Burkitsville, the orchard.

They weren't taking any chances. The committee was out in force with Scotty and the sheriff securing Dean and the Jorgesons tying Gemma up, and a deputy Dean hadn't even seen before keeping watch in the background. They were smart about it, too. Tied them well apart, their hands up above their heads; secured their feet. Dean had a small knife hidden in one of his boots but he didn't fancy his chances of reaching it. If he took up yoga, maybe . . . and he'd get right on that if he managed to get out of this alive.

Seems the folk were finding it just a little more uncomfortable than sending couples down to the orchard and looking the other way. Kept preaching about responsibility, and the greater good, and quoting lines from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan; talked about sacrifice, which sounded classier than calling it murder Dean guessed.

"I hope your apple pie is fucking worth it!" he yelled after them as they deserted the scene.

"So what's the plan?" Gemma asked in the silence that followed.

"I'm working on it," Dean assured her, in defiance of the sickly helpless feeling that settled in the pit of his stomach as he struggled against the expertly tied bonds.

The silence was deathly, unnatural; not even birdsong. Just once, somewhere above them, Dean thought he heard the flutter of one solitary departing bird.

.

A fuel stop in Illinois.

Sam held the phone to his ear and listened to the ring tone, again; heard it cut out and divert to voicemail, again. He closed his cell. He'd heard that woman's voice too many times already and, for some reason - that had nothing to do with the two days (and one night) she'd spent with Dean - it made his blood boil.

He was tired of the sound of Meg's voice, too. At some point in the course of the bus trip he'd lost his ability to empathize with her complaints about her ex. The further he got from Dean the less he cared about anything except his need to know what was going on back in Burkitsville, and his inability to make contact was filling him with frustration and anxiety.

He pushed aside his plate with the uneaten sandwich that sat on it, and took a sip of tepid coffee. He thought he heard a faint sound by his right shoulder, like something flapping in the breeze; it might have been his imagination, but he turned, half expecting to find someone standing behind him. There was no one, but he fancied he felt a touch on his forehead and the next moment his head was filled with a bright blue-white light that faded to leave an impression of woods, trees. The image sharpened, focused, and he found himself in an orchard, looking down on it as if from above. It was as real and immediate as if he was there: he could feel the deathly chill of the place; he could smell damp earth, dead leaves and rotten fruit; and he could see Dean – bound to a tree and struggling.

The vision faded and Sam became conscious of his present surroundings once more, of the rapid, shallow rise and fall of his own chest and the wild racing thump of the heart within it.

Dean.

Meg lifted her backpack and rose from the table. "Hey," she said. "The bus is getting ready to leave."

Sam shook his head and pulled his own pack over his shoulders. "You'd better get on it," he told her. "I gotta go."

"Go where?"

"Burkitsville. I've been trying to call my friend but I can't get through. I think he might be in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

Sam shrugged. He couldn't explain about the strange revelation that frightened him almost as much as the scene it had shown him. "I'm sorry. Look, I don't want you to miss the bus."

"But I don't understand. You're running back to the guy, after he walked out on you? You want him to have that kind of power over you?"

Sam didn't have time or patience for this. He didn't know how much time he had, whether he could make it back to Indiana – back to Dean – before the scarecrow took its next victim. "I'm sorry," he repeated brusquely, and turned from her.

He never saw the ugly sulk that settled on her features as he walked away.

.

The orchard, dusk.

"You don't have a plan, do you?" Gemma sighed.

"I'm working on it," Dean insisted.

One of Dean's former girlfriends was a yoga teacher. She could sit on the floor, lift up her leg and loop her foot behind her ear. He'd thought about her more in the past few hours than he had done in years. From the position he was tied in Dean couldn't get his feet even close to his hands. He couldn't reach his wrists with his fingers, either.

"I take it Sam was the brains of the outfit."

"He's pretty smart, yeah." All Dean could do was keep working his wrists, hoping to stretch and loosen the rope enough to pull his hands through.

"So that makes you the muscle?"

It wasn't working. His wrists were raw with the effort, his eyes were watering steadily and he'd been chewing his lips for a while to stifle his grunts of pain. "No, Sam was kinda that as well." But now he was losing the circulation in his arms, and his hands and wrists were turning numb, so, silver lining.

"Huh," Gemma grunted. "So, it was a pre-emptive strike, then?"

Dean paused. "What?"

"When you left Sam: get out before he abandoned you first; prove you could manage without him?"

Dean didn't think it was possible that he could feel colder than he already did, but he was wrong. He tried to rationalize that Gemma was just laying her own issues with her brother at his door, but the echo of Daniel Whitman's prophecy crawled into his chest and made a nest there. Not that it would make a damn bit of difference who did or might abandon who if Dean couldn't get them out of the current mess.

"I told you why I left," he snapped. He tugged roughly and unproductively at his bonds and screwed up his eyes in a tight wince as a warm bead of blood trickled down his forearm.

Gemma shrugged. "It just doesn't sound like you think you were contributing very much."

The fantasy of going over to Gemma and giving her a kick motivated Dean to renew his struggles. "I contribute," he insisted.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He racked his brains for an example, and then he remembered the unexpected compliment Sam had paid him back in Texas. "I have great people skills. Haven't you noticed?"

Gemma scoffed. "Well, let me know when you manage to charm your way out of these ropes."

Dean gritted his teeth and bit back an angry retort. He acknowledged that the imminent prospect of being hacked to death so a scarecrow could accessorize with your body parts didn't tend to bring out the best in a person. And he couldn't blame Gemma for being pissed at him. If he'd called Sam the moment he'd realized there was something rotten in downtown Burkitsville they wouldn't be in this mess now. If he hadn't still been sore at Sam, if he hadn't been determined to prove he could solve the case all by himself . . . but that was Dean all over. Always the same mistakes, always with the pride and the obstinacy, never using his head . . . he never learned. And if he only screwed himself in the process then fine, he had it coming, but now he was taking Gemma down with him. Yeah. She had a right to be pissed.

He bit his lip, strained and twisted his wrists once more and felt another trickle of blood run down his arm, and he could taste blood in his mouth now, too.

Then something weird happened. It was like he had a hot flush or something. It started in his chest, a burning sensation right where the amulet rested against his shirt, then it spread its warmth outwards through his whole body. It was over in a moment but it left behind a seemingly unwarranted sense of hope, until he thought he heard something, a voice calling. He thought he recognized it, too, but that was impossible, too damn good to be true. Then he heard it again, closer this time.

"Dean?"

"Aah!" Dean gasped. Sam! Oh, sweet God! It was Sam! He swallowed; couldn't articulate for a moment. He could have cried. Kind of was. Hopefully it wouldn't show in the dark. "Sam!" he called. "Over here!"

"Dean!" Sam appeared at his side. He already had a Swiss army in his hand and he lost no time cutting through the ropes tying Dean to the tree.

"Oh! Oh, I take everything back I said," Dean gasped. "I'm so happy to see you. How'd you get here?"

"I, er . . ." Sam hesitated. "I stole a car."

He seemed oddly embarrassed to admit it, and Dean wondered if he was thinking about Dean's shot about Sam stealing Dad's guns. Hell, if they could just get out of this alive, Dean'd trade his guitar for a chance to make it up to Sam for all the dick things he'd said that night. "Keep an eye on that scarecrow," he warned Sam. "He could come alive any minute."

"Where is it?"

Dean turned and looked behind him. The scarecrow wasn't there; the cross stood empty. "Crap! Move it, Sam!" he cried.

Sam sliced through the ropes that tied Dean's feet then turned to Gemma, and once she was free Dean helped her to her feet.

"All right, now, this sacred tree, the source of its power," she said. "Let's find it and burn it."

"Nah, in the morning. Let's just shag ass before Leather Face catches up."

He took Gemma's elbow and steered her toward the exit but as they moved into a clearing Dean was grabbed from behind and they were flanked by a gauntlet of shotguns. Seems the freak committee had posted a guard, and now they were all here.

"'Fraid we can't let you go, folks," Scotty advised them.

"It'll be over quickly," Jorgeson promised. "You have to let him take you. You have to – "

But Gemma had other ideas. In a sudden flash of movement she had his gun out of his hands and smashed the butt into his face. He went down like a tenpin and Gemma grabbed his screaming wife. Everyone else was stunned until Sam moved to take advantage of the moment, snapping a kick into the sheriff's balls, disarming him and swinging the shotgun into Scotty's temple with the same smooth motion. The surprised deputy had loosened his grip on Dean's arms so Dean drove his elbow back into the man's gut, but as another blow sent the guy to the ground Dean saw the sheriff was recovering. Sam was finishing off a third guy when the sheriff pulled out his sidearm and trained it on Sam's back. In a breath Dean was between them. He had the sheriff's wrist in his hand, trained the gun down and to the side and it discharged into the ground just as Dean brought his leg up. He heard the crack of the elbow joint as it broke over his knee. The sheriff dropped to the ground with a scream and Dean took the gun from his hand and aimed into his face. The man's eyes widened with terror as Dean's finger curled and twitched around the trigger.

"Stay down, Pal," Dean breathed.

The timbre of Ma Jorgeson's shrieks changed suddenly and everyone looked round to see her being carried off by the scarecrow. Her husband's body dragged along the ground beside them, impaled on the scarecrow's sickle. When Dean looked back the sheriff had scrambled to his feet and was making a run for it while the remainder of the posse was fleeing in all directions. Sam and Dean exchanged glances. Running seemed to be a good move, so Dean grabbed Gemma and they made for the exit. Outside the border of the orchard they turned and stared back into the trees. After the rush of activity all now seemed disturbingly quiet and still.

Gemma turned and stared at a car that was parked haphazardly adjacent the orchard. "That yours?" she asked, addressing Sam.

"Well . . ." he prevaricated.

"Got any gasoline?" she demanded.

Dean let out a breath of exasperation. "Not now, Gemma," he said. "In the morning."

But she was already moving toward the car. "I want it over now," she insisted. "Tomorrow the townsfolk could come back in force and try to stop us." Opening the trunk she quickly found a container filled with gasoline. Dean tried to head her off as she marched toward the orchard but she dodged past him and headed into the trees.

"Oh, you've got to be fricking kidding me," he muttered.

"Is she always like this?" Sam asked.

Dean rolled his eyes and they followed her into the orchard, recently acquired weapons at the ready. Fortunately they found the tree quickly. Dean had an idea it would be close to the cross where the scarecrow could guard it, and his hunch proved correct. They found it dead ahead of the cross, a real old tree with markings Sam assured them were Nordic runes. Nerd.

Sam and Dean kept watch while Gemma poured the fuel over the tree and set light to a branch that lay nearby. Presumably the scarecrow was busy . . . doing something unthinkable with the Jorgesons . . . since it didn't bother them all the while, not until Gemma set the brand to the tree then it suddenly appeared out of nowhere venting a feral roar. Sam emptied both barrels of his shotgun into its chest and it reeled momentarily, long enough for Dean to grab the brand out of Gemma's hand and thrust it into the scarecrow's face. It snarled with rage as flames spread quickly through the parched flesh, then the snarl turned to an unearthly shriek as the whole form was suddenly ablaze and the next moment it vanished in a vapor of searing fire and smoke. Dean glanced back at the fiercely burning tree. The flames had done their work. The god was dead, and its victims were finally at rest.