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.
Chapter 4
"Sam!"
Dean's shout echoed back at him through the cavernous woods, his voice sounding small and insignificant amidst the giant trees surrounding him. He turned a slow circle, his eyes desperately trying to pierce the thick shadows that seemed to be steadily growing, reaching for him, as though they were trying to devour him.
"Sammy!"
Only silence met his call, and Dean felt panic blossom in his chest. Where was Sam? His brother should be here! Without thinking, he began to run, uncertain of where he was heading but being driven on by a frantic need to find his brother. He continued to call Sam's name, his voice becoming more and more desperate as his shouts were met with only silence. Something was wrong…very wrong.
Skidding to a halt in a small clearing, he looked around him, trying to decide where he should go next. The woods around him were eerily quiet; the only sound Dean heard was the pounding of his own heart. As he stood panting, frozen by indecision, the trees began to close in on him, leafy branches reaching for him. Dean cried out, stumbling back, then turned and began running once more. Fear gripped him, an inexplicable terror, and it all centered on one thought…he had lost his brother.
Dean.
His name was nothing more than a soft whisper playing at the edges of his hearing, causing him to stumble to a halt once more, listening intently while keeping a wary eye on the trees around him.
"Hello?" he called, turning a slow circle, his eyes peeled for any sign of movement.
Dean.
The breathless whisper sounded once more, sending cold shivers running up and down his spine.
You were supposed to save him.
Dean gasped, his eyes wild as he swung first one way and then the other, looking for any sign of where the bodiless voice was coming from. "I'm trying," he shouted, desperate. "I'm trying to save him! Please…please help me find him!"
Only silence met his anguished plea, causing him to curse in helpless frustration.
Suddenly, a scream ripped through the silence of the forest, the sound slicing through Dean like a knife. He knew the voice behind the scream…knew it as well as he knew his own voice. Surging forward, he recklessly raced through the trees in the direction he thought the scream had come from, unaware and uncaring as branches reached out and tore at his flesh. His only thought was to reach Sam.
Breaking free of the forest, he suddenly found himself standing on the banks of a large river, the water tumbling and swirling at his feet. The scream came again, the sound so full of pain and fear that Dean physically flinched. His gaze snapped across the river, his heart freezing in his chest when he spotted his brother on the far bank. Sam was kneeling, his body hunched and shaking, scarlet blood covering his chest and arms. A shapeless shadow hovered over him, swirling and shifting ominously.
"Sam!" Dean shouted, plunging several feet into the frigid river, pausing only when the swift flowing water threatened to take his feet out from under him.
At his call, his brother slowly lifted his head, his long hair falling across his forehead and into his eyes. The brothers gazes met, and Dean felt all the air leave his lungs at the look in Sam's eyes. He had always been able to read Sam pretty clearly through the expression in his eyes. A single glance told him when Sam was angry, curious, happy, annoyed, concerned, and afraid.
The look in Sam's eyes right now terrified him. It was a look of resignation; the look of a man who knew death was coming for him and had given up trying to fight it.
Without thought, Dean plunged forward into the river, even as the shadow behind his brother flexed and roiled, moving forward to envelop Sam. His brother screamed again, the sound muffled by the churning darkness, and Dean knew he was too late, knew he would never reach Sam in time. His own cry tore from his lungs, even as the river grabbed his legs in an iron grip and jerked his feet from under him.
His last view before the river claimed him was his brother's body slowly toppling forward, eyes open and staring…lifeless.
NO!
Dean came awake with a cry, jerking upright on the thin mattress, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps as his eyes darted around the small confines of his cell, his brain struggled to separate nightmare from reality. It was several long seconds before his mind was able to accept the fact that he had been dreaming, that nothing he had seen had been real.
But it had seemed real, and he was having difficulty shaking the desperation and panic. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he closed his eyes, and then just as quickly jerked them open, the image of Sam bloodied and dying seared into the back of his lids.
Shoving aside his tangle of blankets, Dean turned his body sideways on the mattress and pushed himself backward until he was leaning against the cold bars of his cell. His injured shoulder ached fiercely at the movement, but he welcomed the pain, used it to help ground him. Taking another deep breath, he ran a slightly trembling hand down across his face, feeling the rough growth of stubble across his chin.
It was early morning, the golden glow of the sun barely tipping the horizon, the air crisp and cold. Dean focused on the chill, on the ache in his shoulder, on the feel of the thin mattress beneath him, on the twisting pang of hunger in his belly; on anything that would keep his mind from the dream and the terror it had sparked in his chest.
He knew what had fueled the nightmare. Finding out that the sheriff of Denton was somehow involved in whatever it was that was going on had left him fearful for his brother's safety. He had spent most of the night tossing and turning, worrying about Sam, and when sleep had finally come his subconscious had picked up where his waking mind had left off.
It wasn't the first of such nightmares for Dean; after his father's death, similar dreams had haunted his sleep on more than one occasion. He would come awake, gasping and shaking, only to see his brother's gangly form sprawled out on the bed next to his. Simply seeing Sam lying there, alive and well…safe, was usually enough for him to shake the effects of the dream.
This time, however, he had no such reassurance. His brother wasn't here, and Dean had no way to know if Sam was safe or not. He hated the helpless feeling that realization brought with it. It was his job to look out for Sam. It had always been his job, and even though Sam was a grown man now, perfectly capable of looking after himself, Dean knew he would carry that responsibility with him to the grave.
It was so much more than just being a big brother; in a lot of ways, protecting Sam was a form of self-preservation. He needed Sam just as much as his brother needed him. In his short life, Dean had experienced loss and sacrifice on a scale few people could even imagine, and it had left deep scars on his soul. His brother was all he had left in this world. Sam was the glue that held him together, kept him grounded and focused…kept him whole. Without his brother, he knew he would be lost.
For over an hour he sat, silent and unmoving as the camp came awake around him. It wasn't until a guard brought him breakfast that Dean stirred himself to move. The guard shoved a plastic bowl…still steaming slightly in the cold morning air…and a glass of water through the bars of the cage, then turned and walked away without saying a word. With a small moan, Dean pushed his body away from the bars and used his left arm to help heave himself to his feet. Holding his right hand carefully across his stomach so as not to jar his injured arm, he walked over to the bowl and bent down to pick it up, seeing that it was full of some kind of oatmeal. There was no spoon, but the oatmeal was thin enough that it could be easily drunk.
Glancing to his left and right, Dean could see that his fellow prisoners had also been given bowls of food. None of them seemed to hesitate as they grabbed the plastic containers and tipped the food into their mouths. Raising his own bowl, Dean took a cautionary sip of the contents. Finding that the oatmeal was surprisingly good…or perhaps it was just that he was so hungry… he tipped the bowl even further, gulping down its contents in no time. When he had finished with the oatmeal, he reached for the glass of water and drained the liquid in a few deep swallows. The small meal barely made a dent in his hunger, but Dean knew it would provide his body with much needed strength, and for that he was grateful. Whatever the day had planned for him, he needed to be ready.
Breakfast finished, Dean walked to the front of his cage and gripped the bars with one hand, watching the activity going on in the camp around him. The guards seemed in high spirits this morning, shouting and laughing amongst themselves, and there was an undeniable air of excitement and anticipation hanging over the camp. Even the prisoner's seemed to feel it; they were restless, pacing the small confines of their cages, their eyes darting about them in a nervous sort of way. Only Dean and the large black man in the cage beside him were still, watching the commotion around them with little reaction.
Movement at the corner of the field caught Dean's eye, and he turned to watch as the same car from the previous evening pulled slowly into the field, the sheriff's insignia on the side gleaming in the morning sun. Dean's jaw clenched as he watched the driver exit the car and head straight for one of the tents on the far edge of the field. Just as the man reached the tent, the flap swung open and Ty stepped out into the morning.
Dean watched the two men conversing, wishing desperately he could hear what they were saying. Several times one or the other of them would glance in his direction, but whether they were looking at him in particular or just in the general area, he could not tell. The answer to that question came a moment later, however, when both men began walking across the field, heading straight for Dean's cage.
Dean took a few steps back from the front of the cell and watched their approach warily. Unconsciously he began clenching and unclenching his fists, picking up a nervous habit he had developed when he was younger and was preparing himself for battle. His right arm complained at the simple motion, but he ignored the pain.
The two men came to a stop several paces in front of Dean's cage, their faces without expression as they regarded him. Ty was the first to speak. "Sleep well?" he asked, the barest hint of a smile twitching the corners of his lips.
Dean didn't bother to respond. He was in no mood to play word games with the man this morning.
Ty waited a moment, and then when it became clear Dean had no intention of answering, he turned and glanced at the man beside him. The man took a half step forward, and Dean glanced down at the name embroidered on his jacket identifying him as T. RAWLY. The man didn't waste any time with introductions but jumped straight to the chase. "Tell us about Henry Falco?" he asked without preamble.
Dean felt his heart skip a beat, and only years of training and experience allowed him to keep his features neutral, his expression carefully blank. "Who?" he asked casually.
"Don't play games with us," Ty growled warningly, stepping forward beside the sheriff. "Sheriff Rawly made a visit to your hotel last night. He found out you two came into town together…that you're staying in the same room. So it's obvious you know one another. Now what I want to know is who exactly is he, and why was he asking questions about the missing hikers?"
Dean met Ty's gaze with his own and remained stubbornly silent. Until he had more information about what was going on with Sam, he didn't want to accidently endanger is brother by saying the wrong thing.
Ty's eyes narrowed. "You're a whole lot less talkative then yesterday, Dean. Where's your wit and smart ass comments now? You know we will figure out what's going on here one way or another," he stated with certainty. "It would go easier for you if you just cooperate and answer our questions."
Dean let out a derisive snort, but before he could reply with an appropriate comeback, sheriff Rawly moved forward, closing the distance to the cage in three short steps. He stared at Dean intently, his expression full of dawning recognition. "Wait a minute," he said slowly "Wait just a moment…I know you!"
Dean's heart sunk, but he forced himself to meet the sheriff's gaze calmly. "Don't think we've ever met," he drawled casually. "Maybe I just have one of those faces…
"No!" Rawly snapped. "I do know you. You're Dean…Dean Winchester. I have your wanted poster on my desk back at my office."
Crap, Dean thought. It looked like his gig was up. Of course, he wasn't sure it made much of a difference in his current situation.
"What?" Ty snapped, glancing back and forth between the sheriff and Dean. "What are you talking about, Rawly?"
A slow smile spread across the sheriff's face as he answered, "It looks like you managed to capture yourself a real criminal, Ty. This man is on the 'most wanted' list of none other than the FBI. They've almost caught him a couple of times, but apparently he keeps slipping away from them. Him and his brother have been on the run for months now."
Ty's eyes widened as his gaze snapped to Dean. "Well, well, well," he said softly. "Looks like I managed to succeed where the FBI has failed. So, what did you do to piss off the feds, kid?"
Rawly didn't give Dean a chance to respond. "Murder in the first," he answered, his voice gloating. "There were a whole bunch of other charges as well, but I think that was the real kicker."
"Murder in the first," Ty repeated slowly, his eyes on Dean. "Well, I never would have pegged you as a killer, but I guess that just goes to show that you never know about some people."
Dean clenched his jaw and didn't answer. The thought of trying to defend himself to the man who had drugged and kidnapped him and was currently keeping him locked in a tiny cage awaiting who knew what fate, wasn't at all appealing. Let Rawly think he was a cold blooded murderer, maybe it would make the man more cautious of messing with him.
"This still doesn't answer my original question, though," Ty continued. "We want to know about Henry Falco. Who is he? What does he know about the missing hikers?"
"Hold on a minute, Ty" Rawly's expression was calculating. "The report I have on Dean here states he is traveling around with his brother…Sam Winchester. You don't suppose Henry Falco might really be his brother, do you?"
Ty nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Dean. "Is that true?" he asked softly. "Is Henry Falco really your brother?"
Silence had been working for him so far, and Dean decided not to break pattern now. The less these men knew about him and his brother, the better. Already they were piecing together more information than he liked. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he could feel a cold sweat breaking out on his skin.
Ty waited a few moments before giving a small shrug. "Of course he's your brother," he stated with certainty. "Which means he's not really a private investigator." He gaze turned fierce. "I don't know why the hell you two came snooping around here, but I guess it doesn't really matter anymore. Neither of you are a threat to us anymore."
The words struck Dean like a physical blow, bringing with it all the terror from his nightmare. Without thinking, he lunged forward to the front of the cage, gripping the bars and glaring at the two men. "What do you mean?" He demanded. "What the hell have you done with my brother? I swear to god, if you've hurt one hair on his head, I will tear you to pieces!"
Both Ty and Rawly had taken a small step back at Dean's sudden lunge, but now Ty moved forward once more. "So, he does talk after all," he commented, his features twisted in a cruel smirk. "I guess you just need to know what buttons to push."
"Tell me where my brother is," Dean demanded coldly, his whole body shaking with barely suppressed rage. He gave the bars a single, hard shake, wishing his fists were closed around Ty's throat instead of the cold metal.
Ty slowly shook his head. "I'll tell you what, Dean." He said slowly, his features thoughtful. "If you manage to survive the day… I'll tell you about your brother."
Dean stared back at Ty with pure hatred. He wanted nothing more than to rip the bars out of his way and slam his fists repeatedly into the man's smug face. But doing that wouldn't get him the information he needed. He swallowed down his anger with difficulty. "And what exactly am I supposed to be surviving?" he asked tightly, forcing his hands to release their grip on the bars.
Ty didn't answer immediately. He stood regarding Dean, his eyes calculating. Finally he spoke, "I guess it wouldn't hurt to tell you now. The others already know, and the action starts in a few hours anyway." He paused.
Dean waited impatiently for Ty to continue. The sooner he knew what this psycho's plans for him were, the sooner he could come up with a plan to get through them and find some way to get back to his brother.
Sheriff Rawly was the one who broke the silence. He spoke to Ty. "I'm going to head back into town…see if David has any new information on our other situation. I'll make sure all our guests get out here alright before it starts." Ty nodded, and Rawly turned and walked away.
"Before what starts?" Dean demanded, unable to hold back his impatience. "Tell me what it is you want me to do!"
Ty smiled, the expression not at all pleasant. "It's really very simple, Dean," he stated slowly. "All you have to do is fight for me. Nothing more, nothing less."
"Fight for you?" Dean repeated, taken off guard by the unexpected statement. "Who the hell am I supposed to fight?"
Ty shook his head. "Come now, Dean," he answered wryly, "surely it's not that hard to figure out?"
Dean glared at him, biting back his scathing reply. He glanced slowly to either side of him, down along the row of cages. "You're going to have us fight each other," he guessed simply. "That was the 'entertainment' you were talking about yesterday. You plan to have us fight one another?"
Ty spread his arms and dipped his head in a gesture of approval. "Very good," he praised. "It's nice to see you have a brain to go with all that toughness."
"Why?" Dean demanded.
Ty's smile was predatory. "Because I have nearly one hundred guests coming, and each of them are paying me ten thousand dollars to watch."
Dean rocked back a step in shock. "Who the hell pays ten thousand dollars to watch men fight each other?" he asked, incredulous.
"It's not really the fighting they pay to watch," Ty responded causally, "as much as the bleeding and dying. Apparently for some people, that's a real turn on."
Dying.
With that single word, the final pieces to the puzzle snapped to place in Dean's mind. He closed his eyes, a hollow, sick feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. "To the death," he whispered softly, re-opening his eyes. "You want us to fight to the death, is that it?"
"Bingo." Ty responded simply.
Dean slowly shook his head in disbelief, wondering why he and Sam always seemed to be such a magnet for psychos and nut-jobs…of both the natural and supernatural kind. "You've gotta be kidding me," he muttered, more to himself than to Ty.
"Not at all," Ty responded cheerily. "There are eight of you, and so the first round will consist of four fights. The four that win the first round will move to the next round later this evening. The two that win this evening will face off tomorrow morning in what I guess you could call the grand finale. The winner of that fight…earns his freedom. It's as simple as that."
"You're a sick bastard," Dean growled, disgust and anger filling him as he stared at the man standing in front of him.
Ty shrugged. "Perhaps," he responded simply. "But I am a rich sick bastard. Between the entrance fee and what my guests spend on betting and booze… I'm more than set for the whole year."
"You honestly think you'll get away with this?" Dean asked, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Of course," Ty replied without hesitation. "I've been getting away with it for over a decade now. Fifteen years ago I owned a fight club in town. Not the pansy kind of club, but a tough, bare-knuckles blood and sweat kind of club. It was popular, too, and I was doing well for myself. But then we had a couple of fatalities and the government stepped in and shut me down. In six months I was almost broke and getting pretty desperate." Ty shook his head, his eyes focused inward as he reminisced.
"It was at this time that I learned that there were people out there…wealthy people…who would pay a small fortune just to watch other people bash each other's skulls in. I was approached by a man…a warden from a nearby prison…who was interested in starting up a partnership with me. He had his own fight club, one that was far from legal. He had a small but steadily growing clientele, all of them wealthy, and all willing to pay heavily for the type of entertainment the warden offered. His business was growing large enough that he could no longer keep it easily hidden, and that is where I came in. All I had to do was find a location for the fights and handle all the logistical aspects of getting it set up, and the warden did the rest. Each year he would provide a small group of inmates he managed to smuggle from the prison. The prisoners would fight each other until only one remained, and that inmate would earn his freedom. It was the perfect set-up, and it made the warden and me very wealthy."
Dean was hardly able to believe what he was hearing. He wasn't naïve enough to believe evil was limited to monsters and demons…he had far too much experience otherwise. Still, the thought that there were people who would not only willingly watch their fellow humans beings forced to fight and kill each other, but would actually pay to see it, made him feel slightly sick. And people like Ty, who made their living off such foul entertainment, were even worse in his mind.
"Unfortunately," Ty continued, unaware of the look of disgust Dean was leveling at him, "The prison warden was killed in a riot ten years ago, and the prison shut down shortly after. I was left with a choice. I could let the business die, or I could try to keep it going on my own. By that time I had paid off and bribed enough people in high positions that I felt fairly certain I could keep it up without detection. And so I have. I've had to change a few things…adapt…but in the end it has been worth it."
"Congratulation," Dean growled. "Your creativeness should earn you a front row seat in hell!"
Ty laughed. "As long as they have this kind of entertainment there, I wouldn't complain."
A muscle along Dean's jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth together. "And according to you, the winner just gets to go free?" he asked skeptically. "Why do I find myself doubting that? It seems highly unlikely you'd let someone who could potentially blow the whistle on you whole operation just walk free."
"Think about it, Dean," Ty replied. "The winner would have just had to brutally murder three people; they're not exactly going to be chomping at the bit to run to the authorities." He shrugged again. "Even if they did, I know how to cover my tracks. I have enough people paid off in high positions that no charges would ever stick, not without evidence…which they would never find."
Dean shook his head at the arrogance of the man. "What happens if I refuse to play along?" He challenged. "Refuse to fight for your sick entertainment?"
Ty let out a small huff of laughter. "You won't" he replied simply
"Think so?" Dean asked softly, his eyes rock hard as he stared at Ty.
Ty shook his head. "You think you're the first person I've heard ask that, Dean? But just wait until you're in that arena and your opponent is attempting to bash in your head…you'll fight back. They always do." The last was said with absolute certainty.
"And what if we both refuse to fight?" Dean asked harshly.
"Then you both die," Ty replied simply. "There is only one way out of here, Dean, and that is to win. You can't win if you don't fight." Ty regarded Dean for a moment, his eyes narrowed. "Besides," he continued, "what's three more kills to a man like you?"
Dean didn't answer, and eventually Ty shrugged. "Fight or don't fight, it makes no difference to me. One way or another, my clients will get to watch you die. And if you die, you'll die without ever knowing what happened to your brother."
Dean grunted as Ty's words struck home. "You son of a bitch," he growled. "You're going down…soon…and I'm going to make sure I'm around to see it."
Ty smiled. "Then you had better plan on winning," he retorted lightly. "Enjoy your day, Dean. It may well be your last." And with those words, the man turned and walked away.
Dean watched him go, his mind working frantically. He had to figure out a way to escape, and soon. If he didn't, in a few short hours he would find himself facing off against one of his fellow prisoners in a fight match to the death. He didn't know what he would do if that happened. He had no doubt that the hope for freedom would drive most, if not all, of his fellow prisoners to fight…and to fight hard. In the end, it came down to survival, and there were few things a person was willing to fight harder for than their own life.
For Dean, it was not his own life that mattered to him so much as the life of his brother. If he died here today, there would be no one left to look out for Sam, and that option was simply unacceptable to him. He had learned long ago that there was very little that he was not willing to do to protect his family.
"We've landed ourselves in a deep pile of shit this time, Sammy," he whispered softly, looking out at the surrounding forest through the bars of his cage. He smiled slightly. "But I guess this isn't the first time. When we get out of this, you can tease me about letting some cowboy wannabe get the drop on me." His smile slowly faded as he continued to stare out at the forest. Don't worry, Sammy, he thought fiercely. I'm going to find some way out of this, and them I'm going to come find you!
Because in the end, Dean refused to allow himself to believe that it might already be too late to save his brother.
Sam was running a fever.
It had come on sometime during the night, as he lay shivering and miserable in the hollowed out trunk of a giant tree. Despite the thick layer of dried leaves he had piled over him to help retain his body's heat, the night had been bitterly cold and he had slept very little.
Twice during the night he had heard the sounds of some kind of animal moving around in the thick underbrush near his hiding place. Both times he had sat bolt upright, his heart pounding in his throat, his hand gripping the heavy branch he had laid near him. He knew the branch would offer him little protection against a cougar or even a bear, but it was better than nothing. Whatever kind of animal was making the noise eventually moved off, and after several long minutes Sam had allowed himself to sink back against the support of the tree, breathing heavily in his relief.
Sam knew Dean would probably make fun of his panic, but he would have gladly accepted the teasing as long as it meant his brother was there, with him. He couldn't believe how much he missed his brother's confident presence. Even if Dean could be a royal pain in the ass, Sam had grown so accustomed to his company that even if he hadn't been half freezing and in pain, he wasn't sure he would have been able to sleep without his brother's familiar snores beside him.
Because he couldn't sleep, Sam spent most of the night worrying. He worried about his brother, worried about his injuries, worried about getting lost in the wilderness, worried about the possible dark prospects of his future, worried about the stupid impala. Basically, he worried about anything in general and everything in particular. By morning, he was a twisted wreck of despair and depression.
Sam greeted the morning's light with both relief and trepidation. He was relieved that he would no longer be stuck in a blanket of darkness in which the slightest sound set his heart racing, and yet he was dreading the fact that with the coming of day he would need to get up and start his hike towards town once more.
After a night of sitting relatively still, his body was stiff and sore, the bruises from his fall down the hill making themselves known. Add to that the blanket of exhaustion from lack of sleep, the burning pain in his arm and ribs, the weakness from lack of food and blood loss, and the fever…and Sam wasn't even certain he would be able to rise.
But rise he must. His life depended on it, and possibly the life of his brother as well. Sam had to get to him…had to warn him. If something happened to Dean because he wasn't able to get his ass up off the ground, he would never forgive himself; never mind the fact that he probably wouldn't live long enough to forgive himself.
With a deep groan, Sam pressed his left hand against the trunk of the tree behind him and prepared to rise. Pushing himself slowly to his feet, he felt a wave of nausea that threatened to bring him to his knees. Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, he waited for the dizziness to pass. It took several minutes, but eventually he felt it was safe to take a cautious step forward without the fear of falling flat on his face.
He spared a glance down at his injured arm. He had changed out the makeshift bandage twice during the night, tearing more strips from his tattered shirt. The current bandage was already soaked through with blood, but Sam decided to wait awhile before changing the dressing again. For one thing, the process was extremely painful, and for another, at the rate he was going, by the time he reached town, he wouldn't have any shirt left.
Sam knew he needed to find some water, and quickly. With all the blood he was losing, he needed to replenish his body's supply of liquid. And now, with the fever, the chance of dehydration was only too real. He didn't have the energy, however, to go searching for a stream or brook. He could only hope he would stumble across something on his way back to town. Strangely enough, though he hadn't eaten in over twenty four hours, he didn't feel particularly hungry.
Putting one foot in front of the other, he concentrated on moving forward. He used the same large branch he had kept with him through the night as a walking staff, leaning his weight heavily against the thick bough. His steps were clumsy and awkward at first, but as the sun rose higher and warmed him, he found his muscles beginning to loosen and his gate eased slightly.
Humming a Metallica song in his head…one of Dean's favorites…he did his best to move as quickly as his battered body would allow, anxious to cover as much distance as possible. He didn't fancy spending another night out in the wilderness if he could help it. He wasn't sure he would survive it.
By mid-morning he felt he was making fairly good time. In the rough terrain it was hard to estimate distance, but he guessed he had traveled at least several miles. He would occasionally need to stop and lean against the trunk of a tree while he waited for a bout of nausea and dizziness to pass, but all things considered, he wasn't doing half bad.
As he traveled, Sam let his mind travel back in time to memories of camping trips he and Dean had taken with their father when they were young. The trips were never taken simply for fun, but for "training purposes." Yet between the target practice, hand-to-hand combat, survival lessons, and small arms training, Sam and Dean would often find time to sneak away from camp and explore the surrounding area. Sam could clearly remember those times, as it was on these rare occasions that Dean seemed most at ease and relaxed, laughing easily as he showed Sam some new wonder he had discovered. Despite Dean's incessant teasing, Sam had cherished those moments with his brother. It wasn't very often that he saw his brother truly happy, and even as a young child he had instinctively known that he was witnessing something rare and truly special.
Pausing beside a large oak, Sam leaned into the tree's trunk for support as a sudden fit of trembling shook his limbs and robbed him of strength. It was getting harder and harder to focus, and he knew his fever was getting worse. He could only hope that he would reach town before the fever completely robbed him of his wits and left him walking in circles.
Taking a deep breath, Sam pushed away from the support of the tree and began his slow journey forward once more. The ground began to slope gradually downward, the ground covered with a thick layer of dead leaves which made the footing slippery and treacherous. Sam relied heavily on his improvised walking stick to keep from toppling forward on his face. By the time he reached the bottom of the slope, he was breathing heavily, his right arm wrapped protectively around his aching ribs, the knuckles of his left hand white as the tightly gripped the branch.
He paused to catch his breath, and that was when he heard it; the clear sound of running water. The moment his brain registered the noise, his thirst made itself suddenly and forcefully known. His mouth suddenly seemed overly hot and dry, his saliva glands unable to produce enough moisture to ease the parched feel of his tongue. He stumbled forward, suddenly desperate to reach the source of the tantalizing sound.
It took him longer than he had expected, but after several minutes of purposeful trekking, the trees around him began to thin and the sound of the water grew even louder. Eventually he broke from the cover of trees to find himself standing on the rocky banks of a river. Without hesitation he stumbled to the water's edge and dropped to his knees, reaching out to scoop large handfuls of the liquid to his dry mouth. The water was ice cold and refreshing, and Sam relished in the feel of it against his fever hot face. He knew there was danger in drinking the untreated water, but stacked against his other injuries it seemed like a distant and trivial risk. Besides, with his blood loss and fever robbing his body of strength and moisture, he desperately needed to rehydrate.
He drank until his thirst was satiated, then carefully removed the bandage wrapped around his arm, hissing in pain as the material stuck briefly to the wound. As soon as the cloth was removed, the cut began to bleed steadily down his arm. Sam noted that the injury looked red and swollen, and he guessed that infection was beginning to set in…likely the source of his fever. Moving as quickly as he could one-handed, he rinsed the bandage clean in the quick flowing river and then re-tied it across the wound. The bandage was cold from the icy water, and it helped soothe and numb the burning pain.
His arm taken care of, Sam sat back on his haunches and looked out across the sparkling waters of the river. The cold water had helped clear his head, as well as refresh and strengthen him, but he didn't immediately move to rise. As he watched the water tumble and splash past, his mind flashed back to a long forgotten memory of another river. In his mind's eye, he could see his much younger self standing at the water's edge …
Sam flinched as the muted sound of his father's cry of pain drifted to him from the cabin behind him. He guessed that Dean had just finished re-setting John's badly dislocated shoulder. His father's latest battle against evil had left him badly battered and beaten, and Dean had wanted to take their father to the hospital for professional treatment.
Characteristically, John had refused, insisting instead that his eldest son take care of things. Dean had reluctantly agreed and gone for the first aid kit as Sam had fled the cabin for the fresh air outside. The smell of blood had always made him feel slightly queasy. He couldn't understand how his brother handled it so calmly. At the tender age of 16, Dean was already well experienced in patching up numerous types of injuries. He was good at it too, though Sam knew Dean secretly hated it. Still, his brother handled the task as he did all the other unpleasant jobs John assigned him; by shoving his emotions and fears behind a thick wall and simply doing what needed done.
Sam found a small, smooth stone and attempted to skip it across the churning waters of the river. It was a lot harder when the water was moving so swiftly, and he had not yet managed it, but he kept determinedly trying. Several minutes and over twenty stones later, he heard the soft sound of footsteps approaching from behind. He glanced over as Dean joined him at the river's side, his brother's features looking pale and strained.
"How's dad?" Sam asked softly, though he really wanted to ask how Dean was doing. However, he knew that his brother would just dodge the question and give him some bull crap answer about being fine.
"Bitching about the pain and drinking whisky like's it going out of style," Dean responded tiredly, rubbing his hand down his face, his silver ring glinting dulling in the afternoon light. "I spect' he won't be feeling much soon."
Sam grimaced, knowing that as tired as Dean looked, his brother would be spending the night sitting up watching their father, making sure he didn't take a turn for the worse or get sick during the night. He felt a flash of resentment, and quickly tried to tamp it down. It wasn't that he wasn't worried about his father; he just found it extremely unfair that it was always Dean left dealing with the consequences of his father's choices.
Reaching out hesitantly, he grasped Dean's hand, trying to silently offer his brother his support. Dean looked startled for a moment, his eyes flickering to Sam's. He gave Sam's hand a quick squeeze before looking away and withdrawing his hand. Sam recognized his brother's stubborn attempt to pretend that everything was fine. It was a front he knew Dean put up mostly for his benefit; a way to try and convince Sam that their life wasn't royally screwed up.
Sam remembered a distant time…before Dean's walls had firmly been put in place…when his brother hadn't been quite so afraid to talk to him, to be real with him. It hadn't happened often, but in rare moments of vulnerability his brother would share with him his fears and frustrations about the jacked up life they lived. Those rare moments of intimacy were all but gone now, replaced by Dean's unyielding need to be strong and unbreakable. Because strength was what Dean needed in order to protect his family, and protecting his family was what Dean did best.
Sam sighed. "Dad will be fine, Dean," he said reassuringly, knowing the empty words were all he had to offer his brother.
Dean swallowed, and then looked back at Sam, a fake smile flashing across his features, his emotions carefully hidden behind his wall. "Of course he will, Sammy," he answered lightly. "He's got me to look after him."
Sam blinked his eyes several times, shaking his head to clear it of the vivid memory. He had no idea what had brought that particular recollection to mind. Perhaps it stemmed simply from his need to have his brother with him once more, to have Dean tell him that everything was going to be alright because he was going to look after him. It was a childish need, and one that Sam hated to admit, even to himself. He was alone, and if he was going to survive, he needed to find the strength within himself.
Using the walking stick to help balance him, he pushed himself to his feet, feeling a new sense of resolve fill him. Right now, he just needed to focus on getting back to town, and to do that, he would need to find some way to cross the river. The river was not particularly wide, but toward the center it looked fairly deep. Sam was an excellent swimmer, but in his weakened state and with his injured arm and ribs, he wasn't sure he would be able to manage the swift flowing current without being swept miles off course.
Glancing right and left, he noticed that the river widened considerably about fifty yards downstream. He knew this was a good thing, as it meant the water would likely be much shallower and the currents less swift. He decided he would make his crossing there. Decision made, he started downstream, watching the water roll and play its way past him. When he reached the area he had seen, he was pleased to see that the water did indeed shallow out, and he could see the rocks at the bottom all the way across.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the river, shuddering as the frigid water flooded into his shoes and played with the bottoms of his pants leg. He immediately felt the tug and pull of the current against his feet, but it didn't seem too strong, and he cautiously waded forward. The further he went, the deeper the river became, and by the time he was halfway across, the water was swirling and pushing just above his knees. The press of the current had increased as well, forcing him to slow down and make sure every placement of his foot was steady before moving the other one. He kept his eyes focused on the opposite bank, breathing deeply through his nose as he tried to still the wild trembling in his legs from the icy water.
He was just past the midway point of the river when a sudden wrenching feeling low in his stomach had him gasping in sudden pain. He froze, holding his breath as he waited to see if the sensation would repeat itself. Sure enough, a moment later the pain reappeared, and this time, instead of immediately fading, it only intensified. Sam groaned and hunched over in the middle of the river as the cramps stole the air from his lungs. He realized belatedly that gulping mouthfuls of ice cold water on an empty stomach had perhaps not been the wisest move. And of course, Winchester luck would have the cramps hitting him now, while in the middle of the river, rather than two minutes later when he would have safely reached the other side.
"Damn it," he muttered, breathing harshly as he tried to fight through the pain. Just a few more steps, he thought to himself, focusing on moving his right foot slowly forward, followed carefully by his left. But he made it no further as fate decided to turn against him once more. As if the cramps were not enough, his vision of the opposite bank suddenly swam as yet another wave of dizziness overtook him.
Oh god, not now, Sam thought desperately. He gripped his walking stick tightly with both hands and tried to use it to anchor himself as the world tilted and spun around him. Closing his eyes only made the spinning sensation worse, and he suddenly knew he was falling. He didn't even have a chance to cry out before his feet were swept out from under him and he was falling back into the icy embrace of the river.
Hope you enjoyed…
Sorry about all the dialogue early in the chapter. Dean's action is coming soon, I promise.