him in his tracks.

"Find Sammy," John ordered. "I'll keep this thing busy. Go!"

Dean only hesitated the briefest of moments. Arguing would be a waste of time. He broke into a run and didn't look back.

He ran until he could barely breathe, then pushed himself a little further, until the ground became dangerously rocky and one wrong step would ruin his chances of ever finding his brother.

Gritting his teeth against the burn of pulling stitches on his back, Dean surveyed the area. It was darker here, the trees blotting out most of the sunlight. Small trees and scrub brush littered the forest floor, and small trees grew out of cracks in the rocks. It seemed so alive, and at the same time, deadly silent. Dean moved cautiously. Under normal circumstances, this area of the reservation was off-limits to anyone other than the Apache. The land was pure, unscathed except for one ancient, hungry spirit.

Scattered shafts of sunlight cut through the leaves, creating an eerie haze. Dean headed for the rock formations, his pace quickening with every step.

The blast of a shotgun echoed through the trees, followed by a horrendous screech. But Dad would only be able to hold the thing off for so long.

He scanned the jutting rocks, his heart beating faster with the anxiety. What if this wasn't it? What then?

No. The cave was here somewhere, he just had to find it.

Moss and greenery grew heavily on this side, and Dean pushed against it, making sure there was solid rock on the other side. He took another step, and felt something crunch under his boot. Something not leaves. Looking down, he moved his boot, then crouched to brush away the dried pine needles.

The cracked face of a watch stared back at him. Sam's watch.

"Way to go, Sammy," Dean said, pocketing the timepiece and pushing to his feet. He tore at the tangle of vines. With the sharp angles of the rocks, he might have missed it if not for Sam's clue. And he was fairly certain the kid had left it on purpose.

The mouth of the cave looked like a fissure but widened farther in. This was it, Dean was sure. He pulled the mini Maglite from his pocket and plunged into the darkness.

It was black as pitch at first, until his eyes adjusted. Then he began to make out the interior of the cave, and not just from his light. There was ambient light that seemed to be coming from above, maybe sunlight from a crack somewhere in the cave ceiling. But as he moved in deeper, the torches came into sight, and any doubts he'd had that he was in the right place quickly vanished. Sam was here.

Dean quickened his pace, anxiety pushing him forward. "Sam?" he called in a harsh whisper. Fear made his heart pump faster. What if he was too late? What if Sam was already—?

Passages narrowed, twisted and turned, forked. Which way? Something drew Dean inexplicably to the right. Instinct, or something else? Dean didn't fight it, just went with it, practically jogging now that the cave had opened up. His light swung from side to side, and his eyes followed the beam, scanning, searching. How much time did he have? How long could Dad hold the thing off?

"Sam?" he called, no longer bothering to whisper.

He waited. Listened.

It was cooler here. Very cool, in fact. The sound of flowing water reached Dean's ears. An underground stream, maybe, runoff from the mountains. He headed toward it.

The passage narrowed again, but Dean could see light up ahead. Probably more torches, from the way it bounced off the rock walls.

But when Dean reached the end of the passage, he stopped dead in his tracks, a gasp trapping the air in his lungs. He reached out and grabbed the rock wall for support as his legs wobbled beneath him.

"No." The denial caught in his throat at the sight of his brother.

Sam hung by his wrists in the center of the room, all his weight on his arms since his legs had given out beneath him. His head had dropped forward, chin against his chest that was—Dean swallowed back the nausea—covered in blood.

Dean got his feet moving and took a few staggering steps before finding his equilibrium. A few more steps, and he was standing in front of his brother. He could smell the blood. It mixed with sweat and trickled from what had to be hundreds of small shallow cuts all over Sam's chest and back.

"Sammy…," Dean whispered, blinking the sheen from his eyes in time to see a small droplet of blood track its way from a cut. Sam was still bleeding.

Sam was still bleeding.

Dean quickly slipped his Maglite into his pocket, set the sawed-off at his feet, and took his brother's face in his hands. "Sammy?" he urged, carefully lifting the tousled head. There was a gag stuffed in Sam's mouth, and Dean quickly tugged it free. "Sammy, come on…" He gently swiped the sweat-damp hair back from the kid's face, then gave his cheek a tap.

Sam whimpered. The barely audible sound twisted Dean's stomach into knots. Then Sam's lips moved. Dean had to lean in closer to hear what he was saying. Sam's breath ghosted past his ear:

"Stop. Please…"

The plea tore at Dean's heart but also galvanized him into action. "Sammy," he said, louder this time. "It's me. It's Dean. I'm here, kiddo. I'm getting you outta here. You hear me?" He yanked his Bowie knife from its sheath.

Sam picked that moment to open his eyes. "No!" he cried hoarsely, jerking back from the blade.

It took a split-second for Dean to realize what was wrong, and he silently berated himself as he lowered the knife and stepped into Sam's line of vision. "Sam, it's okay. It's me. Hey." He kept his voice low, gentle, hoping to calm his trembling brother.

Head held up between his arms, Sam blinked, his gaze lifting from the blade to Dean's face, eyes squinting in the dimness. "Dean?" he whispered, disbelieving.

Dean offered him the best smile he could muster. "Yeah, it's me, bro. I gotta get you out of here, okay?"

Sam's chest heaved on a sob of relief, and he nodded slowly, his eyes slipping shut.

"Stay with me, Sam." Dean brought the knife up behind his brother, then began sawing at the ropes holding Sam's wrists above his head. It was a stretch, but on his toes, he could just reach. With his left hand, Dean held onto Sam's arm, trying to keep him steady, but the small, pained gasps he heard drove him to work faster.

The rope was just starting to fray when Sam's head dropped onto his shoulder. Dean let go of his arm long enough to clasp the nape of his neck, offer what comfort he could. But he had to get them out of there, now. Dean went back to sawing.

One by one, the strands snapped until a final, powerful slice cut completely through.

Sam dropped like a stone.

Dean followed him down, grabbing him out of instinct, a move that tore another cry of pain from Sam's ravaged throat. Holding him upright so no dirt would get into the cuts, Dean whispered apologies and tried to adjust his grip to a less painful one. There weren't many options. He settled for leaning his brother sideways against him so that Sam's right arm took the pressure, his head tucked under Dean's chin. Then Dean went to work on the bonds around Sam's wrists. It was difficult using only one hand, and at the awkward angle, there was the risk of cutting Sam. But he had no idea where the creature was; he had to get his brother out of there now.

The inch-thick rope finally snapped, and Dean hurriedly unwound the length, wincing at the damage that lay beneath. Sam was taking hitching, shallow breaths. Anything more probably hurt like hell.

Dean gave one hunched shoulder a shake. "Hey, little brother. Can you walk?" His eyes searched the shadows as he waited for an answer, his ears straining to hear any sound that might alert him to danger. Then his gaze settled back on his brother, and he gave the kid a nudge. "Sam?"

Finally, he got a nod.

Dean felt around for the sawed-off, and got a firm grip on it before moving Sam. There was no way to do this without causing his brother more pain. Dean got his feet beneath him and crouched on his haunches. "Ready?" he asked.

Another nod.

Dean laid the shotgun across his legs long enough to draw Sam's arm across his shoulders, then picked up the weapon and steeled himself. Here goes. He lifted slowly, his legs shaking with the effort. Sammy might be a beanpole, but he sure weighed more than he used to.

The kid held his breath, trying to push up with legs that weren't cooperating and pawing at Dean's shirt with a hand that refused to close into a fist. At the moment, Dean was doing all the work, and that suited him just fine as long as they got the hell out of there. He got a firm grip on the waistband of Sam's jeans and tried to keep his arm as far away as possible from Sam's back. It was awkward, but Sam was in enough agony as it was without Dean aggravating it.

They started out slowly, step by agonizing step. Dean clenched his teeth as the pulled stitches tore on his shoulders. Blood or sweat trickled down his back, maybe both, but he plowed ahead, his only goal to get Sammy away, to the safety of his family. He should have never let the kid go out on his own—

Before them, the passage split. Dean hadn't seen that on the way in. He needed his Zippo…which was stuffed in his back pocket. Damn it. Okay. If he just—

Sam murmured something.

"What?" Dean leaned his head closer to hear.

"Lef…pass'ge."

"Good job, Sammy," he said, relieved.

Dean didn't care about the use of the nickname, and neither, apparently, did Sam. He'd finally managed to get a grip on Dean's shirt, and was in enough control of his legs now to support at least some of his weight. It was slow going, but when Dean saw the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, he understood exactly what the saying meant. It spurred him forward.

They broke out into the woods, and Dean paused for a moment to breathe in the fresh air. Sam still reeked of blood, so it was a good thing the area was clear of predators.

Except for the one standing directly in front of them. Big Owl.

Sam backpedaled, nearly throwing Dean off balance.

Dean lifted the sawed-off and fired.

There was another report, too loud to be an echo, on the tail of his own. When the creature disappeared, Dean saw his father standing a few feet away, lowering his own weapon.

John nodded at him, then his eyes shifted to Sammy. He stiffened, but only for an instant as soldier overrode father. They weren't out of the woods yet, in any sense.

John covered the distance between them in just a few strides and swept Sam up into his arms. Sam's cry of pain prompted a heartfelt "I'm sorry, son" from Dad as Dean pried his brother's fingers from his t-shirt.

"We have to move," John said urgently. "It'll be back."

As his father carried Sam away, Dean became aware of the others. Paul, Joseph, and Charlie had arrived and were busy setting up the ritual that would banish the creature for another hundred years. The councilman and Charlie paused in their work to glance his way, probably wondering if Sam was alive.

Dean offered them a nod of thanks, of assurance. They could take it however they wanted. Right now, he needed to be with Sam. He turned and jogged after his father.

Someone had rounded up their horses. With a jerk of his head, John directed Dean into the saddle. Dean obeyed, then waited as his father leaned his head closer to Sam's.

"Sammy," John said gently, "we need to get you back to camp. Dean's gonna take you on horseback, okay?"

There was no response at first, then Sam's eyes opened. "Dad?" he asked as if he wasn't sure.

John nodded. "It's okay, Sammy. You're gonna be okay." His gaze shifted to Dean. "You ready?"

Dean hooked his right leg for support and leaned to the left to grab Sam under his arms as his father lifted. It was awkward, made even more difficult as the horse shifted, the scent of blood making it uneasy. Sam bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut.

Finally, he was settled in front of Dean, sidesaddle, his shoulder once again leaned into Dean, head resting on Dean's shoulder as he panted for breath.

John paused, still holding onto Sam's calves as though he was unwilling to let his youngest out of his sight again. Then he shrugged out of his button-down shirt and handed it up to Dean. As Dean draped the soft, light flannel over his brother's shoulders, John unwound the reins from an anchoring branch and handed them up as well. "Take him back. Paul said their shaman is waiting."

Dean nodded, easing his arms around his brother and taking the leather straps in one hand. He heard Sam's quiet gasp at the contact with his back, and winced at the sound. This was not going to be easy on either of them. Looking down at his father, Dean tried to keep the anxiety from his voice as he asked, "What about you?"

"We're gonna end this thing. Should be back before sunrise. Go."

"Be careful," Dean offered.

"You, too," John said. "Take care of your brother."

"Yes, sir."

John stepped back as Dean kicked his horse into motion. The animal seemed relieved to be on the move, headed away from that area. Dean couldn't agree more.

TBC