A/N - Thank you for 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.

It was his stomach that brought him around, but not in any good way. It was heaving and churning, managing to twist the emptiness there into something substantial, sloshing from side to side as he swayed.

Swayed?

Dean was vaguely aware of being carried. He couldn't feel the hands, but opening his eyes only showed him the bleary contours of an earthen ceiling, moving above him at a rapid pace. There was a ringing in his head, slamming into the confines of his skull with furious volume, seeming to ricochet back and forth between the bones like there was no brain to block it. Blood loss. He could almost remember why he knew it was from that, but the thought wouldn't fully form. He wanted to see who had him and where they were taking him, but his eyes had already closed again and he was being swallowed into that same darkness he saw behind his lids.

It was voices that drew him out the next time, agitated and terrified voices, that penetrated into his nothing cocoon without any regard for how it was affecting him, not seeing or caring that he was cringing away from the volume. Bastards.

"Then try something else! Don't you let him die or you will be the first sacrifice!" The woman, her voice shrill with panic. God his head hurt, he really wished she would shut up. At least the pain he remembered from his stomach was nothing more than a dull ache.

"There won't be a sacrifice if he dies, the power will be gone, Rebecca! Now keep pressure on the cut so I can try another incantation." It was Weasel. They were afraid of him dying? Why? They were just going to kill him anyway.

Wait.

He remembered then. His brilliant, okay insane, stall tactic to keep the witches busy trying to make sure he didn't lose all the blood in his body so Sam and Bobby could make it. Looks like for once it was actually going his way. They must have already done something to him because he was feeling better, maybe a three on the scale instead of off the chart and sinking. Of course, it was possible that he was just so far gone into shock, that his system was offline. Either way, he wasn't going to be up for whatever little ceremony they had planned. He was calling that a success.

He could hear monotone murmuring above him and figured Weasel was trying to work some mojo to keeping him breathing. Dean debated for a moment if he should disrupt him, make a move to escape. He knew he wouldn't make it in the condition he was in, but the longer they were busy trying to subdue and heal him, or whatever the hell they were doing, the more time it gave Sammy. He didn't find fault with that plan and started to put it in motion, but he had vastly overestimated how well he was feeling.

The signal he sent to his arm to sweep outward and knock the witch off balance was just a useless twitch of muscle, moving nothing more than his wrist. The other arm was buried under the weight of Witchy Rebecca, so he was going to turn in her direction and kick out with his legs. That was aborted when the clench of his stomach muscles woke up the sleeping knives in his wound with a vengeance, only a pathetic groan behind his suddenly clenched lips the result of the effort.

Shit. Well it was worth a try, even if it had been a failure of monumental proportions.

Since they knew he was awake now, Dean didn't bother with the pretense of unconsciousness, his eyes flying open to fasten immediately on those of the woman leaning over above him. She was young and pretty, her eyes a bright blue smothered in so much alarm and fear that he couldn't help but feel a zing of accomplishment. He may have had to nearly kill himself to do it, but he scared them.

"Hey there sweetheart. You here for my sponge bath?'" he asked, not caring that his words ran together with very little enunciation. He'd been mostly dead for a while, that was the best it was getting for a bit.

She understood them well enough, because he saw anger join all the other emotions lurking in her eyes. "You stupid boy. You have no idea what you nearly destroyed. Something so much bigger than you, so much more than you can ever be…."

"Stuff it, I've heard it. Get some new material. And for the record, I know exactly what I'm going to destroy and I'm going to enjoy every minute of it," he announced calmly.

An evil smile spread over pretty Rebecca's face. "You think so? How much will you enjoy dying? Because that's the only way it's getting out of you. Two options. Become our vessel or die," she spat.

Dean wasn't surprised, he'd already been told as much. "You call those options? Well clearly," he said, motioning down at the blood stained cloth covering his arm beneath her hands with a nod of his head, "dying is not a problem for me. If it will shut you evil sons of bitches down, sign me up. You aren't getting me." His own smile was full of satisfaction and orneriness. It felt good.

She opened her mouth to continue to spit her fury, but she was interrupted by Weasel's "Rebecca! Stop baiting him." Dean's eyes swung over to the other witch. His skin was pale, a fine sheen of sweat coating his face. Trying to save his life must have taken a lot out of him. Good. "Check it so we can see if this one worked."

Rebecca glared down a Dean for a moment more, then pulled back to peel the cloth off his arm. Dean craned his head up slightly to look with her, trying to keep his middle as still as possible. He did note that his headache was starting to slide away in small increments, the pain in his stomach getting farther away. It was almost like morphine. It didn't take the pain away, exactly, it just made you not care about it. Must have been the same thing they did to him earlier.

Under the cloth, the ragged tear in his arm was still there, the torn and gaping sides of the cut ugly and red. He could see the muscle and tendons underneath, and he cringed seeing how deep he had made it. Well, it wasn't like he had been able to see what he was doing. Slicing up your arm with a roughly cut chicken bone by braille was unlikely to be pretty. The strange thing was that it wasn't bleeding anymore. It should have been, nothing had been done to close it and, with a sickening twist of his already pissed off stomach, he could actually see the blood pumping down the torn veins, blood that should still be spilling over his arm. It's like they put some sort of invisible bandage on it. If they weren't such skeevy assholes, it'd be real helpful to have them on a hunt.

"It worked," Rebecca said with a relieved smile.

"Praise to Moros," Weasel breathed wearily.

Screw Moros.

The witches moved away and Dean was finally able to see that he was in the big room, lying on the table he had seen earlier. He watched them carefully and saw them stop to speak to each other softly, just out of earshot. It would be the perfect time to get moving, if he could just move.

Dean's limbs still felt like they weren't really attached, and his attempt to move his various parts proved unsuccessful, so he suspected that whatever supernatural band aid they had given him was for cosmetic purposes only and to block the stress that pain caused on the body. It didn't actually heal anything, which meant that his body was still on the verge of shutting down. That wasn't exactly the position he wanted to be in. He had been hoping for well enough to fight, weak enough that he couldn't manage their ritual or dead. Instead, he was exactly where they wanted him. Just on the right side of stable and coherent, but too hurt to do anything to help himself.

It seemed they had won after all. Son of a bitch.

He wasn't giving up, but he knew that his chances to save himself were shrinking every second. He was pretty sure he had bled through most of the hour he initially had to work with before their Grandmaster got back with their victim, and he figured the big dog would have been in there trying to save him if he was already back, so it couldn't be much longer before they got started. He had been hoping that it would take them longer to patch him up.

He didn't buy Sammy enough time.

Panic started to fill him then, not for himself, but for how Sam would react if he was too late. Dean was the one who made sure Sam was safe from the witches, but it also split them up, made it so Sam wasn't nearby to help him. Sam was going to blame himself, he was going to tear himself apart that he was too late. Dean stood by his decision to get Sam to safety, but he knew Sam wouldn't, and he had to admit, that maybe, just maybe, it would have been better for them to stay together. So he owed it to Sam to stay alive so his little brother could tear him a new one. There had to be something else Dean could do.

First, he had to get his body working again.

He glanced over one more time at the witches and saw that they were still talking amongst themselves, paying Dean no attention. They were confident that whatever spell they had worked would keep Dean in place. Well he had built a reputation on being a pain in the ass and not staying down when he should and he wasn't about to stop now.

Staring intently at his right hand, he tried to get his fingers to move. "Move your damn finger," he muttered. If it worked for Uma Thurman, it would work for him.

Sam awoke with a startled gasp, eyes jerking down to see that the thing shaking his arm was Bobby's hand. He looked up at the older man in sleepy confusion, trying to kick his brain into gear.

"Sorry to wake you, but I need directions," Bobby said, a map spread over the steering wheel.

Sitting up a bit straighter, Sam looked out the window to see that they were pulled off the road by the town that he and Dean had passed on the way to the cavern. It seemed so long ago now, even though it had only been just over a week. Glancing at the clock in the dash, he saw that six hours had passed since Bobby had picked him up.

"Breaking land speed records, Bobby?" Sam asked with a dry chuckle, rubbing his fingers into his sleep dried eyes.

"As much as I could. Didn't see a single cop, luck was on our side. Let's hope it stays there, huh?" Bobby replied lightly.

Sam listed the streets and turns to take, knowing he would only have to tell Bobby once. His sense of direction was uncanny. Tossing the map into the back, Bobby pulled back out onto the road, heading for the first turn.

"How you doing?" Bobby asked with a glance his way.

"Not too bad," Sam answered, somewhat in surprise. The nap he took worked wonders. His head was still aching and felt like it would be for a while, but it wasn't so bad that he couldn't think. His ribs weren't any better, but he hadn't expected them to be. Just having that screaming pain out of his head was enough for him to call it good.

"Glad to hear it. Okay, I think we're only about a half hour out, so let's work out our approach. You said there's two entrances, right?" Bobby prompted.

"Yeah, one that leads straight to a stairwell into the big chamber. The other one Dean found on accident, it's a trap door. It seems to lead under the main tunnel and lets out into the room. That might be our best bet, I don't think it's probably as well used and the entrance into the big room isn't so obvious," Sam said, easily remembering the details of the area.

The thought that he was only thirty minutes and a few witches away from Dean was starting to sink in, sending nervous tension through his weary body, flooding it with adrenaline that was starting tighten muscles and wake up tired reflexes. He felt in his bones that Dean was still alive, that he could still get there in time. He had trusted that feeling all his life and he hadn't been wrong yet.

"Okay, so we trigger the trap door and head in. Any idea how many witches we'll be facing?" Bobby continued.

"No, we only saw two there and we killed both of them. There were three men in the van that ran us off the road, but I don't if they were all witches. Only one of them used spells on us. I stabbed one of them. I don't remember seeing him, so they must have taken him with them. He should be dead, but who knows?" Sam said with a wry shrug. He was hoping they couldn't bring the dead back to life, but he'd seen crazier things in his time, so couldn't rule it out.

"So at least two, probably more. My contact said they keep the coven small, so I think we should plan on at least five. We'll have some protection from their magic, but not from everything, so shoot to kill. We won't have time to play around," Bobby warned.

"Yeah, I get it," Sam confirmed softly. Bobby wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know. They were seriously out numbered, out gunned and they had his brother. Every shot had to count. He remembered the debilitating pain that had crashed into his head when they were taking Dean. He had been unable to move, to think, to do anything other than hurt for a period of time. If that happened again, it was over and they were all dead. So they couldn't give the witches a chance to act.

"I know we typically go in more prepared than this. I just…," Sam broke off before he could continue. If this went sideways, which it so easily could, then he was responsible for getting Bobby killed too. There had just been no other choice. He felt like he should apologize, but suspected Bobby would beat the shit of him if he did. "Thanks Bobby. For helping us," he finally finished, looking over at the man who had been like a father to him all his life.

"Boy, how many times have I told you that you don't need to thank for me for shit like this? You're my boys, you couldn't keep me away. Now how about we stop all the blubbering and get ready. Grab my bag back there, let's start getting those spells going," Bobby ordered gruffly. Sam didn't miss the disgruntled look Bobby sent his way, nor did he miss the fondness in the older man's eyes.

He smiled to himself as he reached back for the small bag Bobby had in the tiny space between the seat and the back of the cab. Talking feelings with Bobby was usually about as successful as talking about them with Dean, which meant not at all, but at least Bobby didn't shut down like his brother. Opening it up, he could see a small wooden box, several baggies with what appeared to be herbs inside, a notebook, a mortar and pestle. He gathered them all onto the open part of the seat between the two of them.

"All right, now in the box are the charms. Should be a good mix in there. Just portion them out evenly. I think you can manage the spells, nothing fancy. They are listed in the notebook," Bobby said, taking stock of the items on the seat.

Sam got to work, sifting through charms and mixing the herbs in the bags into components for the protection spells. They were extremely basic and didn't require any special ability, which was fortunate because they didn't have any. He draped half of the charms over Bobby's head, and then the rest over his own. He spoke each spell clearly, burning the mixture of herbs, then tossing the remains out the window to start the next one. He didn't feel any different, but he trusted that Bobby knew what he was doing.

The next thing he knew, they were stopping and Sam looked up in question to see the shack. His eyes narrowed on it in grim determination. He was going to burn that thing to the ground when they were done here, do whatever he could to make sure the coven couldn't regroup and use it again. He wasn't sure how he was going to destroy the underground area itself, but he would find a way. Gathering up their weapons, they got out of the car. Sam stuffed Dean's Colt into his jacket. His brother would need it on the way out, because there was no way he was leaving without Dean.

There were no other cars around, so they still had no indication of how many witches might be inside, but in the end it didn't matter. There was no time to do anything other than what they had already planned; go in hard, go in mean and kill everything that moved that wasn't his brother.

As far as plans went, it sucked, but it was the only one they had.

TBC...