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—First of all, I would like to thank everyone who has read this story…and especially to those of you who have taken the time to review. You're reviews inspire and encourage me greatly.

Please be aware that this chapter contains some graphic violence that may not be suitable/acceptable to all. You have been warned.

Also, there may be some phrases in this chapter that might be taken as racial. Please let me assure you that no insult is intended…I merely wanted to stay as true as possible to the type of people this story deals with. I apologize in advance for anything that might be taken wrongly.

That said…hope you enjoy…

Chapter 5

Dean knew he was running out of time.

Pacing the small confines of his prison cell, he could feel every minute slipping past him like sand through an hourglass as his tired brain futilely attempted to come up with some sort of escape plan that didn't end with him either being shot or becoming Rocky's chew toy again. The trouble was, the harder he tried to focus on the task before him, the more he found his mind wandering. He couldn't stop thinking about what Ty had told him…about the casual way the man had claimed that Sam was no longer a threat. At the time, the words had brought rage fueled by fear, but as the morning wore on, the anger slowly faded leaving only the bitter fear behind. He couldn't seem to focus past his desperate need to find out what had happened to his brother.

Ty had promised to tell him if he survived the man's twisted plans for him, but Dean wasn't particularly inclined to stick around and find out if he was telling the truth. The thought of fighting his fellow prisoners to the death was such a horrific idea that he hadn't yet allowed his mind to accept the possibility that it might come down to that. Despite Ty's words to the contrary, Dean felt fairly confident that the man had no intention of letting the winner simply walk away. It would be far too great a risk, not to mention the fact that in all of the reports he and Sam had reviewed regarding the missing hikers, none had ever mentioned any of the missing men showing up again. It was a fact that was a little too telling to simply ignore.

All things considered, Dean knew his best and only hope was to make another attempt at escape. But to do that with any reasonable chance of success, he would need a plan, and this was where he kept running into a brick wall. Coming up with a complex plan was something that ran more to Sam's talents than his own. Sam was thought where Dean was action. Dean felt certain that if his brother were here right now, he would have already come up with some ingenious and complicated plan of escape that would be all but foolproof. Sam had a way of looking at things outside the box; of manipulating situations into his favor. Dean often teased his brother about his intellectual abilities, but in truth, he was more than a little proud of how smart Sam truly was. Despite everything, his brother had been able to rise above the circumstances of their screwed up childhood and excel academically.

As for Dean, he'd had far too many worries as a child to focus on school. Would his father be returning from his latest hunt? Would he have enough money to buy food for Sam? Would the hotel clerk figure out they were paying with a fake card and throw them out? Would child services be waiting for them when they got home? He had figured out early on that the stuff he learned from books at school played little part in the day to day reality of keeping his family safe.

With this in mind, he had turned his attention instead to learning the information and skills necessary to survive the life of a hunter. By the age of eight, he was not only an excellent shot, but he could dismantle and reassemble over two dozen different kinds of guns. He had learned to fight with multiple weapons or simply with his bare hands, learned to run complicated scams that would fool even the most suspicious marks, learned to identify the telltale signs of different types of hauntings…the list went on and on. The more Dean learned and trained, the more he had pushed away any portion of himself that dreamed of a different future. He had come to realize that such dreams were only a distraction, and distractions could be costly…distractions could get his family killed.

Sam was different. Sam had dared to dream of something more…had in fact been able to achieve it, if for only a time. Dean could still clearly remember the cold Autumn morning when his brother had left for Stanford. He remembered standing at the window of the run-down cabin, watching his brother stride angrily away down the road, his duffel thrown carelessly over one shoulder. He could remember the internal battle that had waged inside of him between the part of him that wanted to race after his brother and convince him to come back…to drag him back kicking and screaming if necessary…and the other part of him silently urging Sam on. It was the knowledge that Sam was getting away…that he could finally have a life…that he would finally be safe…that had allowed Dean to stand still and silent, watching his brother fade from view down the road. It had felt as though his heart was being torn in two, and he would never forget the loneliness and fear that had overwhelmed him at that moment. Not fear for his brother, but fear for himself. Sam had been his purpose in life for so long, that Dean had been unsure if he knew how to survive without his brother by his side.

And it was that same fear that gripped Dean now, that robbed him of his ability to focus on the task of coming up with a proper escape plan. This was not the first time he had been in this position. Twice over the last year he had woken to an empty hotel room, his brother gone without a trace and not answering his phone calls. Both times Dean had been momentarily frozen by the same panic that had left it hard to think. Only action…getting out there and searching for his brother…had allowed him to push through the overwhelming haze of fear.

Cursing softly beneath his breath, Dean aimed a frustrated kick at one of the bars of his cage and was rewarded with a sharp pain in his foot. Shaking his head, he limped over to his mattress and let his body flop tiredly down onto the thin material. He was getting nowhere, his mind wandering in aimless and repetitive circles, and if he didn't snap out of it soon, it would be too late.

Yet despite his best efforts he was no closer to an answer as morning shifted subtly into afternoon. Lunch arrived, delivered by the same silent guard who had brought him breakfast a few hours earlier. The paper plate shoved between the cage bars held a simple sandwich, a handful of plain potato chips and an apple. The expected cup of water was pushed in behind the plate. Dean retrieved the meal and returned to his seat on the mattress, sighing as he glanced at the water. "Would it kill them to give a man a proper drink?" he muttered under his breath, placing the cup at his feet and turning his attention to the food. He ate quickly, barely tasting the food, his mind still too full of worry and unease.

He was just finishing the last bites of his apple when movement at the edge of the field caught his attention. He watched as a long procession of vehicles of varying make and model pulled into the clearing, the sun glinting off of hoods and from shiny bumpers. The sheriff led the procession in his squad car, and as the newcomers parked and began to pile from their vehicles, Ty suddenly appeared to greet them. Dean watched from his cage, his lunch turning sour in his stomach.

Flicking the remains of his apple out through the bars, Dean glanced up and down the row of cages, watching the other prisoners' reactions to the new arrivals. Most of them were pressed against the front of their cages, their eyes glued to the group of people surrounding Ty. Their apprehension was clear in their body language…in the tense set of shoulders and the white knuckled grip of fists around prison bars. The man in the cage directly to Dean's right began to mutter something softly under his breath, repeating it over and over again, the tiny snatches that drifted to Dean's ears sounding like phrases from the Hail Mary.

Dean's eyes returned to the crowd across the field. He guessed there to be around seventy men, most of them looking as though they had just stepped from their fancy offices or luxury penthouses. They couldn't have looked more out of place in the wooded clearing…with their polished shoes and fancy suit jackets…and Dean couldn't stop the shake of his head at the absurdity of it all. These were men who had enough money they could buy whatever entertainment they wanted, and yet they chose to spend their money on blood and death. The very sight of them sickened him.

Ty finished whatever speech he had been giving the group, and the men split up, half heading toward the open pavilion that had been set up as some sort of outdoor bar, and the other half drifting toward the long row of cages holding the prisoners. Dean watched their approach with growing anger, his hands clenching into fists at his side. The men spread out, keeping several paces away from the front of the cages as they slowly walked up and down the line of prison cells. Most of them had pieces of paper in their hands and seemed to be taking notes, talking quietly to one another as they observed each of the prisoners one by one.

Dean had to work at keeping his breathing even and smooth, his features expressionless as the men filed slowly by. He felt like an animal in the zoo, being observed and evaluated as the men made silent wagers amongst themselves. Dean felt their eyes on him, curious and calculating, but he refused to meet any of their gazes, his eyes set resolutely on the tree tops across the clearing. He kept his body carefully still and relaxed, his hands lying loosely across his lap, the slow pulse of his jaw muscle the only outward sign betraying his increasing rage.

The steady stream of visitors in front of his cage continued for over an hour, and by the time the men began to move off in the direction of the arena, Dean was almost shaking with the effort of keeping his emotions buried. He felt dirty and unclean, as though the men's eyes had stripped him and left him bare and vulnerable. The skin on the back of his neck and hands were slick with sweat, and his mouth felt dry and pasty.

With a hand kept steady only by the iron force of his will, Dean reached for his cup of water and took several deep swallows. He focused his mind on the coolness of the water, of the feel of it sliding down the back of his throat, of the refreshing wetness across his tongue and lips. By the time he had drained the cup, his heart-rate had slowed and he felt slightly calmer. He took a deep, steadying breath, his palms unconsciously smoothing a pattern across the tops of his thighs.

Ty's "guests" had started to file into the metal bleachers on either side of the arena, their laughter and shouts echoing across the large clearing. Dean watched them, unable to tear his gaze away, the hourglass in his mind's eye spilling the last precious pieces of sand through its tight funnel. He realized he was out of time.

As if on cue with his thoughts, Ty and several guards broke free from the crowd around the arena and walked slowly toward his cage. Dean felt his muscles tightening once again as he watched their approach, knowing that the time for him to make his move had finally come. He didn't hold much hope for success, but he would be damned if he went quietly to his fate without putting up some sort of fight.

Ty stopped a few paces short of Dean's cage, his eyes filled with a mixture of excitement and caution. "It's time, Winchester," he stated simply, taking a single step closer. "I decided to give you the honor of the first fight. Now I guess we'll see if that smart mouth of yours is backed up with anything besides air."

Dean didn't answer, his mind too occupied with planning out his next move. Ty seemed to be unarmed, though Dean supposed it was possible…even probable… that the man had a weapon tucked away somewhere inside his jacket. The three guards flanking Ty were a different matter, however. All three held rifles at the ready, their features a mask of focused readiness. Dean knew if he were to stand any chance, he would need to find some way to disarm one of the guards and take his gun…hopefully before the other two shot him.

Ty reached up and removed a long chain from around his neck, a single key glistening on the chain. He stepped forward and thrust the key into the lock on Dean's cage, a single twist of his wrist disengaging the lock. He swung the door opened and motioned Dean forward. "No trouble now," he warned, as Dean pushed himself to his feet and approached the cage door. The other guards all took a step closer, their guns shifting restlessly in their hands.

Dean felt a blanket of calm envelop him, the same feeling he often got in the moments before a hunt got violent. He could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest…feel the tension in his muscles…but his brain seemed somehow disengaged from the physical reactions of his body. He set his focus on his target…the guard standing closest to his cage…and prepared to make his move.

As soon as he ducked down to move through the small door, he felt Ty's hand reach out and grip the back of his neck. He had only a single startled moment of surprise before the man jerked his knee up, straight into Dean's stomach. The blow wasn't as hard as it could have been, but it was still enough to drive the air from his lungs in a startled grunt. Before he could recover his balance, Ty was pushing him to the ground with the hand on his neck, barely giving Dean the chance to get his arms in front of him to break his fall. The next moment he was face down in the soft grass of the field, Ty's knee positioned firmly on the center of his back, the cold bite of a gun's muzzle pressed tightly against his temple.

"You think this is my first rodeo, boy" Ty hissed in his ear, his knee pressing painfully into Dean's back, robbing him of the ability to draw air into his empty lungs. "If I were you, I would save your fight for in the arena. You're going to need it."

Dean struggled to breathe, but the pressure on his back only increased, causing small bursts of light to dance across his vision. Rough hands grabbed his arms and twisted them behind his back. If there had been any air left in his lungs, Dean would have cried out at the sharp flare of agony that ran from his injured shoulder all the way down his arm as his injured limb objected to the rough treatment. He felt the cold bite of metal against his wrists and heard the sharp click as handcuffs were locked snugly into place. Just when he felt he would surely pass out from lack of oxygen, the weight on him suddenly lifted and he was able to pull in a grateful gasp of air. He wasn't given any time to recover, however, as the guards grabbed his arms and hauled him bodily to his feet, eliciting another flash of pain from his abused shoulder.

Dean was still trying to regain his balance when the guards began to drag him forward, Ty walking calmly beside him, the hilt of a single action revolver gripped tightly in his right hand. "You'll be fighting Ben Langley first," he stated, his voice conversational, as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. "He's been with us the longest….almost three months now. He's also our youngest. Bright young man, too, with a lot of spirit. The fight should be interesting."

Dean shook his head, wanting to block out Ty's voice. He didn't want to know the name of his soon-to-be opponent…he didn't want to know anything about him. His heart was hammering wildly within his chest while he fought frantically to come up with some way…any way… out of this mess.

They had almost reached the arena, the excited hum of the crowd echoing in the still afternoon air. As they drew near, Dean could see that the wooden planks that made up the fencing of the arena were completely surrounded by a thin wire meshing that rose nearly six feet into the air. The wire mesh effectively blocked anyone trapped inside the arena from attempting to escape over or under the wooden fence, while remaining discreet enough the watching spectators could easily see the action going on within its confines. The mesh fencing overlapped slightly in one spot—the obvious entry point to the arena, and it was to this area that his guards half led, half dragged him.

"Get him ready," Ty ordered, motioning to one of the guards standing nearby. The guard pulled a wicked looking knife from a sheath at his belt, and Dean felt himself tense. The men on either side of him tightened their grips, holding him steady between them while their companion with the knife stepped closer.

"Hold real still, now," the guard with the knife ordered with a smirk. He reached out and grabbed the hem of Dean's shirt, pulling the fabric tight. Then, with three quick slices, he cut the material away, leaving Dean bare chested but for the amulet hanging around his neck. "That's better now," he commented, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "Gotta let the customers have a good look at ya now, don't we?"

Dean's stomach curled in disgust at the man's words, and he turned his head to one side to spit out the sour taste in his mouth. The guards holding him only laughed.

"You won't be needing this," Ty commented lightly, stepping in front of Dean and reaching for his amulet. Dean attempted to jerk back, but the guards holding him prevented him from going very far. Ty grabbed hold of the amulet and jerked, breaking the cord holding the charm around Dean's neck.

"Son of a …" Dean's curse ended in a growl as he glared daggers at the man standing before him.

Ty threw him a mocking half smile as he stuffed the amulet into his coat pocket. "Here comes Ben," he stated, glancing over Dean's shoulder. "Unlock his cuffs, boys…it's show-time."

The guards holding Dean forced him forward until he was pressed against the arena's fencing, right next to the overlap in the mesh wire. He felt a sharp tug at his wrists and then the cuffs snapped free. At the same moment, another guard opened the mesh wire and Dean was shoved roughly forward into the open area of the arena. He stumbled forward, the grassy ground of the field giving way to the loosely packed sand that blanketed the floor of the arena.

At his entrance, the noise from the stands increased dramatically, jeers and catcalls raining down on Dean from either side of the small enclosure. As he had done before, Dean resolutely ignored the crowd, turning his attention back toward the small entrance to the arena. He watched as his opponent arrived and underwent the same treatment he had, his shirt being expertly cut from his body and his cuffs removed. Then, the wire mesh was peeled back one more time, and Ben entered the arena, his eyes locked on Dean, his features tense and alert.

The calls from the stands became even more loud and frantic as both men faced off, but Dean resolutely blocked the noise from his mind, his entire focus centered on the young man before him.

"You know what to do, boys." Ty's voice range from somewhere off to the side, outside the arena. "Refuse to fight, and we'll bring in the wild dogs and let them tear you to pieces!"

Dean couldn't stop the shudder that wracked his body at the mention of wild dogs. His one experience with the not-so-wild Rocky was enough to convince him he wanted nothing to do with anything canine.

Without a word, Ben began to slowly circle to Dean's right, and Dean mirrored his movement to the left, the two men sizing one another up across the soft sand of the arena. Ben was not exactly a large man, but he was tall…nearly as tall as Sam…and his arms and chest showed the defined muscle of a man of athletic tendencies. His features were wary, and his eyes glinted with something akin to desperation.

"I don't want to have to do this," he muttered, his voice lost to all but Dean under the loud shouts of the crowd.

"You and me both, man," Dean answered, his face twisted in a grimace.

The sounds of the crowd were beginning to get ugly, the spectators screaming down at the two opponents, obviously impatient for the bloodletting to begin. Dean saw Ben's face suddenly set in steely determination, and he braced his feet in preparation for the charge he knew would soon be coming. A heartbeat later, Ben flung himself forward, his right fist swinging around in a blow designed to send Dean reeling. The blow never landed. Dean pivoted easily to one side, dodging Ben's fist and using the tall man's momentum against him as he grabbed his left wrist and flung him away…across the arena. Ben stumbled and almost went down, but quickly regained his balance and swung around to face Dean once more, his fists raised into a fighting position.

Dean didn't press the attack, his mind still not fully committed to the fight. A part of him realized that he had little choice…that in the end it boiled down to kill or be killed. But another part of him stubbornly hung on to the hope that there was some other option…that as long as he was patient, a way out would be provided. It was a foolish hope, he knew, but he couldn't stop himself from believing it anyway.

Ben launched himself forward once more, crying out in desperate anger as he charged Dean, his fists raised and ready to strike. Dean let him come, waiting until the man was within striking distance before dodging to one side once more, his movements lighting quick, his left fist flashing out in a sharp jab to Ben's side as the man sailed past.

Dean knew the blow had to have been painful, but Ben barely hesitated as he swung back around and flung himself at Dean once again. The next several minutes passed much as the first few had, with Ben repeatedly pressing the attack while Dean dodged and ducked every blow aimed at him, occasionally landing his own hit on his opponent's chest or side, but causing little real damage. Ben's face was soon red with a combination of effort and frustration, but Dean was barely breathing heavily.

But if Ben was growing frustrated with the course the fight was taking, it was nothing compared to the discontent of the watching crowd. As the minutes wore on they were becoming increasingly restless, their shouts and insults growing steadily in volume. Dean knew he wouldn't be allowed to remain on the defensive for much longer before Ty found some way to step in and force the fight to the next level.

True enough, a moment later, after dodging yet another attack from his opponent, Dean's steps took him a little too close to the side of the arena. Without warning, one of the guards standing outside the fencing thrust a narrow pole through one of the holes in the wire meshing and straight into Dean's unprotected back. The blow was unexpected, and Dean sucked in a harsh breath as the roughened end of the pole dug a deep scratch across the bare skin of his exposed back. He stumbled forward, momentarily caught off balance.

It was the moment Ben had been waiting for, and the tall man attacked without hesitation, slamming the full weight of his body into Dean before he could regain his footing and dodge out of the way once more. Both men fell backward in a tangle of limbs, and a moment later Dean felt his right shoulder slam violently against one of the wooden planks marking the boundary of the arena.

White hot pain shot through his arm from shoulder to fingertips, and Dean couldn't hold back a small cry of pain. A moment later, Ben's weight slammed into him once more, driving him to the sandy ground of the arena. Dean tried to roll to one side, but Ben was on him before he could move, the young man straddling his waste and driving his fist viciously into the side of Dean's head.

Stars exploded across Dean's vision and he attempted to raise his arms to protect his head. His right arm, however, was refusing to function, and his left arm provided only moderate protection as Ben repeatedly slammed his fists into Dean's head and face.

Dean knew he had to act quickly or he would be in serious trouble. Already his vision was growing fuzzy and he could taste the coppery tang of blood on his lips and inside his mouth. Instincts kicking in, he violently twisted his hips, the sudden movement throwing Ben off balance, the tall man's weight shifting ever so slightly. It was enough. Dean snapped the elbow of his left arm straight up into Ben's face, feeling the satisfying crunch of impact. At the same time, he twisted his hips again, this time in the opposite direction.

Ben fell away from him with a howl of pain, his hands coming up to cup his nose, and Dean was able to roll away. Both men slowly pushed themselves to their feet, their chests heaving from the brief but brutal battle, their skin slick with a mixture of both sweat and blood. The crowd was on its feet around them, screaming their encouragement and lust in an unintelligible roar.

Dean shook his head, droplets of sweat flying from his hair as he attempted to blink away the dots dancing across his vision. His right arm hung useless and limp at his side, and he could feel the heat and swelling along the side of his face and jaw from Ben's violent blows.

Luckily, Ben looked in no better shape, with blood pouring in a crimson sheet from his nose down across his lips and chin. He seemed hesitant to press his attack again, and Dean was more than willing to wait the man out.

Unfortunately, the crowd had other ideas. As their cries became increasingly frantic, Dean caught movement from the corner of his eye as one of the guards opened the mesh netting and tossed something into the sand at the center of the arena before quickly ducking out of the enclosure once more. Dean's gaze snapped to the object lying innocently in the sand a few paces away, his heart skipping a few wild beats as the sun glinted off the long blade of a wicked looking machete.

Ben had seen the weapon as well, and time seemed to slow as both men looked from the deadly looking blade to each other and then back again. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the spell was broken, and both men leaped forward toward the machete, desperation lending them speed. Unfortunately for Dean, Ben was several steps closer to the blade than he was. With a howl of triumph, he grabbed the handle of the machete and swung wildly, forcing Dean to dodge quickly to one side to avoid being split in two.

Dean cautiously backed away, his eyes glued to the sharp blade in Ben's hands. He swallowed hard, wondering if his cautious approach earlier might have just bought him a trip to an early grave. Ben advanced on him steadily, his eyes taking on a wild light as he held the weapon before him in a two handed grip.

Suddenly, Dean felt the wooden planks of the arena fence at his back, and he realized he had run out of room to retreat. At the same moment, Ben launched himself forward in an attack, the machete swinging in a wild arc for Dean's neck.

Dean acted without thought. Leaning back into the arena fence for support, he brought one leg up and snapped it out with all the force he could muster, his booted foot connecting with Ben's forearm just as the man started to swing the blade of the machete forward. Such was the force of Dean's blow that the forward momentum of the machete's blade was not only stopped…it was reversed.

It happened in less than a blink of an eye. Ben, not suspecting the kick, had thrown himself forward into the blow. When Dean's booted foot connected with his forearm, he had only a second to register shocked surprise before the sharp point of his own blade dipped suddenly backward...straight toward his exposed neck.

A fountain of scarlet blood sprayed across the golden sand of the arena. Ben dropped the machete and stumbled backward, both hands rising to grasp at the gaping wound on the side of his neck.

Dean, his back still pressed firmly against the wooden planks of the arena fence, could only stare in stunned surprise, shocked at the sudden violent turn of events. Ben staggered back a few more steps, bright blood bubbling between his fingers, his eyes locked on Dean. His expression was full of shocked disbelief melting slowly into pained realization. Dean looked into the man's frightened eyes, and felt his breath catch in his chest. Suddenly it was no longer Ben he was seeing, but Sam…his brother's eyes filled with pain and fear as they silently pleaded with Dean to save him.

With a cry, Dean lunged forward, his hands reaching out just in time to catch Ben as he slowly collapsed to the ground, his blood running in a crimson stream from between his fingers, his breath coming in strangled gasps. Dean carefully lowered the man the rest of the way to the ground, his own hands moving up to cover Ben's over the hideous wound. He could no longer hear the yells of the crowd…was no longer aware of his surroundings, his entire focus on the dying man in his arms.

"It's okay," he crooned softly, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue. "Just relax. "It's going to be okay."

Ben's eyes were locked on his, terrified and desperate, and Dean couldn't tear his gaze away as he continued to murmur empty words of comfort. He could feel Ben's hot blood against his fingers as the man's stubborn heart continued to attempt to pump blood through his failing body. Ben's breathes were coming in short, sharp pants, and his eyes were beginning to glaze over, loosing focus.

Suddenly, Dean felt hands reaching out to grip him, pulling him away. He struggled weakly against their hold on him, but it was as though someone had pulled the plug on his remaining reserve of energy, and his resistance was feeble at best.

As he was dragged away, Dean's final view was of Ben's motionless body lying discarded and forgotten in the uncaring sand of the arena.

Sam was fighting for his life.

Every muscle in his body was pulled taught, straining against the angry waters of the river, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. The fingers of his left hand were clasped desperately around a small cluster of branches overhanging the river bank, the current pulling and dragging at his body in an attempt to break his tenuous hold and carry him away. Sam clenched his jaw in steely determination and stubbornly held on.

He had no idea how far downriver the current had carried him. His initial fall into the frigid waters had served to snap him back to his senses, but the damage was already done. The river had him, and showed no intention of giving him up easily. He had attempted to get his feet back under him, but his balance was gone and the fast moving currents had swept him away like so much driftwood, rocking and tossing his body about in dizzying circles. It had been all Sam could do to try and keep his head above water while avoiding the various rocks and boulders jutting up from the riverbed like the broken teeth of a giant.

Sam had eventually begun to fight back against the current, kicking his long legs in an effort to stabilize himself. Orienting on the shore, he had begun to awkwardly swim toward land, his movements made slow and clumsy by his injured right arm. By the time he had spotted the thick bush sitting close to the river's edge...its leafy branches jutting out over the water…he was fighting exhaustion. With a final desperate kick of his legs, he had just barely managed to reach out and grab a fistful of the branches as the current swept him by.

Now, clinging to his feeble lifeline, it was all he could do to keep his grip steady in the face of the wild tremors racking his body. He was numbingly cold, and his desperate swim toward the shore had left him beyond exhausted. The bank of the river was tantalizingly close, only a few short feet away, but in his exhausted state he wasn't at all sure he would be able to pull himself ashore. The icy fingers of the river played over his tense body, caressing and teasing him, promising him rest if he would only relax…only let go.

There is a saying that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes.

Sam had never really paid much attention to the saying before, but as he shivered in the icy waters of the river, an odd assortment of visions and memories flooded randomly through his foggy mind…disjointed and fragmented…flashes in time that came and went in the single blink of an eye.

He was five and learning to ride his bike without training wheels for the first time.

He was at Stanford, swinging Jessica around in his arms for a passionate kiss.

He was seventeen and had just scored the winning point in his high school's championship basketball game.

He was lying on the hard floor of their old home in Lawrence, gasping in lungful's of air as his brother pulled him up into a quick embrace.

Sam groaned, fighting against the disorientation brought on by the river's cold. The steady flow of memories continued flashing through his mind, as though someone had triggered a slideshow in his brain, the images playing randomly…with no particular order or structure to them.

His father was watching him in approval as Sam cast the matches into the grave of his first salt-and-burn.

Dean was grinning at him from across a hotel room, the bed before him covered in an odd assortment of weapons.

He was jumping from a hotel balcony into the crystal blue waters of the pool below.

Every time Sam blinked his eyes, another memory-vision would flash behind his closed lids. As the minutes wore on, Sam was finding it more and more difficult to distinguish reality from memory as his tired body began to succumb to the icy embrace of the river.

"I've tried so hard to keep you safe…"

This time it wasn't a vision, but the soft whisper of a remembered conversation. Sam pulled open heavy lids that he hadn't even realized he'd closed. With a jolt of panic, he realized his grip on the branches was beginning to slip.

"No!" he growled, the single word carrying with it the heavy weight of his determination. Fighting back against his exhaustion, he reached out with his injured arm and grabbed hold of the branches. Then, slowly but steadily…hand over hand…he began pulling himself along the rough limbs toward the bank of the river. As he drew nearer to the shore, the violent pull of the water began to ease and his legs were able to find purchase on the bottom of the river. With an agonized groan he heaved himself forward, his chest and stomach sliding heavily onto the bank. He lay there for a moment, his legs still drifting in the river's current, breathing deeply of the rich scent of the earth beneath his cheek.

Eventually he rallied enough strength to pull himself the rest of the way out of the water, but he didn't get far before collapsing once again, his body trembling heavily from a mixture of cold and exhaustion. He knew he needed to get up…get moving to help warm his frozen limbs, but he couldn't seem to get his body to obey his mind's commands. The heavy weight of his fatigue was like a blanket, weighing him down and anchoring him to the ground. His body ached and throbbed with every heartbeat, and oblivion called to him with the sweet promise of relief. His heavy lids slid shut without his permission, and with a small sigh of submission he finally allowed his battered body to give in to the waiting darkness.

"What are you doing, son?"

Sam's eyes snapped open and he jerked upright on the lumpy sofa where he had fallen asleep. He blinked bleary eyes up at his father, trying to shake his head clear of the sleep induced fuzziness.

"I told you to make sure you were ready." John scowled down at him in disapproval, the look so familiar to Sam it immediately triggered his defensiveness.

"I am ready," he retorted quickly, though he wasn't yet sure exactly what it was he was supposed to be ready for. He stared up at his father defiantly, daring his father to contradict him.

John let out a small huff, his shaggy head shaking slowly back and forth. Surprisingly, he let the argument go, turning and striding out the nearest door with a simple "come on" thrown over his shoulder at Sam.

Sam swallowed his irritation and hurried to follow, knowing his father was not one to ask twice. He stepped through the door and then drew up short, surprised to find himself in the middle of a grassy field. There was no sign of his father, and for a minute Sam was overwhelmed with a sense of confusion.

A heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder, and Sam jumped, swinging around in surprise. His brother stood directly behind him, a small grin flashing across his handsome features. "Getting a little rusty there, kiddo…letting me sneak up on you like that." Dean's voice was teasing, but there was a sharpness to his eyes that immediately caught Sam's attention.

"What's going on?" Sam asked, glancing around the grassy field. "Where's dad?"

Something shifted in Dean's eyes and his expression went suddenly blank. "Gone," he said simply. "Are you ready?"

Sam stared at his brother, surprised by the question. He shrugged his shoulders, glancing once around the grassy field. "Yeah, sure," he answered simply, once again not completely understanding what he was supposed to be ready for.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Are you, Sammy?" he asked quietly, his features turning suddenly intense. "You have to be sure!"

Sam felt a flash of irritation. Why did his family keep asking him if he was ready? Ready for what? He closed his eyes to get a handle on his emotions, and when he opened them again, Dean and the meadow were both gone.

He blinked his eyes, surprised to find himself standing in a very familiar kitchen, a cold beer held loosely in one hand. He heard the bell like call of a familiar laugh, and a moment later Jessica appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, her long blond hair falling about her shoulders in a shimmering wave, her eyes dancing with life.

Sam felt something clench inside him…a longing and need so fierce it stole his breathe. Without thought he opened his arms, and Jessica floated to him, sinking into his embrace with another small laugh. Sam buried his face in her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her and relishing the feel of her hair as it tickled the side of his face. A sense of peace and contentment settled over him, and he thought he could stand like this forever…holding the girl he loved…and never move again.

Jessica eventually pulled back, smiling up into his face without releasing her hold around his waist. "Are you ready?" she asked simply.

Sam drew in a sharp breath at the question, staring down into her face with confusion, the answer he had been so quick to give his father and brother dying on his tongue. "Ready for what?" he asked instead, his voice sounding hoarse and unsteady.

Jessica's smile never faded, but her eyes reflected a deep sadness as she lifted one hand and gently traced her fingers down one side of his face. "To be alone," she replied softly, the words so quiet Sam barely heard them.

Before he could react to the whispered words, Jessica suddenly burst into flames in his arms, the heat scorching his arms and his face in a searing flash of agony. He yelled, pushing away from her more from instinct than conscious thought. He stumbled back, opening his mouth to cry out a denial, when suddenly the world shifted around him once more and the kitchen and Jessica were suddenly gone.

Choking on a sob, Sam fell to his knees, feeling the sharp sting of gravel pierce through his jeans. He looked up to see a tall, run-down warehouse towering before him, the broken out windows staring down at him like empty eyes. Sam pushed himself back to his feet, his body trembling in sudden apprehension. A flash of movement in one of the empty windows caught his attention, and his breath caught in his throat as he caught a glimpse of his brother's familiar leather jacket moving past the small opening.

"Dean!" he screamed, not knowing what was going to happen, but certain that something was.

He saw his brother hesitate next to the window, slowly turning to peer down at him. Their eyes met for the barest hint of a second before an explosion ripped through the warehouse and Dean disappeared in a blinding flash of light and heat. Sam didn't even have a chance to scream as the force of the explosion picked him up and tossed him backward through the air.

And then he was falling…falling backward into darkness and pain.

Alone.

Sam jerked awake, gagging and retching as his stomach clenched in painful spasms. He was barely able to push himself up to his hands and knees before he promptly vomited copious amounts of river water into the soft soil beside him. As soon as the heaving stopped, he collapsed back down to his side, a low moan bubbling up from his throat.

His nightmare and subsequent sickness had left him shaking and weak, and he closed his eyes and concentrated on getting his breathing back under control. His abused ribs were screaming their protest and his arm felt as though someone was sticking him with a red hot poker.

At least he wasn't so cold anymore. Sam realized that while his clothes were still definitely damp, he was no longer soaking wet. He glanced up at the sky, noting from the sun's position that it was late afternoon. He realized he had been asleep for at least three hours, probably more.

Sam felt the heavy weight of despair settle over him. His trip down the river and subsequent nap had set him back enough that he knew there would be no reaching town before nightfall. He would get as far as he could, but there was no doubt that he would be spending another cold and lonely night out in the wild. And the last thing Sam wanted right now was to be alone. His nightmare haunted him, and he felt desperate to get back to town and find his brother.

Sam took a deep breath and began to push himself upright, when the sudden sound of cracking branches and rustling leaves echoed to him from several yards upstream. He froze, immediately thinking of the bears that surely must use this river as a hunting ground. His eyes cast around desperately for anything he could use as a weapon to defend himself, when his mind suddenly registered the muted sound of voices.

Sam's breath caught in his throat, and he strained his ears, thinking for a moment that his tired mind must be playing tricks on him. A moment later, however, he heard the voices again, snatches of a conversation that was still too distant for him to make out.

He felt a flare of hope ignite in his chest, tempered almost immediately by a sense of caution. He knew the sheriff had been planning on sending men out to look for him, and he had no way of knowing if the voices he heard belonged to potential friends of foes. He carefully lowered himself until he was lying flat on the ground once more, listening intently as the sounds of passage drew steadily nearer. The voices had fallen silent, but a few moments later they started up again, this time close enough that Sam could make out most of what they were saying.

"…almost there. I can hear the river." The voice was rough and gravelly, as though its owner had smoked one too many packs of cigarettes.

"We'd better be," a second voice responded, this one sounding high pitched and belligerent. "He's freakin heavy!"

"What are you whining about?" Hoarse voice barked back, his voice sounding slightly strained. "You got his legs! I'm carrying the heavy part!"

"Yeah, but this aint your fourth time down here!" his companion argued back. "This seriously sucks! I'll never get this blood out of my shirt."

"Well maybe if you hadn't mouthed off to Ty this morning, Roy, you might not have gotten stuck with the dirty work." Hoarse voice retorted shortly.

The sounds of crunching leaves grew even closer and Sam held his breath, wondering if he was about to be discovered. He wasn't sure he liked the sound of the men's conversation and was suddenly keen to remain hidden. The large bush next to him offered him some concealment, but not if the men came straight toward him. Suddenly the footsteps stopped and he heard one of the men let out a sharp grunt followed by the muted thump of something heavy falling to the ground.

"Shit, man," Roy's voice sound slightly out of breath. "I don't understand why we have to haul them all down here in the first place. Why can't we just burn the corpses up at the camp…save us all this hassle?"

"It's not my place to ask questions," Rough voice responded magnanimously. "I just do what I'm told. Ty's always burned 'em down here…the day after it's all over. Then he just buries whatever the fire leaves behind."

Sam frowned, still lying silent and unmoving in his hiding place. He was tempted to peak around the bush to try and get a glimpse of the two men, but he feared any movement on his part might reveal his presence. The more the men talked, the less Sam liked what he was hearing. He recognized Ty's name from Rawly's conversation with his deputy, and was fairly certain that whatever was going on around here, that man was at the center of it.

"Well…help me move this grate over the hole, then," Roy snapped. "Though if you ask me, it would be doing us a favor if the wild animals got in here and dragged them all away. Save havin' to burn them later!"

This comment only received a grunt in reply, followed by the sound of something heavy being dragged across the ground.

"Alright," Rough voice huffed a moment later. "Now that's done, let's get back up to camp. They'll be starting the second round of fighting soon, and I don't want to miss it!"

"Got a bet on someone, Trevor?" Roy asked, his voice fading slightly as the men turned away and headed back in the direction they had come.

"Got me five hundred on the blackie," the man named Trevor responded. "He's a fighter for sure! Put down his last opponent in under five minutes. They didn't even have to give him a weapon…he just broke the poor bastards neck!"

Roy's response was lost to Sam as the two men moved further away, the sounds of their footsteps fading slowly to silence. Sam waited a full minute after they had gone before pushing himself slowly to his feet. He bit back a small groan as his body protested the movement. His right arm felt stiff and swollen, and a glance down told him he would need to change out the dressing for a new one soon. But first things first…

Moving slowly around the bush, he approached the area where the two men had been standing moments before, his stomach clenching in sudden apprehension. He could make out a large hole dug in the soft earth near the river bank, a webbing of branches and rope forming a rough covering over the top of the hole, with four large rocks weighing down the edges of the covering. As Sam moved nearer, a tangy smell filled his nostrils, the scent familiar in a way that sent a shiver down the back of his neck.

Stepping to the edge of the hole, he glanced down through the branch covering, then immediately looked away, his body shuddering in horror and disgust. He clenched his jaw tightly, fighting to control the hot wave of anger sweeping through his body. Taking a steadying breath, he returned his gaze to the contents of the pit, his eyes traveling sadly over the tangle of bloody limbs lying haphazardly at the bottom of the shallow hole. He counted four bodies, each clad only in a black pair of sweat pants, their still forms smeared with dark blood.

Sam stepped back away from the hole, his eyes turning in the direction the two men's voices had disappeared. He was surprised to see what looked like a narrow trail angling away from the river and into the trees. He hesitated for only a moment before heading in the direction of the trail.

He knew it could be dangerous…following the men…but years of hunting had ingrained in him the instinct to track down anything out of the ordinary…anything evil. Even inured and hurting, he couldn't resist the desire to figure out what the hell was going on.

As he moved cautiously down the trail he began to piece together the snatches of conversation he had overhead, pulling what information he could out of them. He didn't have a whole lot to go on, but Sam had a quick mind, and it didn't take him long to form a rough idea of what he thought might be going on. Roy and Trevor had both mentioned something about a fight, and if the bodies back by the river were any indication, it wasn't your typical kind of fight. Somewhere before him, men were battling to the death, and Sam needed to figure out the how and why of it.

He was a little short on details, but somehow he knew that everything that was going on centered around the missing hikers. It was the only thing that made sense. Rawly had tried to kill Sam after he had started asking questions about the hikers, making it fairly obvious that he was trying to cover up something. Whatever he and Dean had stumbled on here, it was something big

Shaking his head, Sam started up the trail once more, breathing heavily as the path began to slope sharply upward. As soon as he had gathered more information, he would focus on getting back to town and finding his brother. Dean would be pissed to find out they weren't dealing with a spirit or other unnatural entity after all. He knew Dean didn't like to get involved in issues that weren't strictly supernatural in nature, but Sam felt confident he could convince his brother to make an exception this one time. After all, this whole thing had become somewhat personal to Sam when Rawly had shot him. There was no way in hell he was going to leave this one alone.

And of course, when it came down to it, neither would Dean. After all, someone had hurt his little brother, and Sam knew that Dean didn't handle that too well. It was a protective streak that had been ingrained in Dean from the moment his brother had carried him from their burning home in Lawrence. As soon as Dean saw Sam's injuries and learned the cause of them, he would be furious. Sam couldn't help the small smirk that flitted across his face at the thought of sheriff Rawly facing the wrath of his big brother. Dean was downright scary when angry…he would rip the sheriff to pieces if given the chance.

Sam smiled somewhat wistfully as his mind took him back to other instances where his brother had acted the protector. Sam hadn't hit his growth spurt until later than most of the kids in his age group, which often made him the smallest in his class. As such, he had always seemed to attract the bullies. That is, until they encountered his older brother for the first time. Sam had never been bullied more than once in any one school they had attended…Dean had seen to that. Dean had always protected him.

Dean still protects me, Sam thought seriously. It was different, now, sure…but it was also the Sam. The bullies threatening Sam were just a little more dangerous now.

A sudden loud roar of noise from somewhere not far in front of him caused Sam to stumble, jerking his thoughts back to the present. He slowed his steps, trying to peer through the thick trees around him to find the source of the noise. It came again…the clear sound of a crowd shouting and cheering. Sam rounded a sharp bend in the trail, then immediately dropped to a crouch, moving from the open trail to the thick cover of the trees beside him. Before him, the path opened into a large clearing, and he could see the backs of several large tents before him.

The sounds of the crowd were growing louder, but Sam couldn't see the source from his current position, the tents blocking his view of the rest of the clearing. Creeping forward warily, his eyes sweeping the area around him, he cautiously left the cover of the trees and raced for the shadows of the nearest tent. Once there, he carefully inched forward until he could peer around the side of the tent, his body tense and ready to bolt back to the trees at the first indication he had been spotted. His fear was unfounded, however, as the area around him seemed completely deserted.

Another loud roar from the crowd drew his attention, his eyes seeking out the cause of the commotion. It was not hard to find. A small arena stood at the center of the clearing, flanked by two metal bleachers. The noise was coming from the crowd lining the bleachers, but they were not what drew Sam's immediate gaze. Two figures stood locked in a desperate struggle in the center of the arena, their bodies slick with sweat, their hands locked around each other's wrists. Both men held weapons; long daggers with sharp looking points, and as Sam watched, they shuffled back and forth across the sand of the arena, each one obviously attempting to break the others hold on their wrist so they could make use of the deadly weapon.

The fighter facing Sam's direction was a large black man, tall and heavily muscled, his features set in rock hard determination. His opponent was much smaller, but seemed to be somehow miraculously holding his own against his larger assailant…at least for the time being.

Despite himself, Sam stood transfixed by the vicious struggle going on before him, unable to tear his gaze away from the life and death battle. Even as he watched, the large black man made his move. With a roar of pure power, he jerked his smaller opponent close to him, then just as quickly thrust him away, twisting his body forcefully so that his rival was thrown off balance. Sam watched as the smaller man was thrown bodily to the arena floor, not quite managing to twist away from the black man's sweeping blade.

The crowd screamed in excitement as crimson blood splashed across the sand of the arena, but if they thought the fight was over, they were in for a surprise. Using both his legs as a ram, the fallen man kicked at the knees of his approaching opponent, causing the black man to stumble back and away. Using the brief respite, the shorter man rolled to the side and quickly pushed himself to his feet, his bare chest and stomach covered in bright red blood.

For the first time, the second fighter stood facing Sam's direction, and Sam felt all the air leave his chest in a sudden exhale of horror. His heart stopped beating, his eyes widening in shocked recognition as time seemed to grind to a halt.

It can't be, he thought numbly, staring at the man bleeding at the center of the arena. No!

But there was no denying his own eyes, and Sam couldn't hold back the horrified whisper of fear that crawled from his chest.

"Dean!"

Evil little cliffy, I know. But at least the boys are back together again…er…sort of. If you are so inclined, let me know what you think…I value each and every review I receive!