Just to let you know this story is complete and I will be posting a chapter every day life permitting.

Chapter 5

Dean's spirit leapt in triumph he was standing, actually he was leaning but he gave himself full marks for being on his feet, well all right, foot. His right leg held him fine but when he tried to put weight on his left, pain screamed through his hip and side. The first time he tried a step he'd almost collapsed, blacking out briefly.

Breathing heavily with the effort of maintaining his body in an upright position Dean berated himself for not having checked his surroundings, he'd been slacking, injured or not he should have scoped the immediate area for threats actual and possible, it was rule number one …no number two. He blinked trying to remember his Dad's 'Litany for a Hostile Area'. Rule one was …was…Jeez his head hurt.

Delicately Dean pressed his fingers to his temple and felt the large egg swelling under the sticky mass in his hairline. His hand came away bloody. Damn it, he'd been so busy trying to work on standing he'd failed to even consider concussion. He shook his head trying to clear his mind to think straight but the movement caused the quiet throbbing to escalate alarmingly.

There was a path over to his right, a gap between the trees where the fading sunlight penetrated a little further into the forest. Once his head had cleared a little he'd been able to check around properly and it was definitely a path, a track whatever, now all he had to do was get to it.

Dean stood gathering his energy, he still felt like sh*t, his body shivering, head pounding and sickness threatening every time he moved but he fought it knowing that to give in was to give up. He had no doubt that Sam was looking for him but he also knew that it could take hours, also night was coming and Sammy might be good but even he wouldn't be able to track Dean in the pitch dark.

Right now Dean's priority had to be shelter and if possible warmth, the sun had dipped once again below the tops of the trees and his wet body was cooling quickly, he hugged himself as the realisation seemed to make the reality worse. There was nothing for it he couldn't stay and wait for Sammy he had to get himself moving.

Pushing back with the palms of his hand he lifted his body easing it clear of the stone's surface. Standing on his good leg Dean edged himself along the boulder, so far so good but reaching for the nearest tree he slipped, lost his footing slightly and scraped the newly formed scabs on his back. He'd hardly felt the graze at the time it'd happened, he'd been too busy careering downhill but now Dean drew in a sharp breath biting down on his lip as the fresh smart made him wince and the hot wetness of his blood trickled down his back.

The grey colourlessness of twilight had descended by the time Dean reached the point where he thought the path should be. The ache in his hip was constant, radiating up his back and down his leg, worsening, joining the chorus of pain from his ribs every time he took a step but he'd made it, gained the goal he'd set himself. His sense of achievement didn't last long and the deflation, sour coursed through him. Now what? Follow the yellow brick road?

Only his road wasn't yellow it was green and leaf littered and he hoped to hell there wasn't a Wizard at the end.

XXxxxxxxxx

Sam's fingers ached and his calf muscles trembled as he rested, he was more than half way down the face yet the ground didn't seem any nearer. He'd tucked his toes into a crevice and one hand was planted firmly into a crack about a foot above his head but unfortunately although secured to the rock he couldn't relax. He'd only been resting a few minutes but the stress on his clenched muscles was beginning to tell. Carefully he reached out feeling the rock with the fingers of his right hand he needed to find a new hand hold lower down, one that he could grip strongly enough to carry his whole body weight.

Looking down he found again the grass covered ledge about three feet below him. It was too risky to let go of his present position and go for it and too far to reach with his foot before he let go. Adjusting his hold he let his fingers explore the wet rock until they dipped into a crack. He pushed and wormed his hand as far in as he could get, then slowly releasing his grip on the upper handhold he let his body move downward, scraping his toes over the rock as he felt for the ledge he'd seen earlier. Gradually his weight transferred from his left arm and leg to his right hand and toes.

Slipping, Sam suddenly dropped, his heart lurching with the scare but he clenched the hand in the crack feeling the rock bite into his flesh but it held. He dangled precariously for a few moments scrabbling with his feet desperately trying to find the grassy shelf. He slithered further his fingers slowly prising open, losing their grip and slipping from the fissure. He tried to grasp on but he was too heavy and he abruptly lost cohesion falling, scraping down the slab, grazing his skin even through his jeans.

Jarringly his foot contacted with the slick green vegetation on a ledge and he clenched his toes gripping the fronds of grass tightly. His other foot found a thin jagged fault line running parallel to the ground and although it cut into his skin he latched on curling his instep along its length.

Unfortunately his downward momentum continued and swung his body away from the surface. He felt his fingernails rasp and rip as he tried to anchor himself to the rock, his already scratched palms stinging scuffed by the rough mass. Gritting his teeth against the pain he dug into the surface, slivers of rock splintering jamming themselves up under his nails and he managed to pull himself back until his cheek pressed into the hard stone.

Breathing heavily he rested again spread-eagled on the cliff face until he was able to summon the energy and the courage to continue.

Hanging by one arm let himself down the last few feet of rock, careful to the extreme knowing he could so easily make a disastrous mistake if he let up his concentration. Sinking down as his feet touched the ground he allowed himself the smallest pause, the hard unforgiving ridges of the cliff digging into his shoulder-blades as he leant back.

Sighing and dropping his head Sam brushed his sweat soaked hair from his forehead then rubbed his hands over his face, the sweat stung his scratched and sore hands but that was nothing to how tired he felt. He was beat, bone weary and drained yet he couldn't rest, Dean was out there and it was his job to find him.

A cool breeze disturbed the tree tops and kissed his skin; shivering Sam slowly unwound the boots from around his neck and took out the socks. His feet were worse than his hands, a deep cut ran along one instep and his toes were red smeared with blood. Carefully he pushed his foot into a tuft of grass and let the lingering raindrops wash the worst away before he donned his sock. He repeated the action with the other foot and then laced up his boots and went in search of the blue bag.

At the foot of the cliff the canopy above was scant and he could see perfectly well. However, the evening daylight only penetrated a few feet into the forest and even though he'd found the blue bag with relative ease it was with a cold heavy certainty that he knew it was getting too dark to push on. He hated his decision, it went against all his feelings, anything and everything he held dear lay somewhere on that forest floor.

"DEAN!…..DEAN."

There was no reply and desperately so desperately he wanted to rush forward crashing and ripping at the trees but his pragmatic side told him it would do no good. "…a man could be lyin' two yards away from you an' ya wouldn't see him." The words of the Park Ranger haunted him and that was in daylight, in the dark he would stand no chance.

"DEAN."

No pissed remark to 'keep the noise down,' no smirking grin mocked him for being 'such a girl,' no 'Sammy' came back.

Fatigue trembling his muscles he gathered firewood, built a small hearth under an overhang and lit a fire. Then wrapping his arms around his knees he settled against his backpack to wait out the hours of darkness.

Lost in misery he kept his eyes open, staring out, long after the fire went out and the light faded to an impenetrable black.

XXxxxxxxx

It was a hut, a goddamned hut in the middle of the forest. Dean was so surprised that his mouth actually fell open. "A hut." No matter how many times he repeated the words the whole thing sounded, looked surreal, like something out of a fairy story. "Sh*t." He glanced around him apprehensively; been there, done that, got the freakin' T-shirt but no shortbus troll jumped out of the shadows or rolled an extra juicy red apple at him and he let out his breath eyes drawn back to the dilapidated wooden abode in front of him.

The door creaked and swung inward with a judder as Dean pushed. He kept his hand flat on the planks as he peered into the dark interior getting a perverse sense of comfort from the feel of the grain under his fingertips. "Hey, anyone home?"

The thin stream of pale light from the open doorway barely penetrated the murky darkness and the deep shadows encroached as if trying to push back the intruding patch of grey. Dean felt totally uncomfortable sliding in avoiding being silhouetted in the doorframe. He was so definitely intruding on something that he nearly turned and walked away. Except that he couldn't. He was exhausted, it had taken him such an all out effort to get this far and the pain that he'd stoically ignored up until now was beginning to reach that unbearable pitch that no matter how hard he tried he couldn't avoid its clamour for attention. He needed rest.

Gradually, as he pressed his back to the wall his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness and he was able to make out a shape in the corner furthest from the door. It was a fuzzy bundle of what looked like dried bracken piled haphazardly on the floor. So not Snow White's cottage then!

There was no other furniture or signs of occupation except, he saw with a joyful lurch, that there was a stone fireplace and chimney breast built into the back wall. "Yatzi," he breathed and checked his pocket for his lighter.

XXxxxxxxxx

Sam was dreaming, he kind of knew it but it held him trapped in its design and he was unable to extricate himself from the panic and the dread. "Dean." Outwardly he murmured but inside he was screaming for his lost brother.

Gazing around Sam could not see beyond the maze of trees, which extended in every direction around him, all regiment straight and tall, all exactly the same. He tried shifting position walking carefully to his right but when he moved they moved, jostling, creaking, crowding in on him menacingly the leaves rustling a disquiet that had Sam turning quickly to look behind him searching for a fleeting presence.

The wind whipped up fresh and strong, blowing, twisting leaves and dust battering them against his form. It howled, screeching in his ears, stinging his eyes and its icy wash chilled his skin but worse, desolately above the rushing sound he could hear his brother sobbing.

"DEAN!" The name was snatched from his lips. Unnerved, trepidation pricking at his heart Sam shouted again and ran desperate to find his brother, on he ran and on zig-zagging through the tree trunks as the air continued to whirlwind around him, pulling at his clothes and hair and still he could hear the heartbreaking sobs.

"DEAN!" He was crying himself, tears of fear and frustration as he searched wildly through the shifting trees heedless of the branches and twigs, which scratched and ripped at his body.

On the ground Sam's sleeping figure twitched then thrashed struggling to wake from the nightmare. He frowned deeply wrinkling his forehead and tears traced down his cheeks as his mouth moved forming the name of his brother over and over. Suddenly his whole shape convulsed and he woke, eyes staring into the dark.

XXxxxxxxxx

Dean shivered he was cold but that wasn't what had woken him. He'd been disturbed by a movement. Slowly his hand went automatically to tightened on the handle of the knife which he kept under his pillow, a knife that wasn't there because he wasn't in his bed. Pretending to stir in his sleep he rolled, holding in a groan, into a position where he could view the room but he did not open his eyes. Instead he waited, straining his hearing, listening for the sound of activity to come again.

He must have drifted into sleep because when the scraping returned he started awake, jerking involuntarily. No way could he feign sleep now so giving up all pretence he raised his eyelids. The fire he'd carefully banked up before settling down for the night had not completely died down and in its red glow he could see most of the hut's interior.

Squatting on the floor not four feet from Dean was an old man; seemingly tall, skeletal knees up round his ears and naked except for the beard covering his modesty, his deep green eyes glaring directly at Dean.

"Sh*t." Insides clenching with fear Dean instinctively scrabbled, heals digging into the dirt floor pushing himself backward away from the potential danger but it was like a nail gun fired, shoving a red-hot spike of pain into his head. His back hit the wall and his vision swam sickeningly. Falling to the side with a groan, he curled his arms around his pounding head and rocked.

Waiting, pain pulsing in time with his hammering heartbeat Dean lay hurting too much to do more than wait for…for something to happen, but naked Gandalf seemed to be taking his time. Gradually the pain in his head abated and he was able to open his eyes.

The hut was empty.

Bewildered Dean gawked at the space where he'd seen the man. He had seen…he had. Pushing up supporting himself on a trembling arm he gazed around the hut and immediately regretted it, collapsing back to the ground whimpering as waves of heat washed through his body.

XXXxxxxxxx

The morning low cloud mist had collected droplets on Sam's hair sparkling in the dawn grey as he had stood stretching the stiffness from his form.

He'd woken several times during the night pulled from sleep by intensely vivid dreams to find that his brother's cries of distress were still present in the wind surging and rolling about him. His agony that Dean could be only a few yards away had tormented him and he'd had to physically hold onto himself desperately fighting the urge of his nightmare to take off into the dark wilderness.

He'd waited for the light to brighten as long as he could stand it then taking a compass bearing he again set off in search of his brother.

Two hours later he was exhausted and frustratingly no nearer to finding Dean. Added to this Sam had an undefined sense of unease, nothing he could put his finger on but he had that uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades like someone or something was watching him. He'd tried to ignore it but the feeling grew especially when with no wind the leaves fluttered and rustled suddenly in what was, he realised, an unnaturally quiet forest.

XXxxxxxxx

Wreathed in sweat and shaking Dean lay on his stomach half curled into himself, the mat of dried bracken beneath him crackling and shifting under his restless heated body. Time meant nothing images swam into his consciousness drifting and mixing together disconcertingly pressing him alternatively between hope and despair in a seeming never-ending twist of emotion.

Dean knew that he was ill with fever, he'd been there enough times himself and with Sam and Dad to recognise the symptoms and somewhere in his confused mind he knew he was dehydrated and needed water.

He must have slept or slid into unconsciousness because when he opened his eyes again the hut interior had changed. No longer bathed in shadow it shone. Shafts of pure brilliance blazed through holes in the rotting timber, stabbing light into every corner but far from giving him comfort the dazzling spears of dancing brightness seared into Dean's skull filling it, pressurising and expanding the pain.

He felt like his head was going to explode and he heard himself moan and cry out for his brother but Sam didn't come. There were no strong arms holding him, no soft whispered words and no cool soothing strokes. It ripped at his heart sending moisture he could ill afford to lose tracking down his face.

The rain started again slowly at first then faster, he could hear the drops pattering on the roof. Swallowing his throat constricted, it reminded him of how thirsty he was. He needed water and it was torture to know that it was so near but Dean couldn't make his limbs obey and the effort to move hurt so much that even the act of breathing was a torment.

When he next became aware time had again moved on. Whilst he'd slept the rain had stopped and the sunbeams had renewed their tracing, arcing path over the floor. Dean laid, eyes half-closed, too weak and ill to register the meaning or the significance of their passage. His joints and muscles ached and even though he was shivering he could feel his sweat soaked clothes clinging to him. Finally he moved licking his lips to try and relieve their hot dryness but his tongue dragged harshly across their surface, his mouth devoid of spittle.

"Drink."

The calm voice spoke again before Dean realised what it was.

"Drink."

Slowly he raised his pounding head straining to focus his eyes. "You've gotta be kidding me." By his side was a racoon, live and in the fur, its eyes strangely green glinting and gazing directly at him. Dean dropped his head down thumping his cheek back onto the floor he had to be dreaming or more worryingly hallucinating.

"Drink." The request was repeated.

"A talking racoon," that had to be a first. Raising his head again Dean took another look wondering if the old man had made a reappearance, he groaned, oh God, it had to be the racoon talking. Dean stared wondering what the hell in his past life had resulted in this particular delusion.

"It's rude to stare…"

Dean huffed as he sank back too tired to keep the tension in his body.

"…You should show more respect."

"Jeez, everyone's a critic." Dean felt himself sinking back into his torpor, good, maybe it would go away and leave him to die in peace.

"I have water."

Opening one eye Dean once again had to confront the possible reality that he really was conversing with a racoon. It was then that he noticed that next to the animal lay a curled leaf and inside the leaf was water.

Gazing longingly Dean watched the pool of liquid shimmer. It was so near but it could have been a hundred miles away for all the ability he had to reach it. As if the creature knew what Dean was thinking it bent its head clamped its teeth around the stalk and proceeded to drag the leaf closer, backing off as Dean made a supreme effort to move his hand up to cup its delicateness and drink.

The water was bliss as its coolness filled Dean's mouth and slipped down his parched throat. It felt so good for a figment of his imagination.

"More?"

He'd expected it to disappear, the racoon, the leaf, the water like a mirage leaving him alone returning him to the fever and the pain but the racoon was still there blinking at him speaking to him again.

Yes he wanted more. He hadn't the energy to nod but he felt the leaf tickle his face as it was lifted and he heard the skitter of claws as the racoon crossed the floor to the doorway.

XXxxxxxxx

It had begun raining again and Sam had gotten very wet pushing his way through a bush but on the other side he'd found broken branches stretching down a sharp slope into the forest. His heart gave a leap, Dean!

He followed the track keeping his back to the cliff hardly daring to think that he'd found his brother's trail. It could be, he told himself, that a large animal had passed through. It wasn't until he found snagged on a twig a small piece of slick blue material part of Dean's hated waterproof that he allowed himself a smile.

Sam eventually emerged into a small glade, sky visible above and grass under his feet. Trees shouldered each other around the perimeter with a large boulder lying just inside the circle at the far side. The sparse vegetation in front of it was flattened.

Sam shouted, "DEAN." but his optimism crashed when there was no reply, he tried to comfort himself that he was at least closer to finding his brother but harsh reality was that all he had was a few scuffed footprints.

Inspecting the ground more closely Sam saw the distinctive shape of Dean's boot heel but he was unsure if this was good news or bad. The depth of the print looked like Dean had been favouring his right leg. He followed the tracks and definitely Dean was limping.

At least he had confirmation that his brother had been here and hadn't been so badly injured that he couldn't walk but the fact that his sibling wasn't still in the clearing meant that Dean hadn't been thinking straight.

"If injured, stay put." John's voice echoed but Sam huffed he'd always argued that point with his Dad with a few what ifs but Dean; he'd have taken it on board. It would have taken a pack of wolves to drag…Sam checked around him that feeling of being watched suddenly itching again, were there wolves in these forests?

Shaking his head Sam tried to shrug off the feelings spooking him rationalising that he'd heard nothing and that there surely would have been more signs of a struggle. Dean would not have gone quietly.

Checking the clearing once again he noted that there was nothing to indicate a desperate struggle but there was a definite path between the trees to his right. Sam strode towards the opening, placed a hand on a nearby tree and peered into the avenue of gloom. It was the only place Dean could have gone. He gazed around the empty space one last time. Apart from where he'd followed Dean's trail into the clearing this was really the only and most logical way to leave it.

XXXXxxxxxxx

"You're awake." The racoon twitched its nose.

Dean surmised that he must have passed out because he had no memory of the creature's return but then why would he? If it was a figment of his subconscious and he was hallucinating then when he was unconscious it would disappear, wouldn't it? He hoped so because the idea of it watching him sleep creeped him out.

"I brought more water."

So, his chimera had gone out and gotten more water while he was totally out of it, Okaaay, in the realms of fantasy that made real sense.

"You should drink."

"Thanks for the advice." Dean's voice was a whisper as he crooked his fingers around the brimming leaf left by his head. He spilled some, hand shaking but most seemed to reach his mouth and he swallowed thirstily.

"You're ill you needed it."

"No kidding." Dean felt his eyes closing he was too tired to puzzle out if the animal meant he needed the water or the advice but what did it matter anyway and thinking about it just gave his headache a headache.

The racoon scuffled and scratched thumping its leg rhythmically on the earthen floor. Dean's sensitised body flinched as if each vibration was a physical blow. He wanted to scream at it to stop, to leave him the f**k alone that he hurt like hell but in the midst of his misery there came a noise, low and thrumming. He listened unable to do anything else but found that the melodic regularity soothed him. He began to pay attention, to anticipate its pitch and tone until he realised with a jerk what he was listening to.

"Are you humming Metallica?"

"It soothes you."

Dean had the weird sensation that somehow he was talking to his own psyche and the prospect was frightening. What if he didn't make sense or he did make sense? Sh*t he could really f**k himself up.

He was distracted from his introspection by the creature approaching. It hunkered down on its haunches and cocked its head to one side regarding Dean with its disconcerting green eyes. Then it reached out a paw towards him.

Dean cringed his body away, it was one thing talking to the racoon that was okay, he could handle a talking hallucination but touching that was a whole different ball game.

"Don't."

"You're hurt."

"M'fine."

The racoon's gaze was quizzical as Dean held his breath, then it withdrew its paw and small tremors shook Dean's frame as he relaxed with relief, inside he'd been begging pleading the animal to back off, he knew he was hurting, knew he needed help but more than anything he knew that he really, really didn't want to be touched by a metaphysical racoon.

"I want to help."

Granules of dirt scratched sharply into the skin of Dean's cheek he wanted to lift his head to see the racoon more clearly, fix it with his Winchester stare but his body wasn't a willing participant and he had to settle for subtle repartee.

"Y..you already d..d..id." Dean's words slurred and what he'd meant to say hadn't come out quite like he wanted. He struggled blinking slowly, trying not to let the whole consciousness thing slip away because it left him too vulnerable and the idea that his hallucination would be sitting watching made it all the more unnerving.

Something tickled his face and Dean, surprised by the touch, jerked back realising that he must have closed his eyes at some point and not reopened them. Pain slammed into his body. Having lain still for so long he'd stiffened and his muscles contracting protested at the sudden movement. His hip and ribs were the worst, the dull throbbing now overlaid by a ripping spiked intensity.

The racoon had been snuffling at his clothes and now it was snorting and routing with its nose. Dean's breath stuttered drawn in sharply with shock and pain. The smell of musty damp fur caught in his throat, choking off his protest against the invasion of his personal space.

The racoon smiled, it f**king smiled! "I want to know."

"Kn…now what?"

It sniffed up at Dean's face, its cold nose leaving a trail of wetness across his cheek. Then the muzzle retreated and a pink tongue licked up over its end and around the nostrils. It was tasting him the goddamned thing was tasting him and Dean couldn't prevent the shudder which wracked his body. Yet something inside him needed the comfort, however bizarre the source, welcomed the living touch, took pleasure from the very thing that he'd tried to avoid.

Man, this was some head-trip the whole thing was getting seriously screwy if not disturbingly kinky. Dean's tired mind grasped for the meaning he truly wanted to understand but it slipped away the heat in his body bringing back the nausea and the trembling. He curled, stomach churning, the fever regaining its hold and with a soft sigh Dean let the room, the racoon and his confused thoughts fade.