When Dean opened his eyes, it was quiet.

No screams. No gunfire. No tiger tiger burning bright. The only sounds were those of early morning and the soft breeze rifling through the trees.

He lay still for a while, listening to the sound of the Glades around him and trying to figure out what to do. His brain wasn't working very well, though, so after a few minutes he gave up thinking as a bad bet.

He hurt. A lot. His bruises had bruises and he was pretty sure at least one of his ribs was cracked. Not to mention the myriad of scratches and gashes he'd scored on the way inside the hellish thorn thicket.

Head aching, brain mush, Dean dazedly tried to focus.

Camo Man was dead, probably tiger scat by now.

But what about his two thugs? If they had any brains, they'd be long gone, but the whole point with being a thug is you were paid for your thugnicity, not your brains. They could still be looking for him, to make sure he couldn't rat on them.

And Sam. Where the hell was Sam? Was he lying out here somewhere, broken and dying?

Damn it, was Sam dead?

Dean firmly pushed that last thought away. Sam wasn't dead. He was probably looking for Dean. He wouldn't have left without him.

Right?

Dean pushed away that niggling, stupid little thought as well. He hadn't known Sam long, but he knew the pilot wouldn't just leave him, not if he could help it.

So, he had to find Sam, if he could. He'd search the area around the copter, find Sam and try to avoid the two thugs if they turned up.

Dean frowned. Wait, there was something else. Something important. What was it?

Oh, right. The tiger. Avoid the tiger.

First things first. Water. His mouth was parched, and his throat felt like the proverbial highway to hell. There'd been a mostly full bottle of water in Sam's backpack. It should still be in the bushes where Camo Man had nailed him.

Ignoring the shriek of his ribs, Dean got to his feet.

ΩΩΩ

It was a bitch getting out of the thicket. There was a large hole where he'd bulled his way in the night before, but there were still plenty of thorns and every single one of them wanted a piece of Dean. By the time he pulled himself out, he was bleeding from a whole new crop of scratches, and he was ready to upgrade the rib from cracked to broken.

Aching all over, Dean managed to find Sam's backpack after a few minutes search, and nearly wept with relief when he found the water bottle still intact. It felt so good on his throat he wanted to drink it all, but he stopped himself after only a few swallows. He had to make it last. The Glades had plenty of water, but it was full of snakes and crocodiles, plus probably a billion microscopic creepy crawlies. No way he was risking that.

Besides, if, when, Sam showed up, he'd need water, too.

He went through the backpack and found the first aid kit. Wincing through a few of the alcohol packs he cleaned up his scratches, then used up a good half of a big tube of hydrocortisone cream on his mosquito bites.

Feeling a little better, a little more in control, Dean made his way into the deserted clearing and over to the helicopter's crumpled form. He spent a few minutes digging through it for anything useful, but there wasn't much. Sam's jacket, which might come in handy. A baseball cap. Pad of paper. Black marker. Wait. . .

There was half a Hershey bar in the pocket of Sam's jacket! It was all melted to hell, but Dean didn't care, almost moaning with pleasure as he licked it off the wrapping.

Chocolate-sated, he stayed a good half hour inside the crumpled Bumble Bee. Even with the urgent need to find Sam, he was reluctant to leave her. He felt reassured by her comfortable familiarity; he even felt kind of safe, though that safety was clearly an illusion. There was no safety here, not for someone like him. The Glades was for people with survival skills. Macgyver dudes, Gator Boys. People who knew what bugs and plants were safe to eat, people who could keep ahead of snakes, alligators, tigers and gun toting ass hats.

When he finally climbed out of Bee Bee, he stood next to her for several minutes, looking indecisively into the trees.

He wanted, needed, to search for Sam but - Search and Rescue would be coming soon. If he and Sam weren't here waiting for them, wouldn't they spread out, start searching? What if they ran into the tiger? Or the goons?

Frustrated by his own uncharacteristic indecisiveness, and driven by dread and morbid curiosity, Dean walked slowly over to the bushes near the clearing where Camo Man had met his grisly end.

Thankfully, beyond a few splashes of dried blood, there was no sign of the man, except for his rifle lying next to a log. When Dean picked it up, he saw a thick smear of blood on the stock. He stared at it in horrified fascination, feeling a little sick, then rubbed off as much as he could with a handful of grass.

He hadn't had much experience with firearms, but he figured out that it was in fact fully loaded and the safety was off. Clutching it tightly, he felt a small bit of the tension that had been gripping him relax. At least now, if the two goons came back, he'd have a chance of holding them off.

Rifle in hand, Dean decided to make an exploratory circle in the woods around the clearing and see if he could find any sign of what had happened to Sam, making sure to keep an eye out for helicopters, or whatever would be bringing in S&R. Then, when they did show, he'd head back to Bee Bee, so he could let them know what they were in for.

Feeling tired and shaky, but determined, Dean set off.

Fifteen minutes into his reconnoiter, head throbbing and breath coming in short, uneven gasps, he had to stop and lean against a tree to rest. Even through the shelter of the trees, the sun had him dripping with sweat, and his cornucopia of bruises, scrapes, bites and probable breaks had joined forces to form one colossal ache.

He moved on after a minute or two, but, vision blurred by sweat and a worsening headache, he tripped over an exposed root and sprawled onto his stomach. The fall knocked the breath out of him and sent the rifle skidding into the bushes.

"Crap!" Dean started to push himself up, then collapsed back to the ground. Winded and exhausted, he lay still for a minute, trying to get up enough energy to get up.

(Chuff)

Dean froze.

(chuff, chuff)

He raised his head. Slowly.

The tiger lay on its side on a hummock of grass about thirty feet ahead of him, staring at Dean with heavy-lidded eyes. It didn't move. If anything, it looked a little bored.

Dean drew in a sharp breath, adrenaline spiking through him. At the sound, the tiger looked slightly more interested and Dean dug his hands into the grass, trying to keep still. Running away from a big cat like this would be like ringing a dinner bell.

After a few seconds, the big cat yawned, fangs long and curved in the sunlight, then settled with a comfortable sounding chuff.

Staring at the tiger, Dean could see several reddish-brown stains on its ruff and for a moment he was desperately afraid he was going to puke. Biting his lower lip, he held on, breathing evenly until the nausea passed.

The rifle.

He cast a quick look toward where the rifle had ended up. It was well beyond his reach.

Screw it.

Keeping an eye on the cat, he started inching his way backward, ignoring the jagged complaint of his ribs. The cat didn't seem to notice; instead, it started to groom itself, tongue working over its fur in long, lazy licks.

Dean had made it back about ten slow feet, when someone suddenly grabbed him by the ankle. His heart leaped into his throat and he choked back a startled cry.

A voice hissed from behind. "Dean, it's me!"

Sam!