Disclaimer: Don't own them. Just playing with them for a while.

Summary: While investigating the mysterious disappearances of several hikers, Sam and Dean are caught up in a town's dark secret that will leave them both struggling to survive. Set mid-season 2.

A/N: I have raised the rating on this story to T due to some graphic violence in upcoming chapters. Also, I have had this last week off from work, but will be returning next week, which means my updates may take a little longer. I will say though, there is nothing like reviews to encourage me to write faster. (Shameless beg, I know.) Enjoy…

Chapter 3

Awareness returned slowly to Dean, his body being rocked and shaken persistently into wakefulness. As his mind fought sluggishly to escape the darkness, he felt something cold and hard vibrating beneath him, bringing with it the sensation that he was moving. That sensation intensified a moment later when whatever he was resting on jerked and shuddered beneath him, causing his body to rock violently back and forth, the movement bringing him that much closer to full consciousness. A low, rumbling growl echoed in his ears, and his mind registered the sharp smell of diesel fuel along with an earthy, musty scent he associated with trees and the outdoors. Flashes of light and shadows alternated across his closed lids, taunting and luring him toward full awareness.

With a low moan, Dean forced his eyes open, blinking them several times to clear his vision. He had to squint against the sharp glare of the sun, the bright light filtering down to him through a canopy of tree branches slipping past above him. He swallowed hard, his tongue feeling heavy and dry in his mouth, as though he had been chewing on cotton. A dull ache throbbed at his temples, the pain accentuated with every bump and shudder beneath him, and without thinking he tried to raise his hands to rub at the niggling pain. It was then that he realized his hands were bound, several coils of rope looped securely around his wrists and tied off with a tight looking knot. An experimental flex of his legs told him his ankles were similarly bound.

What the hell?

Rolling his head carefully to one side he could make out black metal and what appeared to be a wheel well. Suddenly, the rumbling growl he was hearing registered in his brain as an engine, and he realized he was lying in the bed of a truck. From the jostling and shaking going on beneath him, he guessed the truck was traveling down a rough dirt road.

Dean closed his eyes and tried to force his fuzzy brain into remembering exactly how he had gotten here. He had a vague recollection of waking up in the hotel, talking to Sam, and then walking to the local bar and grill. An image suddenly flashed through his mind of a tall man dressed in a red flannel shirt standing next to a large black truck, the man's hand tightly gripping an empty syringe. Dean's eyes flashed open as his memory returned to him with force. What did that bastard do to me? he wondered grimly. With a small growl, he flexed his muscles, testing the strength of the ropes holding him. He didn't know what was going on; where he was being taken, or for what reason, but he figured he could figure those details out after he had managed to escape.

Closing his eyes again and taking a steadying breath, Dean slowly turned onto his side and began drawing his bound legs up toward his chest, praying fervently that his captor would be too busy watching the road to notice his movements in the back. Pulling his knees into his stomach, he reached down with his bound hands and felt the knot securing his ankles. It was tight, and he began pulling and prying at the stiff material of the rope, trying to work his bindings loose. His back and shoulders ached with the effort of holding his awkward position, and every time the truck bounced over a rough section of road, his body was slammed painfully into the cold metal of the truck bed. Still, he managed to ignore his discomfort, and several minutes later he was rewarded by the sudden slack in the rope that signified his ankles' freedom.

Just as he was pulling the rope from around his feet, he felt a change in the movement of the truck beneath him. The vehicle began to slow, and glancing quickly around, Dean noticed that the trees…which had closed in heavily around the truck moments before…were beginning to thin. The front of the truck angled upward slightly, and Dean felt himself beginning to slide slowly toward the tailgate. A moment later, the last of the trees disappeared from view overhead as the truck entered what Dean could only assume was a clearing. The truck was slowing even further, and Dean's heart rate kicked up a notch as he realized he needed to make his move. His hands were still bound, but he knew it was now or never. His best chance lay in the cover of the woods, and he knew he had to act quickly or he would be caught in the open. He needed the protection and cover of the trees if he was going to have any chance at successfully escaping.

Even as his body tensed to make his move, Dean felt the truck shudder and pull to a stop, Ty's voice ringing out from the cab. "Hey, Ted! Jenson! Get over here and give me a hand, boys. I brought in another one."

Dean froze for a moment at Ty's call, his heart sinking slightly as he realized there were at least two other people close by. With a quick tightening of his abdominal muscles, he pulled himself into a sitting position, not bothering to glance toward the front of the truck to see if anyone was looking in his direction. Swiftly rolling to his knees, he launched himself at the side of the truck, his bound hands catching the edge and stabilizing his weight as he swung his legs up and over. Twisting his body, he landed with cat like grace, glanced around quickly to orient himself, then took off at a dead run toward the nearest section of trees, his bound hands tucked tightly against his stomach.

Almost immediately cries of alarm rose up behind him. "GET HIM!" he heard Ty scream, followed by shouted order for him to stop. Dean never looked back, focused on pushing every ounce of speed from his body he could muster. A moment later he reached the tree line and plunged into the welcoming shadows of the woods. Using his bound hands to help steady him, he charged through the trees, careening around trunks and ducking under low hanging branches, putting as much distance as possible between himself and his pursuers. He could hear heavy footsteps and harsh breathing echoing through the woods behind him, but he didn't dare glance back, afraid a single misstep would send him crashing to the ground. The land in front of him began to slope downward, and it was all Dean could do to keep his balance while maintaining his speed.

He wasn't sure for how long he ran, but soon his breath was coming in harsh pants, and a sharp pain was making itself known along his rib cage. The deeper into the heavy woods he went, the more branches seemed to appear in front of him, reaching out and snagging at his clothes, their bark covered hands seeming intent on slowing him down. Dean brushed past them without hesitating, ignoring the occasional sting as the wood scraped at the bare skin of his hands, neck and face. He could still hear his pursuers, but it seemed as though the sounds were falling further and further behind, and he let himself a bare moment of hope that he might make good his escape.

Suddenly, a dog's angry howl echoed from the trees behind him, the sound making Dean's blood run cold and dashing his brief hope. The howl repeated, closer now, and Dean recognized the baying call of a dog on the hunt; a dog who had caught the scent of its prey and was closing in for the takedown. For the first time, Dean felt his steps falter as fear clenched at his belly. He began looking around desperately for some sort of weapon, his eyes falling across a heavy branch lying several yards away. The dog let out another howl, the sound so close Dean felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He stumbled toward the branch, reaching down to grip the thick limb in his bound hands. As he straightened, the black form of the dog burst through the thick trees several yards to his right. He barely had time to turn his body to face the animal before the dog launched itself at him, teeth bared in a rictus snarl.

Dean stumbled back and attempted to swing the heavy branch at the dog's head, but the animal dodged the blow with graceful ease, and then it was on him, its heavy weight slamming into him with tremendous force. Dean went down hard, dropping the branch and crying out in pain as the dog's jaws closed down on his upper arm with unbelievable force. He could feel the animals teeth pierce clear through his heavy blue jacket and grey undershirt to dig deeply into the soft flesh of his upper arm and shoulder. It felt as though his arm had been closed in an iron vice, and when the dog began to growl and shake its head back and forth, Dean felt as if his shoulder was about to be torn from its' socket. He set his jaw to keep from crying out, but couldn't stop the low moan of pain that escaped through his clenched teeth.

"There they are!" The call sounded from the trees somewhere to Dean's right, and he could hear heavy footsteps crashing through the leaves and underbrush as his pursuers raced toward him. "Rocky's got him. Good boy, Rocky, good boy!"

Dean groaned and tried to lie as still as possible, knowing instinctively that any movement on his part would merely trigger more aggression from the dog. Rolling his head slowly to one side, he saw several men approaching through the trees, hunting rifles gripped in their hands. One of the men carried a leash, and as he reached Dean and the dog, he stepped forward and grabbed the animal's collar.

"Release, Rocky," he ordered abruptly. "Release! That's a good dog."

The vice like pressure on his arm suddenly vanished, and Dean couldn't stop his moan of relief. His arm and shoulder ached fiercely, and he could feel the wet stickiness of blood beneath his shirt from where the dog's jaws had punctured through his skin. He closed his eyes and took in deep lungful's of air, trying to catch his breath and calm the frantic beating of his heart.

"Get him up." Dean's eyes snapped open at the command and he saw Ty standing above him, his expression unreadable as he stared down at Dean's prone form. Two men stepped forward, shifting their guns into the crooks of their elbows so they could bend down and grab Dean's arms and haul him to his feet. Even after he was upright, their hands continued to grip his arms tightly. Of to one side, Rocky growled and strained at his leash.

Dean took a deep breath and met Ty's gaze, his expression challenging. Ty regarded him with a slightly curious look, his head cocked to one side as though Dean were an interesting puzzle he was trying to figure out. "Nice move back there," he finally spoke, a small half grin lifting one corner of his mouth. "I thought you were still out of it." His gaze flickered to the men standing on either side of Dean. "Looks like we've got a real fighter on our hands boys."

The men chuckled at Ty's statement, as though they were sharing in some private joke.

Dean glared at Ty, his hands balling into fists beneath his bound wrists. "Who the hell are you and what do you want with me?" he demanded.

Ty didn't answer but merely shook his head and motioned to his companions. "Let's get him back to camp," he ordered simply, before turning and beginning to march back the way he had come. The men holding Dean's arms began to pull him forward, and he had no choice but to follow behind Ty's retreating form, very much aware of the still growling dog trailing behind him.

The trip back up to the clearing took nearly fifteen minutes, and Dean found himself amazed at how far he had managed to run. If it weren't for the dog, he probably would have been able to make good his escape.

When they finally stepped from the forest's edge, Dean got his first look at his captor's camp. The clearing was roughly the size and shape of a professional football field, something about its look giving Dean the distinct impression that it was man-made rather than natural. One side of the field was occupied by a small array of tents and a single open pavilion, while the other side held a long row of metal cages. A small arena sat at the center of the field, with two large metal bleachers flanking it on either side.

Not surprisingly, it was in the direction of the metal cages that Ty led them. There were eight cages in total, all of them spaced evenly down the side of the field, with perhaps twenty feet separating each. The cages looked to be about ten feet by ten feet, with a wooden floor and thick metal bars. A thin piece of plywood lay across the top of each cage, presumably to offer some sort of protection from the elements. Small wooden signs hung from the front of the enclosures, a single number painted across the surface. The cages were bare of any furnishings save for a thin mattress and small pile of blankets.

As Dean approached, he saw that all the cages save one were occupied, the prisoners within dressed in the same outfit comprised of black sweat pants, grey shirts and heavy blue jackets. As he was marched past the first cage, the man inside moved to the front of his tiny cell, his hands gripping the bars of his prison as he watched Dean and his guards move past. Dean was struck by the hopeless expression on the man's bearded face.

The next cage was occupied by a tall, heavily muscled black man. The man was seated in the center of his cage, his legs crossed and his arms resting casually across his knees. He was staring straight ahead of him, and he never moved or blinked as Dean and his entourage marched by.

The third cage was empty, its' heavy metal door standing open. Ty stopped in front of the cage. "Cut him loose," he ordered briskly. Both of Dean's guards released his arms, one of them pulling a long, sharp looking knife from a sheath at his belt, while the other took a step back and aimed the barrel of his rifle at Dean's back. Dean stood perfectly still as the first guard sawed at the ropes binding him. A moment later he was free, his hands gently massaging his sore wrists.

Ty motioned Dean forward with a grand sweep of one arm, while at the same moment the second guard gave him a sharp prod in the back with the barrel of his gun. Clenching his jaw, Dean ducked down and entered the cage, the heavy metal door swinging shut immediately on his heels. He heard the sharp metal click of the door's lock as he turned back around to face his captors.

"Hope you like your new accommodations," Ty commented, watching Dean closely, the annoying half smile once again tipping up one corner of his lips.

Dean kept his face carefully neutral as he glanced around the small confines of his cage, then gave a slight shrug, ignoring the sharp ache the small movement ignited in his right shoulder. "I'm not sure I would give it five stars," he commented nonchalantly, "but at least the bed looks comfy. Hopefully the room service doesn't suck."

Ty let out a small bark of a laugh, shaking his head and sharing a look with the other guards. "What I tell you, boys? We got ourselves a real lively one here." He turned back to Dean. "I need to go now, but I'll be back later and we'll have ourselves a nice chat. In the meantime…enjoy your stay." His grin was mocking. Dean flashed a one fingered reply, at which Ty only laughed harder before turning and walking away, his guards till flanking him.

Dean waited until they were gone before quickly but thoroughly checking all his pockets. Just as he had suspected, his phone, hotel room keys, and wallet were all missing. He could already tell from the extra roomy feel in his right boot that his hidden sheath and knife were also gone. He hadn't really held much hope, but he still felt the cold pang of disappointment. He hated being trapped and helpless.

Glancing to the occupants of the cages on either side of him, Dean noted that the black man hadn't moved from his seated vigil and the prisoner on his right seemed to be taking a nap, curled up on his thin mattress with his back to Dean. Shaking his head, Dean moved slowly and methodically around the perimeter of his tiny prison, his eyes searching carefully for any sign of damage or defect that might offer even a slim chance at escape. He found nothing. The cage was simple, but well made.

With a sigh, Dean sank down to sit on the edge of his thin mattress. With a small grimace, he carefully shrugged his right arm free of his jacket sleeve and glanced down at his shoulder. His shirt was torn and stained with blood, and he couldn't stop the wince of discomfort as he reached down with his left hand and peeled the material away from the injury. He could see two puncture wounds on the front of his shoulder and top of his arm, but they didn't appear too deep and had already stopped bleeding. It was the stiffness and bruising that caused him the most concern. He had little doubt that by morning he would have difficulty even raising that arm.

That dog had one hell of a bite! He thought ruefully, lowering his shirt and gingerly slipping back into his jacket. He leaned his head back against the bars of his cage, his right hand cradled in his lap as his mind reviewed everything that had happened to him. He wondered vaguely if Sam had realized he was missing yet. Knowing Sam, his brother would go crazy with worry once he realized Dean was gone. It was only a matter of time before his brother began to search for him. Dean had no way of knowing where he was or how far out of town he had been taken, but he had faith that his brother would find some way of locating him. Sam was nothing if not resourceful; and stubborn…he would not give up until Dean was found.

Of course, Dean had no intention of sitting quietly and waiting for his brother to come to the rescue. He would remain alert and watchful for any opportunity that presented itself for escape. In the meantime, he would try to gather as much information as possible on his captors and their plans for him and the other prisoners. He felt fairly certain that the men in the other cages were none other than the missing hikers that had drawn him and his brother to Denton in the first place. It was the only thing that made sense, and both of the men Dean had seen in the first two cages matched physical descriptions he had read while reviewing the missing persons' reports.

Still, knowing who the other prisoners were did not answer the question of why they had been taken; why he had been taken? What was Ty's plans for them? All of these were questions that Dean hoped he would be able to find answer to.

Suddenly, Dean felt overwhelmed with a sense of weariness. Maybe it was an aftereffect of the drug Ty had given him, or maybe it stemmed from his mad dash through the woods, but for whatever reason he felt his lids growing steadily heavier. The afternoon sun was warm as it drifted through the bars of his cage, and the steady chatter of birds from the nearby woods was hypnotic. Finally giving in to the inevitable, he allowed his eyelids to slide shut, his mind to go blank.

If he had known that at that very moment his brother was struggling for his life, he never would have been able to drift into the blessed oblivion of sleep.

Sam was in trouble.

The realization hit him somewhere between the moment Sheriff Rawly's bullet tore through his arm and his uncontrolled tumble over the ledge and down the steep hill. He only had time for a single, sharp cry before he was falling, his body plummeting wildly down the slope, his vision a disoriented blur of earth and sky. He desperately tried to bring his arms up to protect his head, but it was almost as though his limbs were no longer his to control. He felt like a helpless puppet in the hands of an overenthusiastic child, bouncing and tumbling his way down the steep incline without any hope of stopping his fall.

Then, just when he felt certain he was about to break his neck, his descent was brought to a sudden and violent stop as his body slammed into the narrow trunk of a tree. All air left his lungs in an agonized whoosh, and an explosion of black dots blanketed his vision. For a moment, his body forgot how to breathe, and the cold fingers of unconsciousness closed in on him.

It was the loud crack of a gun from somewhere above him, combined with the loud thunk of wood being struck by a bullet somewhere very near his head, that served to drive him back to his senses. Gasping, he pulled in several deep lungful's of air, reaching out a shaking hand and grabbing the tree into which he had fallen, using it as leverage as he forced his body into a more upright position. Everything hurt abominably, the most intense pain seeming to radiate from his right arm and the left portion of his chest. He had no time to cater to his body's aches and complaints, however. A quick glance up the hill showed both Sheriff Rawly and Deputy Fuller stepping over the guard-rail at the crest of the hill and moving cautiously forward to the very edge of the drop off, their guns already rising to point with deadly promise down the hill toward where Sam sat, exposed and vulnerable.

With a muffled groan, Sam flung himself around the base of the tree, knowing the thin trunk would offer him only marginal protection. Gritting his teeth and mentally swearing to make his brother proud, he began to half slide, half skid down the hill, trying to keep his body as small as possible so as to offer less of a target to the two men above him. He couldn't stop the flinch that jerked his body at the sharp report of gunfire echoing once again from behind and above him. He heard the bullet slam into the undergrowth a few feet ahead of him.

Desperation lending him strength, Sam threw caution to the wind and hurtled down the steep slope of the hill, his right arm pressed tightly against his stomach, his left arm reaching out to balance himself against the rough trunks of the trees he passed. He purposefully began angling his descent to one side, hoping it would help put more trees between him and his pursuers. The tactic must have worked, because no more gunshots rang out after him.

After what seemed like ages, the steep descent of the hill gradually began to level out, the trees growing even thicker, their heavy branches casting heavy patterns of shadow and light across the uneven ground. Once on more level ground, Sam was able to use his long legs to his advantage, setting a ground eating pace that quickly left all sounds of pursuit behind him.

Still, his battered and bleeding body could not keep up the fast pace for long, and soon he found his steps beginning to falter. He was gasping for breath, every lungful of air causing the ribs on his left side to ache and throb. His head was pounding, and he could feel the wet and sticky warmth of blood soaking through the fabric of his shirt on his right arm. Pausing for a moment in an attempt to catch his breath, he leaned against the rough trunk of a large oak, listening intently for the sounds of pursuit and only hearing the wild hammering of his own heart.

The woods seemed eerily quiet, but Sam did not allow that fact to lure him into a false sense of security. He knew Rawly and his deputy were back there somewhere, hunting him. There was no way they could afford to allow him to escape, not after attempting to shoot him in cold blood. They probably knew that he was hurt, which meant they were simply taking their time, hunting him down slowly and methodically, waiting for him to collapse or make some other error that would play him right into their hands.

But they didn't know who they were dealing with. He was John Winchester's son, and it didn't matter how badly he was injured or how tired he felt, he would not be easy prey. His father had taught him how to survive in situations like this, and though when he was younger he had hated their annual forays into the wilderness for "survival" training, he was now extremely grateful that his father had insisted on it.

Glancing down at his right arm, Sam grimaced at the deep gash cutting across the top of his bicep. The bullet had only grazed him, but the cut was deep and was bleeding heavily. The sleeve of his shirt was now completely soaked in blood. He knew he needed to find some way to get the bleeding under control. Heavy blood loss would quickly rob him of much needed strength, and if let go long enough, would eventually render him unconscious. Not to mention, the blood dripping steadily from his fingers would leave a trail that his adversaries could potentially find and follow.

Making use of a small tear near the bottom of his shirt…attained thanks to his wild fall down the hill…Sam used his left arm to rip away a long strip of material. It was awkward going, tying the fabric around his upper arm using his left hand, but he somehow managed the job, hissing in pain as he pulled the makeshift bandage as tight as possible around the deep gash. When he had finally finished, he was pale and trembling, leaning heavily against the support of the tree and trying to take deep, even breaths to still his pain induced nausea.

He knew he needed to keep moving; needed to put as much distance as possible between himself and his pursuers. Clenching his jaw in stubborn determination against the pain in his body, Sam pushed himself away from the support of the tree and began moving forward once more, his focus on putting one step in front of the other. He couldn't help but wish for his comfortable work boots instead of the black loafers he had chosen to wear with his slacks. The shoes were definitely not designed for traipsing around in the countryside, and he had to watch his every step lest he tumble face first to the ground.

For nearly a half hour he pushed himself forward, slowly angling his path in a northerly direction, back toward town. With every minute that passed, the pain of his body became steadily harder and harder to ignore. The adrenaline of his frantic escape was slowly wearing off, leaving him feeling exhausted and drained. Yet he refused to give in to his body's request for rest, knowing the result could be catastrophic.

In the end, however, the choice was taken from his hands. He wasn't sure if it was a partially hidden root tripping him up, or simply his body giving out on him, but quite suddenly he found himself face down in the dirt, a low moan of pain bubbling form his chest as his battered body was jarred even further. He couldn't believe the effort it took to simply roll from his stomach to his side, and he realized that he would be going no further until he allowed his body a few brief moments of rest.

Glancing slowly around him, he quickly made out a large tree several yards to his left. Taking a deep breath and rallying what little strength remained him, he pushed himself upright and stumbled toward the tree. Collapsing against the thick trunk, he leaned his head back against the rough bark and allowed his eyes to slide closed. Just a few minutes, he thought tiredly. I just need a few minutes to rest and get back some strength.

It was the voices that brought him back to awareness. Jerking upright from his slumped position against the tree, he immediately froze as the soft sound of footsteps and low voices drifted to him from somewhere behind and to his right. He realized somewhat belatedly that he must have passed out, and judging from the angle of the light drifting down through the trees above, he had been out for nearly an hour. He blinked his eyes several times, trying to clear the fuzziness in his brain, cursing himself for being so careless.

His heart began to hammer wildly in his chest, and he had to focus to keep his breathing calm and silent. How could he have been so stupid? Part of him knew that he hadn't had much choice, his body had simply given out on him, but it didn't make the taste of defeat any easier to swallow. He had been so close, had almost gotten away, and now his discovery seemed all but inevitable as the slow footsteps drew steadily nearer. Fighting down his rising panic, Sam remained perfectly still and listened intently.

"This is stupid, Rawly. We've been stumbling around down here for two hours! He could be anywhere." The voice belonged to deputy Fuller

"Quit your whining, David." The sheriff's reply was impatient. "I know he came this direction. We both saw the footprints and blood back there. He's injured and lost, and it's only a matter of time before we catch up to him."

There was a brief silence but for the footsteps drawing steadily nearer. Sam judged that the two men were now less than twenty yards from the tree he was huddled behind

"It's going to be dark soon, Rawly," Fuller spoke up again, his tone sounding more desperate. "I don't fancy stumbling around out here at night. You said it yourself, he's injured and lost. Why don't we just let nature finish off what we started? No way he survives the night out here."

The footsteps paused, and a long moment of silence passed. Finally, Rawly spoke. "This is my mess, and I need to make sure it gets cleaned up properly."

"Sure, sure," David's voice was placating. "Let's just head back to town, pick up some of the other boys, and patrol the roads? He'll either stumble his way out and we will find him, or the wilderness will take him. Either way, he's finished."

Another pause. "I don't know. It's too close to game day to afford any loose ends. I'd sleep a lot better tonight after I put a bullet between his eyes!"

"Alright, then why don't we get back into town and call Jenson; have him bring his dog out?" Fuller asked.

The sheriff's reply was immediate. "Nah, you know Ty likes to keep Jenson and Rocky out at the camp right now, just in case one of those boys decides to get a little frisky and make a break for it."

From his hiding place, Sam could clearly hear Fuller's deep sigh. "Speaking of Ty…you know he's not going to be too happy about all of this, right?"

The Sheriff' reply was frustrated and defensive. "I didn't have much choice. The kid was asking too many questions; strange questions. It was almost like he knew something was going on. We couldn't afford to have him poking around, possibly re-opening the search; not now. I made a split second decision and I'm going to stick with it!"

"Of course," David soothed. "But right now, let's just get out of here, get some help. Maybe we can come back and search some more in the morning…as long as we make it back in time for the fun tomorrow."

Rawly's sighed, his tone plainly reluctant. "I guess you're right. We'll patrol the roads, and then get back out here first thing in the morning. Hopefully we can get this whole mess wrapped up before it starts."

"It should be good this year." Fuller offered, his voice sounding cheerier now that he had convinced the sheriff to turn back. "Hey, do you know if Rawly ever found a replacement for that guy that dropped dead on us?"

"Not sure," came Rawly's tense reply. "That's his business. He's in charge of the entertainment and we're in charge of making sure nothing ever gets traced back to us."

The footsteps started up again, but this time they were moving away. Sam listened as the two men retreated back the way they had come, their conversation becoming too muted for Sam to follow. He let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, hardly daring to believe his good fortune. His adversaries had been mere feet from discovering him, and the realization of his near miss left him feeling weak with relief. Even so, Sam remained where he was, his back to the trunk of the tree, his ears peeled for any hint that they might have changed their minds and doubled back. Long minutes ticked by before he finally allowed himself to relax slightly.

Frowning slightly, he replayed the two men's conversation back through his head. Most of what they had said had made no sense to Sam, but at least he now knew the motivation behind Rawly's sudden attack. Something about Sam's questions regarding the missing hikers had spooked him.

You chose the wrong time to come poking your nose around here, son. The sheriff's earlier words echoed in Sam's brain. It seemed fairly obvious now that Rawly was somehow involved in the disappearances. There was no other explanation for it. Obviously, he and Dean had stumbled onto something even bigger than they had first suspected.

The idea that they might be dealing with human monsters instead of real monsters didn't surprise him as much as it once might have. This wasn't the first time he had dealt with something like this. Dean wouldn't be too happy about it, though, that was for sure.

Sam felt a sudden spike of apprehension at the thought of his brother. By this point in time Dean would be wondering what had happened to him, might even have begun to look for him. Sam could only hope his brother would have the sense to stay away from the Sheriff's office; for more reasons than the simple fact his brother was a wanted man. Sam had no idea how many people were involved in whatever the Sheriff was up to, but from the overheard conversation he knew there were at least several others. If it were discovered that Henry Falco did not come into town alone, his brother's life could be in danger. Sam felt overwhelmed with a sense of helplessness, knowing he had no way of warning his brother.

He was well over ten miles from Denton, with nothing but rough and unfamiliar terrain between him and the town. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't be such a big deal; he had hiked that far and further on many occasions. But his circumstances were anything but normal. He had no supplies, no map, and only a basic idea of the general direction of the town. In this type of terrain, he knew it would be all too easy to make a simple mistake and bypass Denton all together, leaving him wandering without direction through miles of rough wilderness. Add to that the fact that he was injured and weak, night was fast approaching, and he had no weapons with which to defend himself against any wildlife he might encounter, and suddenly the ten miles seemed more like a hundred. And of course, he couldn't forget the fact that he was being hunted.

It was a hard thing to swallow, but for the time being at least, Sam had to reconcile himself to the fact that Dean was on his own. He would have to trust in his brother's skill as a hunter, as well as Dean's innate ability to sense trouble, to keep his brother out of danger until Sam could reach him. In the meantime, he needed to focus on getting himself out of his own mess.

Taking a deep breath, Sam began taking a thorough inventory of his body's many injuries. His fall down the hill had left him sore and bruised, with multiple small cuts and abrasions, but it was the gunshot wound to his arm and the pain from his left side that gave him the most concern. Glancing down at his arm, he was pleased to see that his make-shift bandage seemed to be holding. The wound was still bleeding, but the bandage had at least slowed it down. Without needle and thread, it was the best he could hope for.

He turned his attention to his side. Gingerly lifting his shirt, he winced when his eyes fell on the large, purpling bruise that covered the left side of his chest and torso. Using the fingers of his left hand, he gently probed the area, hissing in air through his clenched teeth at the pain. After a few moments of careful examination, however, he felt fairly confident that none of his ribs were broken, merely severely bruised. It would hurt to breathe for a while, but at least he didn't need to worry about a rib puncturing a lung.

Lowering his shirt, the knuckles of his hand brushed against the small bulge in his pants pocket that was his phone. Sam closed his eyes, wondering how on earth he had managed to forget such an important item. While there was almost no chance his phone would have a signal this deep in the woods, the very fact that he had forgotten its presence was disturbing. There was always the small chance that he might be able to find some tall hill, or maybe a clearing where he could pick up enough reception to send a warning message to his brother. He knew it was unlikely, but a slim chance was better than none.

He reached into his pocket to remove the phone, realizing as soon as he touched it that something was wrong. Pulling it free, he stared down helplessly at the cracked and chipped display. The phone must have been damaged during his wild fall down the hill. Knowing it was useless, he pressed the power button, unsurprised when nothing happened. The phone was truly and completely dead.

Swallowing his disappointment…it really had been a slim chance anyway…he stuffed the broken remains of the cell back into his pocket. A quick glance up through the trees showed him the sun was steadily sinking lower toward the horizon. He guessed he had only a few hours of light left, and then he would need to focus on finding someplace to hole up for the night. It was going to be cold and miserable, but he had camped outside in worse conditions. His greatest fear was that some wild animal would smell the blood from his arm and would come to investigate. He doubted there would be much sleep in store for him this night.

Taking a deep breath, Sam reached behind him with his left hand and used the trunk of the tree to help steady him as he pushed himself to his feet. He hoped to get at least a few miles behind him before stopping for the night, but that wouldn't happen unless he got himself moving. Clenching his jaw against the pain, Sam began the slow journey forward, focusing on the fact that every step brought him that much closer to his brother.

A flurry of activity around his cage woke Dean from his sleep, and he blinked his eyes several times in confusion before his brain supplied him with the memory of where he was. He slowly pushed himself upright, the muscles in his injured shoulder complaining at the movement. He was surprised to see that it was already early evening, meaning he had been asleep for a couple of hours.

Glancing around him, he quickly became more alert as he realized that his fellow prisoners were being released from their cages under the watchful eyes of half a dozen armed guards. Dean swiftly rose to his feet, watching the activity around him, wondering what was happening. The guards were gathering up the prisoners in a loose group, but as of yet, no one had come to release Dean.

"Exercise time."

Dean started at the voice behind him. Quickly emptying his face of all expression, he turned to face his visitor. Ty stood directly behind Dean's cage, watching him casually, a rifle slung carelessly over one shoulder. "We let them out three times a day to stretch and get some exercise," he continued, his chin jutting out in the direction of the prisoners. Dean turned to watch as the small group set out at a slow jog around the perimeter of the field.

"How humane of you," he stated, his voice flat. "What, no exercise for me?"

Ty moved forward to stand at the side of Dean's cage, his trademark half grin plastered on his narrow face. "I figured you've had enough running for one day."

Dean shrugged, wincing when the movement sent a sharp pain from his shoulder and down his arm. "Fine by me," he replied drolly. "I'm not much of a runner anyway. Not unless someone's chasing me."

Ty's dark eyes regarded him seriously. "You're at a disadvantage here, Dean," he stated, his gaze moving to follow the jogging prisoners. "Most of our other guests have been here long enough they know the rules."

"And what rules are those," Dean asked, allowing a hint of sarcasm into his voice.

"They are very simple, really," Ty replied, turning back to look at Dean. "Do as you are told, when you are told, and don't cause any trouble."

Dean arched one eyebrow. "Wow," he said slowly, shaking his head in mock wonder. "Did you come up with those on your own, or did you have some help?"

Ty narrowed his eyes. "I suggest you take this serious," he warned darkly.

Dean returned Ty's stare with his own, clearing sending the message that he was not intimidated. "Okay, so what happens when someone breaks the rules," he finally asked, wanting to keep the conversation going.

"Then there are consequences," Ty answered, his voice tight. "We take away privileges. For instance, you lose a meal, or perhaps your blankets are taken away for the night, or you are not allowed out to exercise…"

"Sounds terrifying," Dean mumbled derisively.

Ty continued on as if Dean hadn't spoken. "And if you really piss me off, then you get a night in the pit."

"Now that sounds vaguely ominous," Dean commented.

Ty smiled his annoying half-smile. "Let's just say it makes a good enough impression that I've never had to use it on the same person twice."

"Thanks for the warning," Dean stated sardonically. "What's your purpose in telling me all this?"

Ty shrugged. "You strike me as a rebellious type. I figured I would give you a little warning; resisting us will accomplish you nothing. You might as well cooperate, and you might get yourself out of here alive."

Dean stared at Ty in disbelief. "You can't be serious. You're telling me that if I sit and behave myself like a good little boy, you'll what...just let me go? Why do I have a hard time believing that?"

Ty shook his head, "No one is going to just let you go, Dean. You will need to earn your freedom."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "And how do I do that?" he asked suspiciously.

Ty's smile was mysterious. "You'll find out soon enough," he replied simply.

Dean clenched his fists in irritation. At that moment, he would have liked nothing more than to punch the smile right off of Ty's face. "What the hell am I doing here," he demanded, his voice a low growl.

Ty regarded him calmly for several long moments before answering. "You're here because you were the best I could get my hands on in short notice. One of my prisoners decided to get sick and die on me, and I needed a replacement before tomorrow afternoon. You all but fell into my lap. I guess it just wasn't your lucky day."

"What is it you want with us?" Dean demanded. "What's happening tomorrow afternoon?"

Ty's smile returned. "I have some guests coming tomorrow. Rich guests, and you and the others are going to help me entertain them."

There was something in Ty's voice that set the hair on the back of Dean's neck on end. "What do you mean?" he asked slowly.

Ty shook his head, his smile never leaving his face. "As I said before, you'll find out soon enough." Before Dean could ask any further questions, he turned and strode away across the field.

Dean watched the man go. He had a very bad feeling about the direction this whole thing was going. He very much doubted that the "entertainment" Ty was referring to had anything to do with juggling or singing songs.

Walking to the front of his cage, he watched as the small group of prisoners jogged by. Looking at their faces he saw nothing but resigned weariness. He knew these men had been here for months, held prisoner and awaiting an unknown fate. He couldn't imagine the helplessness they had to be feeling.

After thirty minutes or so of "exercise", the prisoners were returned to their cages. By this time, the sun was a large orange ball sitting heavy on the western horizon. Dean paced his cage, restless, his mind trying to make some kind of sense of all he had learned. He was still working on this when he saw one of the guards approaching, a stack of clothes held in one hand and a dinner tray in the other. Stopping outside Dean's cage, the man placed the dinner tray on the ground and then faced Dean.

"Take your clothes off," he ordered tersely.

Dean stared at the man in suprise, then scowled. "Go to hell," he replied simply.

The guard glared at him, one hand going to the handle of the gun at his waist. "I said, take your clothes off," he ordered again, "or I'll shoot your sorry ass."

Dean returned the man's glare, already shaking his head. "Your boss just went to a lot of trouble to bring my sorry ass out here, so I don't think so. I'll say it again. Go. To. Hell."

The guard's face turned a deep shade of crimson, and he swore at Dean. Dean merely smiled back at him.

A second guard moved over to join the first man. "What's going on, Roy?" he asked, giving Dean a terse glance.

"The bastard refuses to change clothes," Roy responded, glaring daggers in Dean's direction.

The second guard turned to regard Dean. "I'd go ahead and do as you are told, young man," he commented softly.

"Good thing you're not me, then." Dean retorted.

The man frowned. "Let me put it this way. If you refuse to undress, I'll call some of my buddies over and we'll go in there, hold you down, and do it for you. I'm not sure you would like that, but I know of at least one of my buddies who would, if you catch my meaning?"

Dean most definitely did catch the guard's meaning, and it sent a chill down his spine. He could tell from the man's tone that he was being perfectly serous. The idea of other men's hands on him, holding him down while they undressed him, was enough to make him feel sick. With a soft oath, he shrugged out of his jacket and reached for the hem of his shirt, trying to ignore the triumphant smirk on Roy's face.

Once he was stripped down to his boxers, the guards ordered him to hand his clothes out through the bars of the cage. After Dean had complied, Roy shoved in the pile of clothes he had been carrying, and Dean hurried to re-dress himself in the black sweat pants and grey shirt, his movements made stiff from his injured shoulder. He left the blue jacket lying on the floor of the cage.

"Now was that so hard?" the second guard asked, before turning and walking away.

Dean swallowed his retort, his eyes on Roy as the guard lingered outside his cage. "You shouldn't have caused trouble," Roy sneered, bending over and picking up the discarded dinner tray. "Now you get to go hungry." He chuckled, obviously pleased with himself, before turning and following after the other guard.

Dean watched them leave, feeling his stomach clench painfully at the pleasant smell of food that lingered after they were gone. He had had nothing to eat all day, and he had to admit he was more than a little hungry. Still, he had gone without food before, and it was nothing he couldn't handle.

Movement on the far end of the field caught his eye, and he turned to watch as a vehicle pulled into the clearing. He gasped when he saw the light-bar across the top of the car, and a moment later, as the vehicle turned, he saw the word SHERIFF in large letters across the side. He froze, watching as a man climbed from the driver's seat of the car and stretched. A moment later, Ty appeared from one of the tents and walked over to meet the newcomer.

Oh shit! Dean thought, watching the two men talk. Even the freakin' police are in on this?

His thoughts immediately turned to his brother. Sam had gone to the sheriff's office this morning, and Dean was suddenly filled with a sickening feeling of dread. Calm down, he told himself firmly. Just because the Sheriff was involved in whatever was going on, it didn't mean Sam was in any kind of trouble. And yet his instincts told him otherwise. Sam was in trouble. He didn't know how he knew, but he was suddenly as certain of it as he was of his own name.

"Dammit, Sammy," he muttered, turning to peer into the heavy woods surrounding the clearing. "Wherever you are, you had better be okay!"

Hope you enjoyed. Any ideas on Ty's plans for poor ol' Dean?

Thanks again for all of you who have taken the time to let me know what you think of this story. It is a great motivator for me.