PART 4

They got him into the cottage, and sat him down on his bed. Sally helped him out of his wet pants and turned her head discreetly as she helped with some dry shorts.. The knee brace was soaked –she unfastened and removed it. Explains the limp, she thought. She carefully pulled off his tee-shirt. She couldn't help but notice his fitness. Put together pretty well… All his most recent scars were livid against his Midwest-milk skin tone, and it shocked her. "Oh...honey, did you take a header through a combine up there in Nebraska?"

Dean smiled wearily. "Long story, Sally. I'll tell you if you get me that bottle of JD over there on the dresser…"

She fetched it for him, asking, "Need a glass?"

"Nope." He closed his eyes as he downed several generous swallows. "That's better." he sighed.

She looked at him with sympathy. "So what happened up there?"

He gave her a blunt synopsis of their recent experiences. When he was finished, she sat back, shaking her head. "Good lord, no wonder you need a bloody vacation!" she said, shocked by the spate of punishing he'd been through.

"Yeah…" he sighed. But so far we kinda suck at it."

Emily brought a bowl of hot water and soap and towels, and a bag of ice. Dean marveled that she knew exactly where to set it, and that she negotiated around the furniture flawlessly. Sally proceeded to wash the swamp muck off his skin, then he settled back so that she could work on his battered face. After gently scrubbing off the congealing blood she could assess the damage. He hadn't broken his nose—he'd figured that already. But he had a nasty cut over the bridge, and a raw looking scrape that ran from his left cheekbone to chin. Not to mention a shiner.. It was the raised gash at his hairline that was more worrisome. Bobby had said he sounded a little confused on the phone. She'd have to watch him for concussion. She applied antibiotic and bandages as he squirmed. The rest of him was black and blue, the result of being tossed in the van's roll along with god-knows-what. There was nothing she could do about that.

Which left the fracture. Sally was out of her element there. She took the ice pack off and looked it over, and saw the misalignment, slightly swollen, and bruised. She was afraid to touch it. "Dean, I don't know what to do here…" she admitted. "You really should let me take you to the hospital."

He didn't know the remedy either, all he knew was that it hurt with every movement —but he knew someone who did know what to do. "Could you pass me my phone?"

She did and he speed dialed his valued friend Dr. David Bowman. Thankfully, David answered, and Dean quickly filled him in on the situation. The poor doc was again shocked and saddened by their continuing misfortune. Dean got to the point. "She needs to know how to fix this up, if she can. -Here, I'll pass you over—" Dean handed the cell to Sally. Sally listened carefully to David's instructions, frowning, before handing it back.

David cautioned him. " Christ, Dean, this is far from ideal—you need to get some x-rays done. Right now she's got to re-align it to set it. It'll hurt, Dean, quite a bit—but it should settle down fairly quickly if you keep it still. There's no cast for this, just keep your arm tensor-wrapped to your side for a few days—well, weeks, if you're a normal person. Then you can switch to a sling if you need to be ready to use that hand… But keep the bloody sling on this time, ok?. Take ibuprofen, max the dose. And for god's sake, stay down and rest for a while. You have to let Bobby handle this! Please, Dean, you know he'll find Sam. I'm going to try to get out of teaching this week, I'll come down as soon as I can. ..And Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I'll…uh...you know, pray for you guys. Good luck, buddy.."

"Thanks, Doc. I'll call you later."

He put the phone down, and sighed. He turned to her, wearily, "You ok with this, Sally?"

"As long as you are. But I'm no expert, honey, and I'm a little freaked that I'm going to hurt you. You want that bottle again?"

He nodded and drained some more of its contents. He hadn't eaten anything since breakfast—the buzz was hitting him with comforting speed.. "Don't be, Sally. Trust me, I've had worse." He took one more swig and put the bottle aside. "Well..." he smiled wanly, "Go for it."

She couldn't look at his face, or she'd lose her nerve. As instructed, she gently worked the two sides of the bone under his skin until they met, forcing them back together until it felt like they were meshed somewhat. It was an odd, crunchy sensation, like pushing two sandy Lego blocks together. She was both fascinated and repulsed. He drew a sharp breath, his stomach tightening. He was trying hard not to voice any sound for her sake. It only took a moment or two, and when it was done, he released the fistful of blanket he was crushing into felt, and huffed out a broken exclamation.

"S-son-of-a-!"

She handed him the JD and waited while he swallowed some more, then confiscated it and took a healthy couple of swigs herself before putting it away. "I think that worked, it felt right...how you doing?"

His eyes were shut tight, but he gave her a thumbs up gesture. He'd broken bones many times, but the collarbone particularly always hurt like a bitch. The bourbon was working nicely, though, and he slowly relaxed and looked up at her lined, tense face.

"Thanks, Pippi, you're the best.."

She smiled at him, relieved. She helped him sit up and wrapped the tensor bandage around his arm and midriff. Crap, here we go again, he thought, hating the trapped feeling. She loaded him up with some advil. "Sleep, Dean, just for a while. I'll have to keep waking you, sorry. Don't go taking a swing at me, I might clock you back without thinking. I'll get you something to eat in a little bit. In the meantime I'll check out the charter services. I'll tell you if I hear from Bobby."

She squeezed his arm and left, and Emily was about to follow her. She stopped and felt for his hand. "Rest now, Dean. He is alive, I can feel it." she assured him softly. "This aura, it's so strong, and I'm never wrong."

"Thanks, Emily...it really helps." he whispered, and closed his eyes.

Sally went out and sat on the porch steps. The frogs and crickets were singing a peaceful chorus. Stars peppered the clear night sky. She fumbled with shaking hands through her her shirt pocket, and when she found what she needed, she lit up the well-earned joint, and took a deep draw. She put it aside then, and dropped her head against her folded arms, and cried. After a few moments, Emily joined her, and Sally leaned on her, and rested her head on her shoulder.

- Sam threw his hands up defensively, just in time, and his forearms took the brunt of the assault meant for his throat.

It's ragged nails raked through his skin, but he didn't have time to notice as it flew at him again. He kicked it away—hardly believing that this pale, slight creature could be so strong and relentless-

All night—the child thing—insatiable in its hunger for violence and blood—attacked him—whispering his name like a chant, as if Sam had been given to it like some gift— It had the body of an eight year old boy—but the strength and ferocity of a panther. Sam had never encountered its equal—there was nothing ethereal about it –it had a robust, physical state-So it wasn't a ghost, although it had some sort of unspeakable human history- but it was certainly demonic enough…it shared the glowing eyes of Demon-and it had an intensity of purpose that would put a werewolf to shame. And the damned thing never lost it's rictus of a grin-

He was bitten, clawed, and slashed repeatedly. He was losing blood alarmingly, and strength with it. It was almost an advantage to let it draw blood, it would stop, and suck its hands and fingers in ecstasy. Sam had no time or means to stop it, he had to wrack his brain for solutions in these brief moments while it was mesmerized, consuming the source of his waning strength.

Since it was summoned and controlled by a demon, he had to assume it was, by description or by default, demonic. He thought his only choice was a demon trap, he didn't know of any other trick that could possibly fit. In his few seconds of respite, he scratched segments of the symbol into the dirt—relying solely on moonlight to illuminate his efforts, and interrupted frequently by the annoying need to defend his life against the thing. Time and time again he fought it off, drawing and re-drawing his trap. He was torn up badly by now. Nothing inflicted damage like a set of almost human teeth, and it's nails were beyond the scope of human growth. Sam was feeling weak and light-headed when he finally completed his image in the dirt. He dropped to the ground, exhausted, the trap between he and the demon-child.

It was busily gleaning Sam's latest blood loss from its hands. When it realized there was nothing left to savour, it once again turned its attention to him. Its eyes fluoresced in the twilight.

-Sam sat still, panting. He was at the end of his rope, and this had to work. It was do or die time. He was so tired, he didn't have the strength to fight it off much longer. Pain made him dizzy, his blood loss was too substantial to ignore. The trap had to work. Their battles had obliterated it in its incomplete stage a dozen times, but this time the image was closed and complete. Sam didn't worry that the creature would suspect, it obviously wasn't a calculating kind of demon, as all it did was throw itself at him and then stop, enraptured by the bloody result. All he had to do was lure it to the spot. He didn't have to devise any elaborate plan, he knew from experience it would simply launch itself at him again.

He sat, weaving on his knees, as it watched him. He knew it was only a matter of seconds before it resumed its blood lust. When it did, flying again toward him, he closed his eyes and prayed.

-Dean slept fitfully, his body exhausted. Unfortunately his brain didn't get the memo, and it continued on with torturous dreams. He tossed and turned, fighting against the scenarios playing out in his mind. Both Sally and Emily took turns staying in the cottage, waking Dean and running him through his post-concussive paces at hourly intervals. They too were exhausted. Regardless of their island lifestyle, they were still women in their sixties, and they had less staying power than they used to. Certainly less than Sally liked, anyway. When he finally settled into a more peaceful slumber. Emily sighed, and whispered, - thank-you, Ada- She couldn't see her, but she knew the brown cat had curled up against Dean, protectively, maternally. It immediately calmed his mind. She knew it was safe for her to return to the studio to her own bed.

All three enjoyed a few hours respite before the sun rose. Dean awoke at six-thirty, stiff and sore. His hand was cradling a soft form, he didn't recognize it until it got up, looked at him, stretched, and left. -Brown cat..

Sally had already been online, looking into booking "sight-seeing" tours with chopper charters. She succeeded in lining one up to meet them as soon as Dean could manage it. She knew that whatever his state this morning, there would be no way he was going to stay behind while they searched for Sam. She put a breakfast together and headed off to the Jezebel. When she reached the cottage, she opened the door, and found Dean sitting on the edge of his bed. His eye had calmed down and was much less swollen, although the bruising was darkening. She guessed the ice had helped. He said his headache had waned, thankfully. But he still looked like shit, she decided. She offered him her breakfast bundle, which he gratefully accepted.

"Chopper's booked as soon as you're ready, Dean…" she said.

He nodded.

"Emmy's still sleeping, since she had the last shift last night. She'll stay behind and wait for your doctor friend and Bobby. I'll come with you on the flight."

Dean wished she wouldn't refer to the charter in those terms. His issue with flying wasn't limited to commercial airplanes. Anything that left the ground by more than a few yards was suspect, but he tried to ignore his phobia for Sam's sake. He was beside himself with worry anyway. There were miles upon miles of swamp out there. He had no idea where to start searching, other than beginning at the location of the van. He had no memory of anything before having to grab the steering wheel.

Sally helped him dress. She could see he was hiding the pain he was in, but it was pointless to address it-, they both knew it had to proceed this way. She watched as he tucked a hand gun into his waistband, and another gun, a flask , a book and a bag of salt into a small backpack. He borrowed her first aid kit, since theirs was still somewhere in the van. She knew enough about the whole business that she didn't need any explanation. But her stomach knotted fearfully. She promised him a good strong coffee at their place.

When he was ready, they headed back to the studio and called the charter to come out. Dean savoured his brew, it gave him a little life, which he sorely needed. He dialed Sam, as he had a hundred times in the past few hours, and got the hated message yet again. He reflected on Emily's words mere hours ago. - Sam. Alive, and still strong. He kept those words shining like a beacon in his mind.

-Sam prayed. The thing flew at him, as it had dozens of times before, when suddenly its headlong rush halted abruptly. It stopped dead in its tracks, confused, then growing wild with fury as it stared at the symbol in which it was ensnared. It howled at Sam, trying to reach him with outstretched arms while it stayed hopelessly rooted to the spot. When the full significance of its imprisonment dawned on it, it let loose an unearthly wail that shattered the stillness of the night and sent creatures scattering in terror from the trees surrounding them. Sam watched tensely, and was satisfied that it had worked. Relief washed over him and he dropped exhausted to the earth. The child-demon's protest faded from his ears, a curtain of shapeless black overtook him and he heard and saw nothing more.

-They started to hear, and then feel—the chopper's approach. When the pilot had landed on the lawn, Sally and Dean entered the craft. Sally spoke to him, directing him as to where they wished to start. He radioed in a course, shrugging at their choice. -Nothing out there but cypress and moss- He was a little bemused by his clients; an aging hippy sort of woman, and a younger guy who looked like he'd just lost a bar-fight. Neither of them looked too happy about this tour. Just a little odd.

It was only a short time before they were hovering over the van. It was mostly hidden by the foliage, the pilot didn't see it, but Dean and Sally had. She saw his drawn features tighten at the view. They could only guess in which direction to go next.. Dean's eyes were trained tensely out the window. He was singing something to himself-. She couldn't hear it but she could make out what the words were as she watched him. Ada's song. She looked away, cursing her emotions. When she turned back to him, she was startled to see the brown cat suddenly sitting in his lap. The din of the helicopter was too loud to speak. She shook his arm and pointed. Dean looked down. The cat stared at him, pointedly, and moved off toward the pilot.

The pilot was not at all pleased to be confronted by an animal in the cockpit. He turned around, demanding to know who brought a damned pet on board. Sally and Dean shrugged. But Sally knew it was there for a purpose, this creature, whatever she was, did not act on her whim alone. She watched the cat for some clue as to what it was up to and it quickly became clear that it intended to direct this little foray. The brown cat returned to Sally and mewed plaintively, turning her stare to the right. Sally caught Dean's eye, he nodded—the dead cat wants to lead the parade—that's perfectly logical-what the hell else are you gonna do-?"

"Hey—can you head right?" she yelled. The pilot nodded and turned the craft in the chosen direction. The cat returned to Sally. She and Dean scanned the swampy vista, looking for anything that could possibly indicate someone's presence. It all looked the same, hopelessly consistent. Again the cat became agitated and vocal, indicating another direction. And again Sally requested a turn of the pilot.

Dean was growing weary of scanning the endless tree-scape. Nothing stood out. Nothing showed him any hint of Sam. He rubbed his tired eyes, his headache was returning with a vengeance and he was trying his best to beat down his panic over being separated from terra firma. Sally saw it and tapped his arm, offering a bottle of advil from her pocket. He nodded and took it from her hand.

The cat got up. She hopped to the front of the cabin and bumped her head against the right side window, mewing. The pilot, apparently not an cat fan, shooed her away, glaring at Sally. Sally ignored him and pointed right, and he again turned in that direction. She and Dean scanned below.

Suddenly a slight clearing came into view. It was raised from the surrounding wetland and had a dry, open area at its highest point. Sally had the pilot hover closer. They could see two figures, one crouched, and one prone, at the edge of the clearing. The cat leapt onto Dean, butting her head hard against his chest and yowling sharply.

And then—she was gone. Her message was clear enough. Dean shouted a request to drop down, to land if possible. The pilot assessed the site, deciding there was enough open space, and nodded. He set down in the center, and when it was safe to do so, Dean bolted from the craft and ran towards the duo, shouting at Sally to stay back. She chafed at the order but she stayed, and it was all she could do to keep their skittish pilot from abandoning them as he watched the bizarre scene unfold on the clearing.

The taller figure stood up unsteadily, and began waving frantically. As Dean got nearer, he was relieved to see his brother. Sam was alive, bloodied but seemingly able enough. Sam was shouting at him, and as he approached, he was just able to make it out over the noise of the idling helicopter.

"Shut it down! Shut it down!' Sam screamed in panic, pointing wildly at the craft.

The wind generated by the blades was whipping the loose dirt up, it was beginning to erase the demon trap scratched on the ground. Sam fell to his knees, still gesturing a kill motion to his brother and pointing frantically at the blades and at the other figure. Dean stopped, suddenly understanding, and he ran back to the chopper, urgently shouting to the pilot to kill the engine and shut it down. The pilot shook his head, preparing instead to get the hell out of this strange situation. Sally saw his intent, and she grabbed him by his collar from behind, twisting it tight until he was choking. He wisely obliged, and the rotor powered down.

Hearing the blades slow, Dean turned back, stumbling his way again to Sam, who was now on his hands and knees. With his last ounce of strength, Sam stood up as his brother reached him, and collapsed against him.. Dean tried to hold him with his one free arm, but he was just too heavy. His inert weight pulled both of them back down to the ground. He checked Sam's pulse and was relieved to find it rapid but consistent. He was appalled by the blood, it was everywhere. He settled Sam gently on the ground and looked up nervously at the strange figure still trapped within the nearly faded symbol, knowing it was somehow responsible for all this.

It looked like some messed up little kid, pale, wet, and dirty. At the moment it sat, rocking slightly, head down and thin little arms hugging its knees miserably. It was weeping, like any normal kid that was spent after a tantrum. Dean felt a twinge of sympathy, he couldn't envision this pathetic little wraith causing the damage Sam had suffered. But it raised its head, and its eyes bored into his own. There was nothing harmless about the burning yellow, demon's eyes that met his own. Dean stared at it in horror as a horrible rictus spread across its bloodied mouth. It drew a breath and it breathed his name, reaching out for him.

-Deeeean-

What the f—k? Dean thought, struck still for a moment by the searing evil it suddenly exuded. He'd never seen anything like it… But whatever the hell it was, it seemed contained for the moment, and he turned his attention back to Sam. The younger man was losing blood alarmingly, Dean felt it soaking through his sleeve where he supported him. He had to get him out of here, demon-thing be damned for now. He and Bobby could return and somehow get rid of it later.

He tried valiantly to drag Sam back to the safety of the helicopter, but he was hindered by Sam's weight and his own injuries, and too weak to manage it. But Sally had seen his struggle and she sprinted out and joined him, and the two of them got Sam's heavy, limp form to the door. She yelled at their reluctant pilot to help get him inside and he had enough healthy fear of her to comply.

Her face blanched at the sight of Sam, she'd never seen so much blood. Outside, Dean leaned against the fuselage of the copter, trying to catch his breath and calm his screaming headache. He was on the verge of blacking out, but his hand found something to grip on the side of the craft and he shut his eyes and rode it out until his sight returned and the hissing died down in his ears. When he could safely move again he got up into the craft and helped Sally, who was already binding Sam's wounds.

Sam was alert again, and he stared at his brother with immeasurable gratitude and relief. He needed to speak, but it was an effort, and Sally was trying to shush him. But Dean leaned closer and heard him out.

"Wind will take out the trap, when we take off—" he struggled to say. "—We have to draw it deeper…" The effort cost him, his eyes were rolling.

Dean nodded. "I hear you, Sam, I'm on it!" He warned the pilot to stay put until he got back, and not to restart until then, and he grabbed his pack and loped back to the creature's place. Once there, he took a sturdy stick and ground the trap deep into the soil as the child demon screamed and lashed out at him. He was terrified of it, leaning away and ducking reflexively, but he continued to cut the image into a trough, then pulled out the salt from his pack—tearing the sack open with his teeth and filling the lines for good measure. Finished, he stumbled back, over-taxed, and growled between exhausted gasps— "Try to get out of that, you disgusting little hellspawn!"

The thing howled a wail that would stay burned in Dean's mind for a long, long time. He backed away a few more steps and fell, staying there for a moment to catch his breath. He whipped his head around, hearing the rotor start its whine, and he realized their over-eager pilot was making moves to flee. He got up and lurched toward the chopper, falling a few yards short and crawling the remaining distance to the door. There was no way in hell he was going to stay behind with that freak, and Sally helped him in, hauling him up and dragging him until he was safely inside.

The frightened pilot turned around, and with an anxious gesture, yelled, "NOW can we go?"

Both Dean and Sally nodded. They rose up , away from the hummock, the demon thing quickly disappearing from sight. Dean lay panting, his eyes closed. The last sprint just about did it… He felt a hand on his shoulder. When he turned, he saw that it was Sam's. It was the last thing he'd remember of the flight.