WILDERNESS TIPS

By Allegra

See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE : Thank you to everyone who has sent me such lovely reviews & to those people who have pointed out any errors. The warm fuzzies have been duly processed and hopefully you will like what they have produced! Thanks as well to Tamara, supernaturalfan, Hayles, Shannon & OEGirl who I couldn't contact but whose reviews I appreciate greatly Special thanks to PADavis for the little flurry of encouragement and praise that pushed me to get this chapter done & made me blush along the way!

I know this chapter will seem woeful after so long a wait but the next one is already underway & hopefully there's a bit of bedside manner here for some people's pleasure! Please, please review!!

PART 10 : DANGER & DESPAIR

Dean was lost in deep unconsciousness. Oblivious to the vulnerable state his body was in, how precariously it hung onto life, he was victim to whoever or whatever found him like a rag doll dropped in a puddle. Somewhere deep within himself, the young hunter still clung to a face that haunted him even in unconsciousness, an image of brown eyes brimming with emotion and hurt. Even in his cocoon of numbness, the need to see those eyes laughing once more kept Dean grounded. When the edges of his mind seemed to be melting into nothingness, those eyes held him firm and told him to fight oblivion. There was work still to be done.

The routine of sensory experiences were growing familiar to Bobby now, the ache in his back from the hard chair, the hiss and click of the ventilator at the bedside, the steady beep of the heart monitor reassuring him that Sam was still holding on. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the old hunter drew himself up straight in his chair and leaned forward to check on the broken young man in the bed. Sam looked much as he had the day before and the day before that – ghostly, seeming to wax and wane like the moon, one moment on the verge of disappearing into the folds of the sheets he lay beneath and next looking stronger, colour seeming to flush his cheeks. Bobby was starting to believe his little observations were all in his head because the machines never altered their pattern, always sure and reliable. The machines told the truth, that Sam was not getting worse, but was he getting any better either?

"Hey, Sam," he said gruffly, trying feebly to make a small degree of contact with the unresponsive patient. Bobby searched his mind for something to say. He felt as if he had exhausted every rousing story he could remember, even ignoring the strange looks he received from each nurse that entered in the midst of his hunt recounts. Bobby had started with the ones that included John, remembering how any mention of their father had always piqued the boys' interest. John had never been exactly forthcoming with the family stories himself and, from the boys' reactions, Bobby figured he had never filled either of them in on what he got up to in their absence. Considering it now, the old hunter was reminded of how absent John had been and how much responsibility Dean had shouldered. Once again, Bobby felt the stabbing sensation that penetrated into his core, the guilt that Dean was still out there somewhere.

Dan, the wildlife officer, had kept Bobby fully informed of the rescue party's actions and the areas they were focusing on. It had been three days and nothing. To make matters worse, the dreary rain had given way to sleet and finally snow. Through the window, the hunter could see the latest blanket layer finding a resting place even on the pointed tips of the metal fences. He shuddered to imagine that Dean might be dying out there in the unforgiving cold.

Bobby had remained at Sam's side, the doctors reiterating how hard the kid was fighting, how important it was that he hear the voices of his loved ones. That only made it worse. Bobby knew he was but a poor substitute for Sam's true loved ones. They had been brutally taken from him one by one, picked off by a soulless demon – Mary, Jess, John…. Each time, the light Dean had tried so hard to preserve in his little brother's core had been extinguished little by little. How could Bobby even begin to plug the gap and carry on Dean's work? He couldn't protect Sam from the brutal truth, that he might have lost his one anchor left in the world.

"That your idea of a bedside manner, Bobby Singer?" came a blunt, smoky voice from behind the hunter.

Bobby swiveled in his chair, almost falling off it in his surprise. "Ellen? Thank God!" It wasn't in his nature to get all touchy feely with people but the trauma of the last few days had stolen away the last of his emotional restraint. He drew the sturdy woman into his arms, squeezing her close to his chest. "I'm so glad you're here," he murmured into her shoulder, his arms remaining vice-like around her.

Ellen melted into his grip, recognising how close Bobby was to falling apart. She could feel the minute trembling beneath the strength of his hold and hear the slight hitch in his breath that told her he was trying his hardest to hold back the torrent of emotion that threatened to break through the barriers. "You've done good, Bobby." She rubbed one hand across his back as she would a child before finally pulling away. "Any word on Dean?"

Bobby shook his head, wearily. "The search and rescue team have been combing the area for days, widening the area. They've been on the water, in the woods, even got a helicopter team out there. He's just…gone." It was the first time Bobby had admitted the fact out loud and he could feel tears prickling behind his eyes.

"But they don't know what we know, right?" Ellen cajoled. "You know what to look for. You'll find him, don't worry."

"But will I be in time?" Bobby asked, bleakly.

"Dean's alive. I can feel it," Ellen asserted sternly, holding the hunter's gaze in her own unwavering one. "Now what about young Sam over here?" she asked, moving to the young man's bedside and taking in the assortment of wires, tubes and bandages. If she was shocked, she didn't show it and Bobby was grateful for that. He was on the verge of crumbling to ruins and, more than anything, he needed someone to be strong for him as well.

She leaned over Sam, gently stroking aside his dark hair and planting a light kiss on his forehead. It was no wonder Bobby was a wreck if this was how Sam looked after he had been cleaned up and treated. Ellen dreaded to think how bad he must have looked when he was brought in. Regardless of the unhealed rift between her and John, she couldn't withhold the mounting affection she had for Sam and Dean. They talked the talk and walked the walk, taking their cues from their emotionally stunted father, but she could see past that to the pure goodness beneath.

Ellen lifted Sam's hand, mindful of the IV line taped to the back of it, and settled it in her own. It was cool against the warmth of her own skin and minor abrasions adorned the translucent flesh. She watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath the gauze and bandages, trying not to consider how mangled his body must be beneath them.

"The doctors won't commit to how stable he is. The blood loss was significant and infection had set in. He's been running a fever. They've repaired the damage, removed his spleen but we've just got to wait."

"That's good," Ellen said.

"I can't stand it!" Bobby blurted out in frustration. "All this damned waiting! I can't do it! Not when Dean's out there somewhere…!" He stalked from one side of the room to the other, his boots echoing hollowly on the smooth floor. "You know, I keep thinking about John. He never said it but I always understood that he expected me to look out for Sam and Dean if anything happened to him. You know, he was always so damned reckless, like they didn't matter enough for him to try and survive. I didn't understand that, I couldn't see what he saw. But now I've been sitting here for three days, desperate to see Sam open his eyes, but terrified that if he did I wouldn't be able to lie to him…" Bobby paused, heaving a breath into his starved lungs. Ellen waited patiently for him to continue. His voice softened as he went on, "I see now. Those boys did mean the world to John but, no matter what he did, he would always be letting them down, just as I am doing now. He thought he could keep them from being hurt by shutting himself off but in the end it was like poison in his veins. I can't let them down, Ellen! I've got to find Dean and…"

"And what?" Ellen asked, softly. "And heal Sam? Play God? Because you're not. Bobby, all this emotion you're feeling is natural…but it is misdirected. You see these Winchester boys as children still, victims of a horrible fate they were thrown into. But they've grown up. They've seen more than anyone can protect them from and they've dealt with it. They've been hunting solo for nearly two years now, fighting the darkness, staring Death in the face. You're not their saviour, Bobby. You can't be. You're human and you've done everything that is humanly possible to look out for them." Her eyes wandered from Bobby to Sam's ashen face, to the scratch marks and bruising adorning it. "Sam is safe but he's got to do the rest on his own. All we can do is stand at the sidelines and spur him on. Focus on the things you can really help with."

Bobby's eyes followed her gaze and lingered on the injured boy, trying hard to see the man beneath the dark brown mop of hair and the soft turn of Sam's mouth. He knew Ellen was right, that he had been tying himself into knots about situations he had no control over. It was clouding his judgement.

"Now we've got Sam covered so we need to focus on Dean. Tell me what you have got on this creature," Ellen prompted, drawing the hunter back into reality. "As you said, Dean wouldn't leave Sam alone in his condition unless his life depended on doing so. Given our line of work, it's safe to say Dean encountered whatever you were going to hunt. Is there any behaviour pattern? Any time frame for the attacks that might give us some clues?"

Bobby tried to remember the details of the file he had compiled before the fateful flight. "Uh, the file got a bit mangled in the crash. I retrieved everything I could find but I haven't had a chance to look at it again…" His voice trailed off, his words leaden with fatigue.

Ellen could tell he was on the brink of collapse. "I'll stay here with Sam. You check into the motel down the street and get some sleep then we need to compile everything we can get on this thing."

"The research sounds good but I'll skip the sleep," Bobby said.

"No you won't, Bobby Singer. Dean needs you sharp and right now you're about as sharp as a blancmange so you do as I say!"

Bobby raised his hands in surrender, "Okay, okay!" He figured what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her anyway. His momentary smile dipped when he looked at Sam. "You'll call me if there's any change, anything at all?"

"Of course," Ellen promised. "Now get!"

It had taken Ridley Miller the better part of fifteen minutes to manoeuvre Dean's body into his cramped sitting room, taking several rests as he pulled the dead weight through the house. He wasn't accustomed to such hard labour but the hope of the rewards it would bring to him would more than make up for his current discomfort. But he couldn't afford to allow himself to think of that just yet. He wasn't even sure this young man was going to pull through. Once out of the water, it was mere moments before blood had started to ooze from the numerous cuts across his body and Ridley knew better than to underestimate the power of infection. He was going to have to get to work quickly if the kid was going to be his salvation.

Ignoring the twinge in his back, the old man bent over and made one last hauling move that put Dean awkwardly onto the sofa. Ridley arranged his limbs carefully, blood from the young hunter's wounds already seeping onto his hands as he did so. Once more, he checked for a pulse and found it much the same as before. The boy needed medical attention as quickly as possible and Ridley pulled himself up, hearing his joints clicking in protest as he did so, then directed himself towards the bathroom and his medical kit.

Returning to the couch, Ridley quietly surveyed the lifeless form stretched out where he would normally catch the game on TV with a cold beer. He hadn't imagined that the kid would get up and escape but a tiny part of him could hardly believe he had freedom in his grasp and that it wouldn't bite him in the ass. Ridley gently unwrapped the strips of T-shirt Dean had used on his chest and leaned forwards to examine the damage. He drew in a sharp breath, guiltily recognising the three deep and precise claw marks. He unscrewed the lid on his bottle of alcohol and glanced up at Dean's face. The young man's skin was white with blood loss, making the gashes on his forehead stand out in stark contrast. The first dousing of liquid in the wounds elicited no response but, as Ridley cleaned the second chest slash, the wounded man flinched. His breathing quickened and deep furrows etched themselves on his brow. The shivering of hypothermia was setting in again, making the old man's task even more difficult. Ridley waited for his charge to quieten before continuing and managed to swab the final cut without resistance.

He decided to deal with each set of claw marks one at a time. If he turned Dean over to get at the wounds on his back, Ridley risked tearing the chest further. Still, the suturing was going to be an unsavoury task now that his patient was drifting just below the surface of consciousness. He could wake up at any moment. Time was a-wasting and the job had to be done. It was a few minutes and several more curses before Ridley had his sterilised needle threaded in his old, shaking fingers. He pressed the inflamed edges of skin together and, his face mere inches away, Ridley began to push the needle through one side.

Struggling beneath the stultifying cloud of unconsciousness, Dean found himself finally grasping onto fleeting seconds of reality and the inevitable pain it brought with it. He had felt the softness of upholstered cushions beneath his back, a few moments of nothing, then burning pain in his chest. It streaked through his body and sent messages of warning to his brain but Dean couldn't see his way clear of the fog to help himself.

His body twitched unconsciously beneath Ridley's ministrations, a slight curl of his fingers the closest to an attempt at escape from the pain. Even though his brain could not connect enough dots to understand what was happening, Dean understood agony well enough and each stroke of the disinfectant against his broken flesh sent messages flaring through his body, synapses and receptors doing their job too well. The young hunter struggled to reach beyond the cruelty to grasp something solid, something safe that told him everything was going to be all right. But there was nothing. Dark emptiness gaped ahead, its only boundaries marked out by the blistering pain raging through his ravaged body. He thought he opened his mouth to call out but his own voice was lost to him and he knew no more.

Ridley pressed hard against the young man's shoulder, trying to calm him. He uttered quiet words of consolation but they were said without much feeling and consequently seemed to have little effect. Dean's struggles were minor, hardly enough to jolt his shaky stitching but Ridley prayed that complete unconsciousness would claim his patient soon. A moan escaped the young man's lips, his clear brow furrowed suddenly with lines of pain as the needle point weaved in and out of his torn skin.

Bobby had taken Ellen's advice, against his own wearied judgement, and soon found himself sitting on the edge of a lumpy bed in the aptly named Dead Dog Hotel. When he had left her alone in the hospital with Sam, Bobby had every intention of ignoring what Ellen had said. Yet, now here he was, eyelids drooping as his whole frame slumped with unmitigated fatigue. He hated his rebelling body for wimping out when Dean was still out there somewhere but the thought passed from his head as it hit the pillow and he fell asleep.

Bobby was sure he had only kipped for an hour at most but the sky was dark when he opened his eyes and it took a moment before he was reoriented and realised he'd been out for more like seven. "Damn it!" he exhaled as he sat bolt upright on the bed. His back ached from the bad mattress but the hunter's mind was already in overdrive, figuring out how the hell he was going to make up for the time lost sleeping.

He fumbled for his backpack and tore through the contents in search of the crumpled paper remains of his file on the creature they had been hunting. Bobby knew he had to find answers and quickly. Even as they had set out for the wilderness days ago, he had not been able to connect the dots to create any kind of pattern for the attacks. In truth, they were restricted to a region but it was vast enough to make the task of finding Dean like looking for a needle in a haystack.

All the victims had been found with the same precise cross hatched slashes across the chest, overlaid with a circular symbol and some kind of elaborate staff within that. The two overriding theories were of ritualistic killings by a mass murderer or cult, or that an old Native American spirit still walked the unchartered territories of the forest. For most people, only the first theory would hold any water but Bobby was erring on the side of the second. There was absolutely no DNA recovered or any evidence of the killings being carried out by a human being. Over the years, the deaths had stacked up to over seventy unfortunate victims. Surely a killer would have made some kind of mistake by then, giving the local law enforcement something to go on.

Bobby flicked through the tattered file, coming to rest on a list of names at the foot of the last page. His internet contacts had come up with little but there was a small local history group which the hunter decided to check out. Without a website or even telephone number, Bobby had noted them down in the hope of finding out more once he reached the town.

The hunter felt his spirits lift as he realised he actually had some focus for his investigations. Quickly refreshing his face with a cold splash of water in the bathroom, Bobby headed out in search of the history society's address. In a small town, that didn't take long but what it lacked in sprawling acreage, it made up for in suspicious locals that gave Bobby a good run for his money.

His frustrating search ended, as it very often did, in the dingiest, darkest bar where whiskery old men sought the answers to happiness in the bottom of a whisky glass. It was there that the hunter found Ranger Wilson, the president of the local history society. He looked old enough to be the town's founder and Bobby didn't doubt that he had found his way to only information goldmine he was likely to find. He only hoped the poor sod was still on the right side of senility.

"Mr. Wilson?" Bobby proffered a hand, meeting the watery, blue eyes peering up at him from beneath coarse, white brows. "My name's Bobby Singer. I was hoping to ask you a few questions about the history of Little River if that's okay."

Wilson contemplated the man before him for a second then spoke in a surprisingly clear, strong voice. "I always judge a man by his face…and I think you've got a good one, Bobby. Pull up a stool and I'll tell you anything you've got a mind to know. There's just one condition," the old man warned, wagging his bony finger in Bobby's face.

Bobby dug into his pockets, wondering if the condition would involve the same green paper that loosened most other people's lips.

"Call me Ranger. I left behind 'Mr. Wilson' a long time ago. Now what are you drinking?"

Bobby knew that what he really needed was a damn strong coffee but he wanted to fit in. "I'll have whatever you've got."

"Good man," Ranger grinned and called his order to the bartender. Once Bobby was set up with his whiskey, he settled into his questioning. The hunter knew better than to take things too quickly and he was careful not to broach the subject of the creature in the wood too early and arouse suspicion. For a good fifteen minutes, he built up slowly and listened politely to the industrial history of the town and the intertwining family trees that confirmed the inbreeding Bobby often suspected in small places.

Ranger took the hunter by surprise when he stopped mid-conversation and fixed Bobby with a steely gaze, tinted with a hint of amusement. "So are you going to tell me why you're really here, Bobby?" Bobby's expression of shock quickly eased into a smile and the two men laughed. Ranger flapped his hand, nonchalantly. "There's only one reason anyone comes to Little River anymore and that's for the thrill factor, the killings."

Bobby's mouth opened and closed like a fish while his brain worked overtime to figure out whether admitting the truth would work for or against him.

"It's okay, Bobby. I can separate the wheat from the chaff, the investigators from the tourists. Something tells me you're different though, neither aficionado nor tourist." Ranger narrowed his eyes. "You seem like the real deal to me and I've always got time for those."

"Glad to hear it," Bobby grinned, tugging habitually at his baseball cap. "I've heard the basics, seen the pictures. The carvings were meditated but all the other evidence shows signs of a savage animal attack."

Ranger nodded, gauging the hunter's response to what he had heard. "And what do you think killed all those people? You've looked at the facts and I think you're the kind of guy who has a theory. So let's hear it."

Bobby took a swig of whisky and tried to hide his surprise at Ranger's candidness. "My theory? Most of the images I have seen point to animal attack. The claw patterns and the depth of each slash would indicate the power of a bear. But then a bear wouldn't carve such a precise and intricate pattern. It can't be one murderer because two of the killings occurred within hours of each other on complete opposite sides of the region. Somehow, it doesn't seems like the work of a group or cult." Bobby scrubbed a hand over his beard and looked carefully at Ranger. "So that leaves a killer with inhuman speed, the strength and savagery of an angry bear and an interest in detailed carving on its prey."

The two men exchanged a look of mutual understanding. "This place has never seen anything quite like it."

"Sorry to say that I have," Bobby murmured.

"And morbid curiosity drove you to discover all the grisly details?" Ranger asked, gently.

"Not anymore. Now it's personal." Bobby's voice was laden with disgust.

Ranger nodded in understanding. "Listen, I hate to break it to you but you're not the first one to come around here looking for answers, bringing pictures of loved ones. Nobody's found what they needed to hear."

"I'm sure you're right about that but I think I've got an edge," Bobby murmured, wishing he could taste his own words more confidently.

Ranger nodded quietly. "I hear you. And since I'm taking to you, I'll tell you a little known fact. It was kept on the quiet for many years after the circus show Little River became after the last spate of killings. But you gotta understand, Bobby, our people suffered greatly because of all this. When the media descended on us, they dragged our town's good name through the mud and we're still recovering. Less than savoury characters landed at our doors, trying to conjure up the evil or emulate it, the tourism we relied on all but dried up. We don't need another pounding. Little River is rebuilding itself, healing…"

Bobby leaned forwards, "Don't worry on that score. I'm a 'stick to the shadows' kind of person. I'm not out looking for a spotlight. I just want to serve justice and see the people I care about safe and sound."

"Well then, I'll tell you this much. The killer was found, that is to say, a killer was found."

Bobby raised his eyebrows in surprise, "What?! I didn't hear about that."

"You wouldn't. As I said, the town suffered hugely from the bad wrap and people just wanted it to go away. The authorities kept the trial and subsequent incarceration as quiet as possible." Ranger beckoned to the barman for another drink, letting the fiery liquid slip down his aged throat.

"But how did he explain the 'inhuman' elements of the killings?" Bobby asked.

"He gave the police just enough to convince but all anyone really wanted was a confession and there it was, handed to them on a plate. They took it and the matter was considered closed," Ranger shrugged.

"But we know better, right?" Bobby said, pressing the old man to admit what he knew was being shouted from just below the surface. Ranger's watery eyes met the hunter's, a flash of passion igniting from their depths and Bobby knew he had his answer. "You got a name for the convicted man?"

"Alan Naughton, I think his name was. Just walked into the local police station and confessed to everything. Even though his physical strength was called into question, his precise knowledge of all the bodies' whereabouts and the subsequent discovery of several skeletons at those sites clinched it. 'Course the man was crazy as they come, ended up in a psychiatric facility near Whitehorse."

"Can I get in to speak to him?" Bobby inquired. "He's got to know something that would help me."

Ranger shook his head. "You could try but people say the lights are on but no one's home."

"Thank you. I can't tell you how much of a help this has been." Bobby reached a hand across the table, surprised by the firmness with which it was shaken, downed the rest of his whiskey and headed in the direction of the hospital.

A cracked ceiling came into focus, criss-crossed with dark oak beams. As his eyes focused groggily on his surroundings, cobwebs could be seen and branch-like shadows dancing across the paintwork. Dean surveyed the scene with blank detachment, the reality of the situation dawning slowly as his traumatised body came to life. At first, his brain was only fit to deal with the immediate and he began to wonder where he was. Many years of calling a motel room home had removed the sense of panic that might normally come from unfamiliar ceiling patterns. Instead, Dean studied the beams and cracks with indifference – a cruddy motel perhaps, an abandoned house at the side of the road? Sam would know. Sam. Before he had even mustered the strength to turn his head, Dean knew his brother wasn't there, like some sixth sense.

The mere effort of turning his head set off a pounding in a skull that caused the young hunter to wince. He drew in a sharp breath, igniting a fire in his chest that made him wish breathing wasn't necessary to stay alive. Confusion clouded Dean's thoughts as he tried to make sense of the new world around him. Lifting his cotton wool filled head, Dean peered down at his own body. He commanded his hand to clumsily draw back the quilt covering his torso and took in the bandages covering much of his chest. A shadow of a frown passed across his brow as fragments of memory connected together like jigsaw pieces. He remembered kneeling in a river, dark woods…and something more, something sinister. Levering himself up further on the sofa, Dean fumbled for the bandage knot and peeled off the dressing beneath. He hissed in pain but the need to know what had happened to him spurred him on.

The padded dressing was already spotted with fresh blood and Dean was expecting to find a raw wound beneath. He was surprised to see neat rows of stitches running the breadth of his chest. Three slashes were red and inflamed, the puffy skin puckered beneath the dark stitches. Dean couldn't help touching them, curiosity and revulsion fighting for supremacy.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," came a low voice from nearby.

Dean's heart lurched in his chest and his eyes widened in shock. A man, probably well into his sixties or early seventies moved closer to the end of the couch until he was clearly in Dean's line of sight. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

Dean struggled to pull himself a little further upright. He didn't like feeling vulnerable around strangers, hell, he didn't like being made to feel vulnerable period. Lying down left him wide open to attack. However, what his brain wanted and what his body needed were two very different things. The sudden movement sent ripples of pain through his chest that Dean hadn't been prepared for.

Ridley watched his young charge's face pale into green-tinged pastiness. "Easy, easy there. Just lie back. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Where am I? Where's Sam?" Dean asked, his voice barely rising above a whisper.

"You're safe," Ridley replied, carefully skirting the subject. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked, noticing the veil of confusion which had fallen over the young hunter's face.

Dean shook his head, his eyes darting suspiciously between the face of his carer and the hot cup of tea that had just been put into his hands. His fingers ached as he curled them around the mug, a deep seated aching that felt oddly familiar. Then it started coming back to him – a hunting trip with Dad. He had fallen through some thin ice and it had been a job for his father to get him out in time. The knife like pain of falling into freezing water had seemed like nothing compared to the excruciating aches and pains that came the next morning. Dean was only moving his fingers and that was enough of a telltale sign as to what the rest of his body was going to feel like.

"I found you near drowned in the river. Do you remember anything?"

Dean wasn't paying attention to what the old man was saying. Instead, he was intent on trying to piece together the events leading up to this moment. "Where's Sam?" he blurted out, more demanding this time. Without thinking, Dean tried to sit up properly, promptly sending waves of pain through his unresponsive limbs.

Ridley pressed his hands against Dean's chest. "Woah there, you'll pull your stitches! Tale it easy. Who's Sam?"

"He's my brother…I've got to find him," Dean said, panic rising in his voice. "Have you got a phone?"

"There's no reception out here. Listen, I didn't see anyone else and you were in pretty bad shape. You need to lie still and rest for a few days. First things first, what's your name? I'm Ridley." He had deliberated over whether to introduce himself using his real name, eventually deciding it didn't matter. There was too much paraphernalia with his name written on around the house - certificates, books, letters, which would make the lie too awkward. Plus, if things went according to plan, his patient would never have the opportunity to turn his name over to the police. Ridley began to wonder if the young hunter had heard him because Dean made no move to respond. Instead, his hazel eyes moved wildly over his surroundings like a trapped animal. "Hey, do you know your name?"

Finally, Dean brought his attention back to the old man sitting beside him. "Dean. I was…hunting. My brother was injured and our friend went for help. I don't know if he made it back. Listen, I've got to find Sam. He could be in danger."

"Okay, settle down. Let me deal with this. I've got an old radio that I use to communicate with the town in bad weather. I'll ask if they've brought anyone in matching your brother's description. Then, I'll arrange for you to get back to town. How does that sound?"

Dean nodded, uncertainly, not really happy unless he was dealing with a problem on his own. Ridley felt his own tension growing. He needed this kid but the old man was starting to wonder if he'd picked one with too much fighting spirit. He needed compliance and Dean didn't look like he was even going to trust that Ridley's phone was out. "The condition is that you stay put right here, no trying to get up or move around for today."

"Sounds good," Dean admitted, taking another sip of tea. He watched Ridley leave the room and listened to his receding footsteps to get some idea of how big the house was, then added under his breath, "But I'm not making any promises." His chest hurt like a bitch and his legs felt heavy as lead, starting to ache incessantly. In spite of this, Dean's need to know that Sam was okay, to see it for himself, spurred him on. In the past, he had carried on fighting with a bullet in him and driven them both to safety with a concussion. Some stitches and aches, no matter how awful, wouldn't keep him from making sure his little brother was safe.

He looked idly towards the window, focusing on the long shadows of spidery tree branches crawling along the wall. Dean wondered how far away they really were from civilisation. No phone reception wasn't exactly unusual round these parts and the hunter began to wonder if he would be able to walk to town in reasonable time. He didn't like relying on other people, especially strangers. In his experience, his suspicions were generally well founded.

Suddenly, exhaustion hit him like a well aimed stone. His head fell back against the cushions and he clenched his jaw as a cold shiver ran through his injured body. Dean couldn't deny that he needed to rest but that had to wait. Sam's welfare was more important. He struggled to form a plan, refusing to allow himself to place trust in this strange, old man. Frustratingly, Dean's brain seemed fatigued and sluggish, connecting ideas increasingly slowly. He fought to keep his eyes from closing but they felt as heavy as bricks and it was all the young hunter could do to place his mug on the floor before the darkness closed in around him.

From his vantage point just out of Dean's eye line, Ridley waited until his charge was completely out. He watched until the rise and fall of the boy's chest showed deep, even strides before approaching the couch. He leaned down and gently extricated the mug from Dean's lax fingers, swilling the last of the tea around in the bottom as he checked that enough of the sedative had gone down.

Miller wasn't a sentimental man; in fact, many would call him hard as nails. Yet, even he was momentarily touched by the vulnerability of this young man stretched out in his living room. Dean looked so childlike now, his free hand curled protectively across his chest, dark lashes framing pale cheeks. Ridley felt shame in the deepest recess of his heart but knowledge of the alternatives spurred him on. Dean's life would save scores of other hapless victims and, more importantly, save Ridley's own. For a moment, he just stood there silently, noting the chiseled contours of the face, the dark shadow of stubble along Dean's jaw, the barely discernible frown lines on his forehead. The tranquillity of his face belied the torment to come and Ridley grimaced inwardly as he tried to block the images of this same face drawn into a tortured mask of pain when the time came. He wished in his heart that the circumstances were different, that he wasn't the one to carry the curse, but sadly wishes changed nothing. Shrugging away unhelpful thoughts, Ridley turned his steps to the basement and the chains he needed to fix to the wall.

END OF PART 10