A/N - Sorry, another really long chapter! Thanks again for all the support and encouragement on this story! It makes my day when I see a new review or someone follows or favorites!

Disclaimer - Anything related to the show Supernatural does not belong to me.


Sam was jolted into consciousness by fierce pounding, a deep, yet strangely hollow noise that he first thought was just the resurgence of the pain bouncing around in his skull like a ping pong ball on crack, but some semblance of intelligence finally wove its way into his fuzzy brain and identified it as someone knocking on the door. He turned to look at the clock beside the bed and immediately regretted the action as it felt like his brain was going to slide out his nose and take his spine with it. He squeezed his eyes shut and ceased his movement immediately, but not before he saw the time. It had been six hours since he'd collapsed on the bed of his cheap as dirt motel room, which meant that Bobby had finally arrived. He wasn't quite sure how he managed to sleep that long since he thought he had set his phone alarm, but he obviously didn't.

The thought that he was going to finally get to make some headway in getting to Dean was enough to help him shove the assorted pains in his body aside like a blackout curtain over a window. Swinging his legs over to the side of the bed, he pulled himself up with a heartfelt groan. He had really been hoping that a few hours of sleep would help, even if it was risky with what was no question a concussion. He was well versed in injuries and knew that the deeper muscle and joint aches would be worse after a bit of time, but he thought at least his head wouldn't still feel like it was being crushed in a vise that made every movement and thought a battle to be won. So much for that. He did note with some relief that the nausea wasn't nearly as bad as it had been before. Of course he hadn't really moved yet, but he was going for optimistic. Anything would be an improvement over how he felt just before he passed out on the bed, it had taken all he had just to get from the side of the road to the motel.

He had managed to get a tow truck out to him fairly quickly, they hadn't made it too far past town before being run off the road. The driver was insistent on calling an ambulance when he saw Sam, or at the very least dropping him in at a hospital, but Sam declined firmly enough that driver hadn't put up any additional argument, simply hooked the Impala up to his rig, mumbling about how crazy people were after they got their heads rattled. The twenty minute ride to the nearest motel was spent in a hazy mix of painful darkness and stomach churning flashes of trees going by, but Sam was able to stay conscious and climb out of the truck under his own steam. The driver gave him a card that had the address of where the Impala would be and Sam tucked it carefully into his back pocket for safekeeping.

Just checking into the motel had been a trial. He had alternated between nearly vomiting all over the front desk and keeling over unconscious on the cheap linoleum floor. He was pretty sure the office manager was about to call the ambulance before he managed to get it together enough to complete the transaction without additional issue. Once inside the room, he had gone to the bathroom to take a quick shower to get a proactive start on loosening up his battered muscles and couldn't help but catch sight of his image in the mirror and suddenly understood the concern of the driver and the motel manager.

Below the hair that did indeed look like he had been kicked out of moving vehicle, his face was scraped and dirty, a few deeper cuts leaving trails of dried blood down his cheeks and neck. While trying to focus and stay conscious in the tow truck, he had taken stock at the state of his hands, chest and every other bit of exposed skin that had suffered from the road abrasion, so wasn't too surprised that his face didn't look any different. He had let out a dark chuckle when he remembered joking with Dean about a death echo causing him to fall out of the car and get some serious road rash. Oh sweet irony that it happened to Sam only a few hours later. Irony was an asshole.

The one thing he hadn't anticipated was the amount of blood in various states of wetness coating the back of his collar and left side of his shoulder. He hadn't realized that anything had actually split open on his head and it had never occurred to him to touch it, it wasn't his own injuries he was concerned with, it was watching the van speed away with his brother, putting miles and miles between them. He had touched careful fingers to his scalp gingerly, immediately seeking out the main source of the pain and felt a cut a couple of inches long. Sam wasn't too worried about it, scalp wounds were notorious for bleeding and this one was already mostly dry, so the worst was passed. Probably didn't even need stitches. It was the inside he was worried about.

The shower had helped to clear his head a bit and he sat on the closed toilet to make his decision on seeking out medical care. Some painful examination in the shower had revealed that he had one broken rib and two that were cracked. That he could deal with, he would have Bobby wrap them when he got there. Yes, his head hurt, well hurt was maybe an understatement, and based on the nausea, dizziness and fuzziness in his sight and thinking, he definitely had a concussion. He didn't think it was so bad that it would require an actual hospital stay, which meant that he didn't even need to go. He'd kept going with worse before, he just usually had Dean to watch over him and make sure that he didn't go too far. Getting an MRI and some pain meds wasn't worth the additional time it would take to get to Dean. So he had decided to sleep instead, which could have been a huge mistake since he clearly forgot to set his phone to wake him up every hour.

It was a seriously lucky break that he woke up at all. He must have been more out of it than he thought before he passed out.

With one hand on the bed, Sam rose to his feet, the pressure in his head threatening to split his skull apart at the seams before it adjusted and settled. He made his way to the door, wincing as the knocking sounded again.

"Sam?" Bobby called, his agitated voice muffled by the door.

Gripping the knob and flicking the lock open, Sam pulled the door open, immediately cringing back as sunlight flooded into his face. With partially open watering eyes, Bobby's form was just a vague outline.

"Jesus boy, you look like ten pounds of shit," Bobby commented, stepping into the room. He took the door from Sam's hands and shut it softly in consideration of Sam's obvious discomfort.

"That's good, because I feel like twenty pounds of shit," Sam rejoined.

He was able to see Bobby clearly now and he could see the concern wrinkling his brow as he looked up at Sam. "Really Bobby, I'm okay. Just a concussion and some sore ribs, nothing I haven't dealt with before." Before Bobby could comment, Sam was pulling the business card out of his pocket, and handing it to him. Bobby looked at it in confusion, understanding lighting up over his face when he saw what it was. "I want to make sure I don't lose it."

Sam started to gather up his things, there wasn't much since he didn't bother to unpack, when Bobby stopped him with a firm hand on his arm. "Hold on just a second, Sam, and let me take a look at you," he suggested. "You look like you're about to fall over."

Pulling away, Sam shook his head, then bit back the whimper that threatened to pass his lips as his head kicked out a protest at the movement. "No Bobby, we need to go. We've left Dean alone with them long enough, they could have done anything to him by now. There's nothing so wrong with me that I can't manage to sit in a car, so let's get going," Sam said firmly. He knew it had been the right call to wait for Bobby, he knew that he wouldn't have made it and then it would have taken even longer to get to his brother, but if something had happened to Dean because he didn't start after him right away, he wasn't ever going to be able to forgive himself.

Bobby must have seen it, because he just sighed and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "All right, but you have to promise me that you'll tell me if it gets any worse. Concussions ain't something you mess with, especially with as many knocks to the head as you've taken," Bobby warned.

"Deal," Sam said with a grateful smile. He really wasn't up to an argument and while he knew Bobby didn't like it, the older man understood.

"All right then, let's get going. We'll pick up the car on the way back, we need to try and make up some time," Bobby said, opening the door back up.

There was an old rusty F-150 outside and Sam's shoulders dropped a bit as he wondered how exactly they were going to make up any time in this old beater. Bobby rested a reassuring on his back. "Don't worry, faster than it looks," he offered with a smile, climbing into the driver's seat. Sam just sighed and carefully pulled himself into the cab. Bobby did get here in just under eight hours on a trip that should have taken at least eleven, so he obviously knew what he was talking about.

The throaty and steady growl of the engine when Bobby turned the key gave Sam an extra boost of relief. He had been expecting coughing and sputtering, but it was running like a new truck. "Just stay on 80 east for a while," Sam instructed. "They're probably just getting there now. Probably didn't want to risk speeding with Dean in the back, so we're eight hours behind them." Eight hours in which Dean was alone, hurt, weak and cursed with a coven of witches that wanted something probably very bad from him. The very thought made Sam's knee started to jig with nervous tension. "And that's assuming they even went back there," he added in a tight voice.

As the fog in his head started to dissipate now that he was sitting still again, it was sinking in how much danger Dean was in and how far away Sam was from being able to do anything about it. He was making a lot of assumptions about Dean's safety and location that could end up with his brother seriously hurt or worse if he was wrong. What if the witches didn't need him alive for what they wanted and just let him bleed out in the back of the van? What if they just wanted his blood and just sliced his throat as soon as they got him to the cave? What if they didn't even go there, how would Sam ever find him? What if they were all ready to do whatever they meant to do the second the witches arrived with his brother and Sam and Bobby were too late? What if…

"Sam, you need to breathe." Bobby's voice broke into his litany of all the ways he could have screwed up, making him aware that he was heaving in gasping, shallow breaths that weren't doing an adequate job of pulling in any oxygen and his dizziness was coming back in full force. "We're going to get there in time, okay? And it makes sense that they would take him back, that is their place of power. You need to get yourself under control, you're playing wounded and having a fit of the vapors ain't helping any."

"I know Bobby, I know, I just hate that I left him like that. I feel so helpless," Sam choked out, still trying to even out his breathing.

Bobby glanced over at him with a slight grin. "Way I heard it, he kicked your ass out of the car, so that's on him," he reminded Sam.

Sam laughed, a bitter and weary sound. "Yeah he did. He didn't bother to consider that it might be better to do something once we got there, that together we had better chance of getting out of there," he shot out, finally acknowledging the anger that had been sitting like a hot, neglected little ball in the middle of all his worry and concern. Dean never stopped putting Sam first and himself last and Sam was tired of it getting Dean hurt. He knew it came from a good place that their Dad twisted into an obsessive compulsion, but it still frustrated him. He could be with his brother right now, keeping him safe, helping him escape, but Dean wouldn't let him. Dean never let him take point, under any circumstance.

"Yeah, well your brother only ever has one thing in mind," Bobby started, echoing Sam's thoughts. "Keeping you out of trouble. Besides, they didn't need you. They needed him, so might be better that you got out."

"I just wish he'd let me help more, you know?" Sam said softly, gazing out at the sky passing outside the window, the anger draining out of him as suddenly as it filled him. "I'm just so tired of having to put him back together, Bobby."

"I recall you getting put back together plenty of times, Sam. Dean's gonna be fine, he's gotten out of jams I was sure was going to be the end of him. He's practically got a four leaf clover tattooed on his ass. Now you want to quit moping and I'll tell you what I found out?" Bobby asked.

Sam ran a tired hand through his hair and nodded. He knew Bobby was right, Dean was always fine. Beaten, bloody, torn and broken, but at the end of it, fine. Sam was just afraid of the exception to the rule. It was inevitable. He was more afraid of it happening when he could have stopped it.

"This coven is pretty nasty. I already had some info on them when I sent you out their way, but I've been able to dig up more. A wiccan contact of mine said they are into really dark magic, that they can pull in death. I think that's where the death echoes have been coming from. I suspect they did something to Dean to make him vulnerable to them. She wasn't able to give me a lot of information, they are a secretive bunch, but she did say that it tends to be a small coven, with two head witches. They worship Moros via a stone of power, but she didn't know much more than that. I'm pretty sure that's the stone your hot headed brother broke and they want some revenge," Bobby rattled off.

"So what's our plan?" Sam asked, trying to sort through the tiny bit they knew compared to the vast amount they didn't. "Go in, guns blazing?" he added with a smile.

"Pretty close. I brought some extra protection charms and my contact gave me some spells we can do to help block their magic from us, but I don't think we're going to have a lot of time for a good plan, so we'll have to go with the bad one," Bobby said with a shrug.

"That's usually what we end up with," Sam replied with a laugh. His head dropped back against the seat, the ache starting to flare back up again. The padded bench seat was not the softest thing on the painful muscles in his back and the dodgy suspension of the truck was rattling his ribs around more than he would like. He was really missing the Impala right about now.

Bobby glanced over at him, mouth tilting down in concern. "Why don't you pass out for a bit? We've got a ways to go and it looks like you could use the rest," he offered.

"I'm good," Sam answered, trying to force himself to sit up straighter, but giving into the argument his ribs started up at the movement and slouching back down.

"Right, and I'm a unicorn. I'm tired of hearing you moan and groan every five seconds, give an old man some peace, will ya?" Bobby grumbled, offering Sam an out.

Sam didn't want to sleep. He felt like if he slipped off, it might somehow put Dean in more trouble. As if his own awareness and focus on his brother was somehow keeping him safe, keeping him alive. It made no logical sense and was completely unreasonable, but Sam couldn't help it. He also couldn't help how much he hurt and how tired he was. He knew they were hours away from their destination and that he should take advantage, but he just felt wrong about it. Besides, Bobby had been driving for eight hours straight, what if he needed a break?

In the end, it was the drone of the wheels on the road, the soft lull of music, and Bobby's comforting silence that started to pull him down into a dozing state. It was the memory of his brother's voice barking at him to rest up so he would be ready to save his ass that finally let him relax into sleep with the twitch of a smile.


Dean cringed as his fingers touched something that felt suspiciously like a bone right outside his cage, but he pulled quickly it in to examine it further. He was lying on his side in the pitch black, arm stretched out as far as he could get it, straining fingers sweeping across the floor for something, anything that might help him spring from his cage. The painkillers were still working their awesome numbing magic, but Dean remembered how his gut felt before and didn't relish the thought of lying on his stomach for fear of jacking up his insides even more. He'd managed to find the stub of a candle (useless), a fingernail (gross and awful), a few tiny stones (see candle), and now what could be a bone. That was good, that was very good. Not so much for the animal or person it came from, but it might be just what Dean needed.

He wasn't sure exactly how long ago the witch had walked away, but he had been using his time wisely. He managed to push away the steady drip of fear the witch had instilled with the explanation of their plans for him for the most part, but it was still there, surging up to bathe him in cold sweat whenever he forgot to keep it locked away. It added a frantic desperation to his search for escape that helped to clear the slightly unbalanced feeling the pain killers had given him. Of all the ways he thought he would die, and there were many, this wasn't one of them. The very thought of being frozen and locked away, seeing, but unable to interact, until someone decided to break him was right on par with his nuts being chewed off by pissed off badgers. He would take the badgers.

Turning the object over in his hands, he ran a finger over it, finding it smooth and knobby at both ends, about the length of his finger. Chicken bone, a leg. That kind of made him hungry. He couldn't remember the last time he ate, but it was a while ago. He didn't think they were going to bother feeding him, no last meal for his death sentence. Stingy bastards. Using his foot to hold it down by one of the rounded ends, he pulled up on it until it snapped. He ran his finger over the now sharp and splintered end with a satisfied smile. Shuffling over to the front of the cage, he pawed around the bars until he found the lock. Using his finger to guide it, he pushed the bone gently inside so that just the tip was resting against the sharp edge of the lock. This, at least, was one thing that wouldn't be hampered by the darkness. He didn't need eyes to pick a lock.

After a few careful minutes of gentle turns and slow levering, Dean could feel the lock give with loud click. He winced at the sound and froze, body tense as he listened for any sound that would indicate that someone had heard him. After several heart thumping moments of hearing only the sporadic and far off voices he'd been hearing since coming to, he relaxed and quickly exited his cell, palming the chicken bone. If he angled that just right, it would make a handy weapon.

When the witch had been there giving his evil villain monologue with his handy dandy candle, Dean had been reacquainting himself with the room, knowing that if he was able to get out, he was going to have to navigate in the dark. It was circular in shape with cages lining most of the wall. His cage was to the right of the entrance. He could feel the slightest bit of cool damp air blowing from that direction, smelling of dirt and minerals. Underneath that was the cloying, throat tightening smell of death and blood. He wasn't so hungry anymore.

Dean considered taking the time to check around for another weapon, but he doubted he was going to find anything and he really wanted to get out of there. He had no idea how soon they were going to come and start Venus de Milo'ing him, but he wanted to be on his way when they did. Even if he didn't make it out, he could at least go down fighting so they couldn't complete their plan. If that didn't work, well one thrust of the chicken bone to his carotid and it was all over. Dying wasn't his first plan, not even his second or third, but he was not going to become their vessel, whatever it took. That he knew for sure.

Stepping carefully, edging forward with his toes before putting his weight down, one hand pressed lightly against the rough wall, he made his way towards the open tunnel. There was the slightest bit of light turning the utter darkness to a murky gray further down. They must have lit the candles back up in the big room. He could hear the voices better now that he was right by the opening and he was able to pick out at least three, possibly four. One woman, the rest were men. Those weren't the best odds, but he did have one thing on his side; they didn't want him dead before they decided it was time. That meant he had the advantage of taking kill shots while they would treat him with kid gloves.

He stealthily made his way down the tunnel, eyes slowing adjusting to the light glowing at the end of it. He couldn't see into the big room yet, but he remembered it well enough. It was highly unlikely he would be able to make it to the stairs and the tunnel leading out without being seen, so he needed to see what he was dealing with so he could make a quick and hasty plan. As he drew closer, he was able to start actually hearing the words being spoken. Big shocker, they were talking about him.

"We'll only need a short time to prepare the vessel so we will start in an hour. That should allow enough time for the Grandmaster to return with the sacrifice." It was the woman speaking. He wasn't sure exactly what 'preparation' they were planning to give him, but he was more concerned about the hour and the sacrifice bit. He was betting that's what they needed Sam for, so he was suddenly feeling a lot better about kicking his little brother out of the van.

"You may want to allow more time." A man this time, higher in pitch, almost nasally. Dean was going to think of him as Weasel , totally sounded like one. "Grandmaster said he is a bit of a challenge." They were God damn right, he was a challenge and they hadn't seen anything yet. "He actually grabbed him when they were speaking." So the head honcho had been the one talking to Dean. Good to know.

A quick peek into the room showed Dean all he needed to know before he hid back into the darkness. The candles were all lit, coating the earthen room with cozy warm light that completely belied the awful things they did in that room. There were three people in the room, covered in heavy black robes. They were standing by a table covered with various items that he couldn't quite make out in the middle of the room. None of them were directly facing the opening of the tunnel, but it would be easy to see his movement no matter how careful he was. That ruled out the full on assault and the sneaky and silent takedowns.

"Perhaps you're right. It won't do any harm to put him under early. The alleviation spell should be wearing off soon anyway and it would be best if his body does not have to deal with the stress of the pain he will surely be in." Man, where did these people learn how to talk? It was like some weird LARPing thing, all strangely formal and correct. So it wasn't painkillers they had given him, it was a spell. A spell that was about to wear off. Awesome. "Timothy, if you would, please?"

Finally. A break in his favor.

The man he had not seen speak since gazing in on their little party nodded within his hood and started towards the tunnel. Dean moved quickly and quietly back to the room, sliding to the side of the doorway. He was hoping Timothy wouldn't notice he wasn't in his cell before Dean made his move. It was going to be important that he took him out quickly. If there was any noise, he was going to have two more witches on him in a heartbeat and he was sure they had some easy way to subdue him. He tensed his body, ignored the twinges in his stomach that were starting back up again, ready to spring into action as soon as Timothy crossed in front of him.

The light starting to fill the room was growing stronger and brighter, bringing Timothy closer and closer. Dean could hear his footsteps, then his breathing. The man crossed into the room. As soon as he was fully within, Dean launched, one arm snaking around Timothy's neck, the other coming up to close around his mouth. The candle dropped to the floor, snuffing out immediately. Dean dragged the man into the middle of the room so his kicking legs had nothing loud to hit as he strangled him. He was going to go for the neck break, make it quick and clean so he could use Timothy's robe, but the tremor in his muscles told him he just didn't have the strength at the moment. Hands clawed at his arms, elbows jolted back into his ribs and stomach, feet kicked at his shins and knees, but Dean kept him pinned, teeth gritting with the effort of squeezing the life out of him.

His struggles were finally lessening, just jerks and fits of motion. Dean could feel his burst of energy quickly draining away and put everything he had into keeping the tight clamp of his arm around the witch's neck. He could feel the pounding, desperate pulse against his skin starting to slow. It wouldn't be much longer now, just needed him to pass out and then a bit more time after that and he would only have two witches to deal with.

At least that's what should have happened.

Instead, whatever had been keeping his pain locked away was suddenly gone and Dean went from a few mild twinges of discomfort to full on blazing, mind numbing, excruciating agony. He felt a scream bubbling up his throat, swallowed back with great effort, caught off guard by the sudden resurgence of the pain. His arms that had been trembling with strain were suddenly too heavy to hold up, and even though he tried to keep his grip, knew he only needed a few more seconds, his body wasn't able to follow his commands. They dropped to his sides and he stumbled back on unsteady legs. He could feel heat starting to rush over him, feel that sucking pull of unconsciousness as the waves of pain radiated out from his wound, slicing and tearing.

Dean fell to his knees, the sharp pain of bone hitting the floor lost in the jolt it did on his insides. He fought to pull himself forward, his breathing now coming in shallow pants. Fingers closed over cloth and then a body. The witch was down, but alive. Over the roaring in his hears, he could hear the gasping breaths of the man in front of him. Dean grabbed the chicken bone, forcing his shaking fingers to close around it. It was the only chance he had. With his other hand, he continued to feel his way over the man. He felt warm skin, a jaw. Dean drove the sharp end of the chicken bone into space below it, feeling the hot spurt of blood erupt over his hand.

So much for the robe.

Collapsing on the ground as weakness overtook his body, Dean gasped for air on the packed dirt, the man's thrashing arms and legs striking him in his death throes. His insides felt cold and wet, but the throbbing inside was hot and merciless as it met the tortured pace of his heartbeat. He tried to pull upon every bit of training he had to get his legs under him, to move, to escape, but it was too much. The best he managed to do was turn over slightly so his weight wasn't resting on his wound. He stared into the dark in frustrated terror, knowing they would be coming to check soon and he wasn't going to be able to move to stop them from taking him.

Sam and Bobby were coming. Dean knew that just as sure as he knew he was breathing, but he wasn't so sure they were going to get there in time. Those witches said he only had an hour at best. He didn't know long he had been down there or how long it took them to get back to the cave, but he could only imagine that the witches had a considerable head start on his rescuers.

He was running low on options, his body was running low on fight.

The image of the chicken bone flitted across his mind even as his hand started to reach out towards the now still form beside him. If he was going to do it, he needed to do it before he passed out. He already had recent practice, he knew exactly where to stick it.

No. It wasn't time for that yet, he still had some things to try before Plan Z.

He had to stall. He had to give Sam more time to get there. Sam was already going to be pissed about the whole kicking him out of the van thing and he would be really mad if Dean offed himself right as he crashed in to save him. His plan was risky, being built around the assumption that they couldn't let him die, but then all his plans were dodgy at best. The life of a hunter rarely offered solid plans without any potential to go wrong. Okay, make that never.

His fingers found the witch again. Dean felt cooling blood beneath his fingers, sliding over skin. He bumped the hard bone and yanked it free. He dropped onto his back, not able to hold his position on his side any longer. He knew that if wasn't dark, he wouldn't be seeing well. He could just tell from the strain on his eyes and in his temples that he was out of time. He was shutting down, drawing away from the pain.

Placing the sharp edge of the bone against his wrist, he took a deep breath and pushed it in until it broke the skin. It should have hurt, it should have been the type of pain that makes you say "What the fuck am I doing?" so you stop, but it didn't. He knew that wasn't good, that he was in more trouble than he might have thought, but at that moment it worked in his favor. He drew it up towards his elbow and he knew the blood was spillingpouringgushing over his skin to join the witch's on the floor. He didn't feel it, not really. He was numb, all the nerves and sensation seeming to be focused on the screaming in his belly. He knew the effects of blood loss and had already been feeling them, so he had no idea how impactful this last trauma was on his body, but he knew it was pretty dumb. He didn't have any other ideas though, not when his body wouldn't work.

Gathering up what energy he had left, he screamed, a loud, thick noise full of pain, rage and sadness that echoed through the room, spilled down the tunnel.

He could hear them coming. Perfect.

He listened to them approach, gasping in the dark. Everything was starting to get very far away. The sound of footsteps, the pain, his heartbeat. Only one thing remained, one thought to hold onto.

Sammy was going to get there. Sammy was going to get there. Sammy was...


TBC..