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: Special thanks to Sojourns, tictak, Anon, deanssammy, and DearHart. I am so glad you all are enjoying the story and hope this chapter meets up to expectations.

Chapter 6

For the second time in one day, Dean wondered if he was about to die.

He stumbled back across the soft sand of the arena, breathing hard as he attempted to put some distance between himself and his attacker while he regained his balance. Fiery pain lanced low across his chest, and he could feel the warm wetness of his blood flowing freely down his ribs and across his stomach. His opponent's blade had sliced deep, and Dean was only too aware of how close he had come to being gutted. Another few inches, and his intestines would have been spread across the arena floor. His heart was pounding a frantic tempo inside his chest, and he knew it was pure, desperate adrenaline that had allowed him to fend off his attacker long enough to gain his feet.

The cheers and screams of the crowd echoed loudly in the late afternoon air, but Dean forced the noise from his consciousness, focusing instead on his large opponent. With an effort of will, he pushed the pain of his injury to the back of his mind, to be brought forward and acknowledged later…if he survived.

It didn't take long for his opponent to regain his balance and start to stalk toward him once again, his bloodstained blade held out confidently before him. Dean watched his approach warily, taking a small step back even as he desperately weighed his options. As much as he hated to admit it, his adversary was both bigger and stronger than him, which meant Dean didn't stand much chance in a battle of strength—as the cut across his lower chest could certainly attest to. If he were to stand any chance at all, he would need to depend on his speed and quick reflexes, and avoid allowing his opponent to work him into a corner where he could easily pin him down.

Without warning, the black man darted forward, his knife sweeping in a deadly arc toward Dean's face. Dean's own blade snapped up to meet it, the two weapons colliding with a metallic clang as steel slid along steel. Dean slashed back immediately with a counterstroke, but his opponent batted his blade away with ease. Dean found himself on the defensive, blocking several more slashes in a lightening quick barrage of razor sharp steel. The black man was good, his movements precise and sharp, making it obvious that he was no novice when it came to fighting with a blade. But of course, neither was Dean, and he met his adversary strike for strike, his knife always rising to sweep the man's blade away from his flesh at seemingly the last moment. Even as they fought, Dean made sure he kept moving, keeping enough distance between himself and his attacker so that the larger man couldn't reach out and grab him.

After a few minutes of frantic battle they broke apart…taking small steps back and regarding each other across the soft sand of the arena, their chests heaving as they fought to catch their breath. Their reprieve was brief, however, and as if on cue they both moved forward in unison, their blades clashing together in another series of thrusts and parries. Just as Dean had suspected, he was slightly quicker than his larger opponent, and as the battle wore on, he was able to score several nicks and cuts across the man's arm and upper body. The wounds were far from serious, however, and they did nothing to slow the intensity in his adversary's attack. Dean, on the other hand, was quickly growing weary as the blood from his wound steadily leeched him of vital strength and energy.

The two combatants broke apart once again…their ragged breathing completely lost in the roar of the crowd. As Dean warily watched his opponent for any sign of his next attack, his mind suddenly flashed back to another fight…one that had taken place many years before, when he was only thirteen. He had been walking back to the hotel after a late night run to the convenient store when two boys had jumped him. Both boys were much older and bigger than him, and they'd had a knife. Dean had fought back as best he could, but in the end they had left him beaten and bloody, relieving him of all the cash he'd been carrying. When his father had returned from a hunt the next day, Dean had expected him to be furious about the lost money, but his father hadn't said a word about the cash. Instead…when Dean had sufficiently healed from his injuries …John had taken him out to an abandoned field at the edge of town. His father had spent several hours showing Dean different pressure points and nerve clusters in the human body that could be used to quickly drop an enemy…even one bigger and stronger than yourself.

Now…standing in the bloody sand of the arena…his father's lesson came back to him with crystal clarity, and he suddenly knew what he needed to do. It would not be easy, and there was a good chance he would get himself stabbed in the process, but Dean knew he was quickly running out of time and options.

All of this flashed through his mind in the space of a few heartbeats, and Dean felt new resolve lend fresh energy to his tired limbs. His grip on the hilt of his knife tightened in the same instant his opponent charged forward to renew his attack.

Dean took a quick step back, then brought his right foot sweeping forward through the sand of the arena, kicking up a spray of dirt straight into the face of his charging foe. The large man flinched, ducking his head quickly to one side to avoid the flying sand. In that single instant of distraction, Dean made his move. He darted forward, his right arm raising his knife to block the clumsy swing his opponent aimed his way. Then, quick as lightning, he dropped to one knee, driving his left hand forward in a sharp blow aimed directly for the side of the man's knee. The blow hit dead on, causing the large man's leg to buckle beneath him. Even as his opponent fell, Dean was rising, his hand flashing out twice more, the blows quick and precise. The first strike landed on the man's wrist, sending his knife spinning away across the arena. Dean's second blow…an opened handed chop… struck home with all the force he could muster, straight into the joint where shoulder meets neck. His aim was true, and without so much as a grunt, the large man's eyes rolled to the back of his head and he collapsed, boneless, to the ground at Dean's feet.

It all happened so fast that it took the screaming crowd several moments to comprehend what they had seen. Once they did, their shouts faded into abrupt, shocked silence. For what seemed like an eternity the harsh sound of Dean's heavy breathing was the only sound to be heard.

Then, suddenly, the crowd erupted in cheers, many of them chanting his name, their cries reaching an almost feverish pitch.

Dean swallowed hard as he stared down at the crumpled form at his feet, his knife still gripped tightly in his right hand. He could feel his adrenaline slowly fading, leaving him weak and shaky. Without the fight to keep his focus, the pain of the cut across his chest slammed into him full force, and he had to widen his stance slightly as he swayed, trying to stay on his feet as the crowd screamed and cheered around him.

Suddenly, Ty was standing before him, two other guards moving around to flank Dean from behind, their rifles held at the ready across their chests. Ty's expression was one of surprised appreciation as he looked Dean up and down before casting a dismissing glance at the unconscious form at his feet.

"Finish it," he ordered simply, gesturing at the knife held tightly in Dean's fist.

Dean frowned at him in momentary confusion before realization hit home and his eyes widened in sudden understanding. He glanced down at the unconscious man at his feet, his stomach clenching. When he lifted his gaze back up to Ty, his expression was hard. "No," he said simply, his reply lost to all but Ty in the noise of the crowd.

Ty's eyes narrowed, his expression tightening. "Finish it!" he repeated, his voice sharper. "You might want to hurry, before he wakes up."

Dean's jaw clenched, and in reply he cast the knife he held down into the sand at his feet, his features defiant.

Slowly, the noise of the crowd began to fade once more as the men in the stands became aware of the silent showdown happening on the arena floor.

Ty's features were a mass of tightly controlled anger as he reached into his jacket and withdrew his revolver, pointing the weapon straight at Dean's chest. "Pick up the damn knife and kill him," he ordered harshly through clenched teeth.

Silence descended like a blanket across the arena as everyone watched and waited to see what Dean would do.

Dean looked at the barrel of the gun pointed at him, his heart picking up speed. He knew if he refused Ty's command he was a dead man, and almost against his will his eyes dropped to where the knife lay in the sand by his feet. He could feel his body shaking, every ounce of his strength directed at keeping him upright…on his feet. If he bent over to pick up the knife right now, he wasn't at all sure he wouldn't end up face first in the sand of the arena.

His eyes darted to the unconscious man at his feet. A few moments ago the man had been set on killing him…had in fact come damn close to succeeding. If their positions were reversed now, Dean had no doubt the black man wouldn't hesitate to slit his throat and end his life. And yet as Dean stared at his limp form, he couldn't bring himself to hate the man, or even to blame him really. The man was nothing more than a pawn in Ty's convoluted game…same as Dean…same as Ben…same as all the other poor bastards who had lost their lives that day for the sick entertainment of a blood-thirsty crowd.

Quite frankly, Dean was tired of dancing on someone else's string. Killing an opponent in the heat of battle while acting in self-defense was one thing, but that was not what Ty was asking him to do now. The black man at his feet was completely helpless, and Dean knew there was no way he would be able to kill him in cold blood.

He raised his eyes to meet Ty's gaze, his features set in cold defiance. He made no move to pick up his discarded knife, but merely raised his chin and stared back at his captor with calm challenge. His mind flashed briefly to his brother, but Dean brutally pushed all thoughts of Sam away, knowing they would only serve to steal his resolve.

Ty's features darkened with barely suppressed rage as it became clear that Dean had no intention of doing as ordered. He stared at Dean for several long seconds, his jaw clenched tightly together. Then, with no warning, he aimed his gun and fired…two shots ringing out in rapid succession.

Dean jerked back, gasping in anticipated pain…but the bullets he had expected to tear through his body never landed. At the last moment Ty's aim had shifted, and both bullets tore through the head of the unconscious man on the ground, sending blood and other matter in a gruesome spray across the arena's sand.

Dean stared down in shock at the body at his feet, his mind taking several second to fully register what had happened. When realization finally hit, a hot wave of anger flashed through him, and he was suddenly no longer aware of the revolver still held in Ty's hand, no longer aware of the two guards standing at his back…or of the crowd watching in anticipated silence. Caution and reason fled from him like leaves before an angry wind as something inside of him snapped. He wasn't even aware he was moving forward until his body crashed into Ty, driving them both backward and down into the arena sand. Ty's look of startled surprise was almost comical, until Dean's fist slammed violently into his mouth.

His attack had been so sudden that the guards at his back were taken completely by surprise. It was Ty's cry of pain, followed almost immediately by the sudden roar of the crowd that finally jerked them from their frozen shock. They moved forward to grab Dean, but not before he got off two more quick blows into Ty's startled face. As he was dragged backwards, Dean continued to struggle and thrash against the hands holding him, completely lost in the heat of his anger.

One of the guards backhanded him across the face, but in his enraged state, the blow did little to slow his wild struggles.

Suddenly Ty's face loomed before him, his eyes black pools of anger, thin trails of blood spilling from both his nose and his bottom lip. Dean heard him curse and saw him raise his revolver. Using the weapon as a club, Ty brought the handle down in a sharp blow against the side of Dean's head.

His vision exploded into thousands of bright stars, and Dean felt his body go limp as pain blossomed through his head. He blinked his eyes slowly, fighting to remain conscious as he was dragged forward and out of the arena, his legs dragging limply across the rough ground. His mind was too fuzzy to pay much attention to where he was being taken, but a moment later one of the guards holding him reached out and swept aside the flap to a small green tent, dragging Dean unceremoniously inside.

Dean caught a quick glimpse of the tent's dim interior before his captors manhandled him up and onto a low table located near the center of the tent. Still trying to clear his muddled brain, Dean forgot to fight back as the guards roughly grabbed his wrists and ankles and bound them tightly with thick leather straps bolted securely to the rough top of the wooden table.

Strapped firmly in place, Dean could move only his head, and he was hesitant to do so as it sent sharp spikes of pain through his temple. His guards moved back to stand at easy attention several feet away, and Dean let his eyes drift closed, fighting off the pounding pain that seemed to envelop every inch of his body.

A moment later the tent flap was swept aside and Ty strode in, followed closely by a short, balding man in a long, blood-stained white coat. Ty was holding a wet cloth against his face, traces of blood marring the fabric in bright red blotches. His gaze fell on Dean strapped helplessly to the table, and his expression was not at all pleasant as he stalked closer.

Upon reaching the table, Ty reached out and tangled his fist in Dean's hair, jerking his head back at a sharp angle and sending a piercing flash of pain through his skull. "That was a foolish little act you put on out there," he hissed, bending low over Dean and piercing him with a fierce glare. "If I didn't need you for the final fight tomorrow, I would put a bullet through your brain right here and now."

"Go ahead," Dean growled, his earlier defiance stirring to life once again.

Ty gave him a tight smile, releasing Dean's hair with a sharp jerk of his wrist. "I don't think so," he replied with a sneer. "You're not getting out of this that easily." He turned to glance at the balding man still standing near the entrance to the tent. "Get a move on, Collins," he barked out impatiently. "We can't have him bleeding to death on us."

The man named Collins hurried forward, bringing with him the strong smell of whiskey. He disappeared from Dean's view for a brief moment, and when he reappeared he was pulling on two white gloves. He leaned over Dean's chest, looking none to steady on his feet, his eyes blinking blearily in the dim light. He reached out a gloved finger to poke at Dean's torso, and Dean couldn't stop the small hiss of discomfort that slipped between his lips at the man's none too gentle prodding.

"The cut is long and deep," the man stated, his voice carrying a slight slur. "I'll have to clean it out a little before I can close it up."

Ty's only response was a curt nod, and the small man disappeared from Dean's view once more. This time when he came back he was holding a long white cloth in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

Collins took a single, long swig of the alcohol, then…with a look of regret…upended the rest of the bottle's contents over Dean's exposed chest.

Dean groaned, his muscles tightening as the burning pain in his chest doubled. When Collins reached out and began swiping the cloth across the jagged cut, cleaning away the blood and sand from the arena, Dean jerked against his restraining bonds, his eyes clenched tightly closed as his breathing turned ragged. He bit down hard on his lip to keep from crying out, the coppery taste of blood trickling across his tongue and down the back of his throat, making him feel slightly nauseas.

It seemed to take forever, but finally Collins stepped back, tossing the blood stained rag behind him. "It will have to do," he grumbled, his eyes moving to Ty.

Dean let out a low exhale of relief, causing Ty to glance down at him with a small smirk. "Hurt much?" the man asked in a quietly mocking voice. "Trust me, it's about to get worse." Dean didn't reply, and Ty turned his attention back to Collins.

"I can sew him up…" the short man began.

Oh God, no! Dean thought. The man hardly looked steady enough to thread a needle.

"Or I can burn the would closed," the man finished, flourishing the flat blade of a thick knife in one hand.

Oh shit! Dean thought, unconsciously tensing against the bindings holding him down to the table.

"Burn it closed," Ty ordered, turning to face Dean once more, his expression making it obvious that he was enjoying the look of fear that Dean couldn't entirely keep from his features. "I've seen your work with a needle, Collins. We need the young man alive." His grin turned feral. "For the time being, anyway," he finished softly.

Dean swallowed hard, his heart rate accelerating with the knowledge of what was about to happen. He shifted uncomfortably on the hard table, flexing his wrists and ankles as he tested the strength of the bonds holding him. Not surprisingly, the thick leather held tight, and Dean collapsed back against the table, trying desperately to reign in his rising panic.

Collins had disappeared from view once again, but Dean could hear the unmistakable hiss of a propane torch sputtering to life somewhere out of sight. Soon the metallic scent of heated metal reached his nose, and he had to fight down the sudden urge to gag.

Dean fought to remember the different calming techniques his father had taught him, but his mind couldn't seem to focus on anything but the soft hiss of the torch. By the time Collins moved back into view holding the ominously glowing knife before him, Dean's breath was coming in short, sharp pants, and a thin sheen of sweet covered his face.

"Hold him still," Ty ordered, and the two guards stepped forward once more, one leaning across Dean's legs while the other took hold of his shoulders.

Dean's whole body stiffened and he only had time to drag in one final ragged breath before Collins stepped forward and laid the red-hot blade flat against the cut on his chest.

Pain as severe as any he had ever known swept through Dean, and he felt his body arch up off the table despite the leather straps and the strong arms of the men holding him. A cry tore from his lips, the sickening smell of burning flesh filling his nostrils. He twisted against his restraints, crying out again as he desperately sought some escape…any escape…from the searing agony. Unbidden tears filled his eyes and his lungs momentarily forgot how to function as his whole body hung suspended in an ocean of agony.

Collins held the knife against Dean's wound for a good five seconds, each seeming more like an eternity to Dean. When the man finally removed the slightly smoking blade, Dean's body collapsed back against the hard wood of the table, his breath rasping in and out in desperate pants. His body was trembling uncontrollably, and he could feel the dark promise of unconsciousness hovering just on the outskirts of his mind. He welcomed the darkness, desperate for the relief it would offer, however temporary.

Before he could slip away into oblivion, however, Ty's face swam into view above him, the man's face twisted in a vindictive smile. "I told you it was going to get worse," he taunted softly. "By the way, you should know that your brother is dead. Rawly took him out of town yesterday morning and shot him. I promised you I would tell you if you survived the day, and so you have."

Dean blinked, his mind fighting to comprehend the words spoken so coldly and casually. All the air seemed to have left his lungs as he desperately searched Ty's expression for any sign that the man was lying. What he saw on his captor's face sent terror through him, and a vicious spike of pain that had nothing to do with his injuries flared deep in his chest. His heart seemed to have stopped beating along with his breathing, and a dull humming began to fill his ears.

No! It can't be! Dean's mind refused to accept Ty's words, but the pain in his chest…centered somewhere over his heart…was continuing to grow, blocking out even the pain of his burned flesh. He squeezed his eyes shut, calling to the darkness still playing at the edges of his mind, reaching out to embrace it…to pull it close…desperate for the relief it would offer.

Even as he drifted away on a sea of darkness, he heard Ty's final words. "Put him in the pit for the night. Tomorrow…he dies."

Sam felt sick.

He wiped a shaking hand across his mouth, swallowing down the bitter taste of bile that coated his tongue and the back of his throat. He longed for a cool drink of water, but was unsure he would be able to keep any liquid down even if he had some. At least he had managed to get his retching and dry-heaving under control, though he wasn't sure for how long.

He closed his eyes and fought back against the nausea, crouching low behind the tangle of bushes that was his current hiding place. He had been forced to retreat to the edge of the forest when the men around the arena had begun to disperse after the fight, heading toward the cluster of tents…or more specifically, toward the large pavilion at the center of the tents that seemed to be the camp's main gathering place. The large thicket where he hid was dangerously close to the edge of camp, but Sam was unwilling to move farther back into the safety of the trees. His hiding place gave him a clear view of the small green tent in which his brother's bloody form had been dragged several minutes prior, and Sam refused to let the small enclosure out of his sight.

He wished he could see what was going on behind the thick canvas of the tent. Not knowing what was happening to Dean…or even if his brother was okay…was at least partly responsible for the sick feeling clenching his stomach. There had been a lot of blood covering Dean as he was dragged away, and Sam couldn't stop the small shudder that racked his frame at the thought of his normally strong and indestructible brother looking so limp and frail.

He was still having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that his brother was here…the last place Sam was expecting to find him. The whole time he had been wandering about in the wilderness he had been concerned for his brother…afraid that Dean would somehow get caught up in whatever crazy mess Sam had managed to stumble into. But he had never imagined anything like this. The image of his brother standing bloody and defiant in the middle of the arena while the crowd chanted his name was forever seared into Sam's brain

Watching Dean's fight in the arena and the subsequent showdown against his captors had been pure torture for Sam. He couldn't remember ever feeling so weak and helpless. He had always considered it his job to back his brother up in a fight, and being forced to watch Dean battle for his life while remaining safely hidden away behind the tent had been the hardest thing he had ever done. Every fiber of his being had wanted to rush from his cover behind the tent and race to his brother's side, and to hell with all the guards standing in the way. Only the sure knowledge that such action would only end with him captured or killed had kept him where he was. He couldn't help Dean if he were dead.

But now he wondered if he had made the right choice. He was afraid for Dean…afraid that by not acting he had somehow lost his brother … that it was too late and he wouldn't be able to save Dean. He couldn't seem to stop the trembling that shook his body, and he knew his fever was only partly to blame for the tremors.

With a bitter curse Sam ruthlessly shoved his fear away. He would save Dean…there was no other option. He couldn't even begin to fathom life without the strong and ever-present anchor that was his brother. Dean could annoy the hell out of him at times, and there were moments when Sam wished they could have some space…but the truth was, a world without Dean in it would be a dark and lonely place, and Sam wasn't at all sure he could survive it. He wasn't sure he would want to.

Sam crouched lower behind the thick screen of brush as a man with a rifle slung casually over one shoulder passed by a mere ten yards away. He had observed a couple such guards patrolling around the camp, but they were few and far between, and most seemed more concerned with the various goings on within the camp than anything that might be approaching from outside. This suited Sam just fine, as did the heavy drinking that was currently taking place within the large pavilion. Disinterested guards and drunk inhabitants would make movement throughout the camp much easier when the time came for him to make his move.

A sudden cry sounded from the camp, rising over the laughter and shouts coming from the pavilion and causing Sam to jerk upright, his heart leaping into his throat. His gaze snapped to the small green tent, and when the cry sounded again, he found himself on his feet and moving from the cover of brush before his brain completely comprehended what he was doing. With extreme effort he forced himself to freeze, caution tempering his wild reaction to the sound of his brother's pain. His eyes darted around him, his hands clenching into fists at his side. Every instinct in his body was screaming at him to find Dean…to stop whatever torment was causing his brother to cry out, but the part of his brain still functioning warned him that any rash action now would only ruin any chance he had at a successful rescue later.

"God, Dean," he whispered harshly, dropping back behind the cover of brush, hot tears of frustration blurring his vision. He had no way of knowing what was happening to his brother, but he had to believe that the men who had him wanted him alive. The tall man who had faced off against Dean after the fight had acted to subdue his brother rather than kill him, and Sam desperately clung to the small hope that fact offered.

Nightfall was only a few hours away and Sam knew his best bet was to sit tight, wait, and watch until he had the cover of darkness to help better shield his movements. He didn't like the idea of waiting, but until he knew more about what was going on with his brother, he couldn't come up with a proper plan to free him.

With a frustrated growl, Sam settled back into his silent vigil, unsure whether he should be grateful or worried when no more cries of pain issued from the tent. As he watched, he became more and more aware of the aches and pains of his own body. The bandage around his arm was completely soaked through once more, and Sam could feel the warmth of his blood as it blazed a trail down his forearm. When the blood reached his hand and began a slow drip from his fingers, he realized he wouldn't be able to ignore the injury any longer.

Working awkwardly with his left hand, Sam began to tear another strip from the bottom of his already tattered shirt, keeping a wary eye out for the next guard on patrol. When he had a long enough piece, he reached up and began to work at the knot holding the old bandage in place, his jaw clenched tightly against the pain. The material of the bandage was made wet and slippery with blood, and it took Sam several minutes before he was finally able to peel the saturated material away from his forearm. He groaned softly, his breath hissing in between clenched teeth as the cloth slid away to reveal the jagged wound. His arm felt hot and stiff, and beneath the steady flow of blood, Sam could tell the skin around the injury was red and swollen.

Grimacing, he quickly wrapped the new bandage twice around his forearm, using his left hand and his teeth to pull the material tight against the wound. He fought against the urge to cry out, his jaw clenched tightly shut as he breathed heavily through his nose and tried not to pass out. He was sweating profusely, his vision blurred around the edges as his stomach rolled in nauseating waves. He was certain that if he'd had anything in his stomach, he would have promptly lost it all over the bushes.

It took several minutes before Sam was able to get his body back under control, but at least the heavy flow of blood from his arm was once again decreased. He had no way to know how much blood he had lost since being shot, but he guessed it was more than was safe. Add to that his fever and undeniable infection, and he could feel his body weakening by the minute. He could only hope that he would have the strength to last long enough to rescue his brother and get them both to safety.

The wind was beginning to pick up, catching at his clothes and blowing his hair into his eyes. A low rumble sounded from the east, and Sam raised his eyes to the sky, noting the thick, dark clouds that were slowly blanketing the far horizon. The air smelled of the promise of rain, and Sam found himself wondering idly if the approaching storm would turn out to be a blessing or a curse.

Turning his gaze from the sky back to the camp, he pulled himself to attention as the front flap of the green tent was swept open and the tall man from the arena stepped out. The man glanced slowly around the camp, then turned and called something indiscernible back into the tent before striding off quickly toward the large pavilion. Sam watched him go, then jerked his attention back to the tent just as the entrance was pushed open once more and the two guards from the arena stepped out, again dragging the limp form of his brother between them.

Sam leaned forward, peering through the brush intently, holding his breath without even realizing it. Dean was completely lax between the two large men, his head hanging loosely forward, his chin touching his chest. He was still naked to the waist, but now a large white bandage swathed the lower part of his torso. Sam let out the breath he had been holding in a long sigh, the relief at seeing his brother again…even limp and unconscious…palpable. Dean was alive, and to Sam that was all that mattered at the moment.

The two guards turned and began hauling Dean in the opposite direction from the group of tents, his brother's booted feet dragging and bumping along in the dirt behind them. The men carried his brother toward the far end of the camp, and Sam cautiously moved to follow them, keeping to the edge of the forest and watching cautiously for any sign of the patrolling guards. He knew he was taking a risk moving about in the open, but he needed to know where the men were taking his brother.

The two guards had moved well past the arena and last string of tents before they finally dropped Dean's unconscious form unceremoniously to the ground. Leaving his brother lying motionless, the men leaned over and began messing with what looked like a metal door lying flat against the ground. Looking at it from a distance, Sam was reminded of the door to the old storm cellar back at Pastor Jim's house. As children, he and Dean had snuck down to the cellar on more than one occasion to practice their poker, look at dirty magazines, or any of the half a dozen other activities that were generally frowned upon by the gentle natured pastor.

There was something far more ominous about this door than the one at Pastor Jim's, however. One of the guards swung the heavy metal panel open on thick hinges while the other guard moved over to Dean and hooked his arms beneath his brother's armpits. Dragging Dean backwards, the man straddled the opening formed by the open door before lowering his brother's limp form down and out of sight. Whatever opening lay beyond the door, it couldn't have been very large or deep, and Sam's breath caught in his throat as he watched the men swing the heavy metal panel shut once more, fastening the door with several metal bolts and effectively burying his brother in the ground.

Sam let out his breath slowly, watching as the two men conversed briefly before one turned and strode off back in the direction of the camp while the second man remained where he was, standing guard over Dean's underground prison. Now that he knew where his brother was being held he could plan how to get him out of there. The pit was near the edge of camp, but it was still out in the open…exposed. He didn't think one guard would be too much to handle, but it would only take one person looking in the wrong direction at the wrong time for the whole gig to be up. He would still need to wait for the cover of darkness to make his move, and if he could come up with some sort of distraction…something that would keep everyone's attention away from that section of camp…all the better.

A slow idea began to take form in Sam's mind, and he couldn't stop a small smile from tugging up the corners of his mouth. If his plan worked, it would not only serve to keep the camp's inhabitants totally distracted, but it might also allow him to rescue Dean and escape without anyone ever being the wiser…at least for a while. By the time Dean's disappearance was discovered, hopefully he and his brother would be long gone.

Running a hand through his long hair, Sam gave a determined nod, his mind made up. In order for his plan to work, he would need some things, and he had only a few hours in which to find them. His gaze swept to the section of camp where the vehicles were parked, his eyes narrowing in speculation.

He glanced back toward the pit where his brother was being held, sending a silent message with his thoughts. Hold on, Dean. I'm coming to get you…just hold on!

Moving deeper into the cover of the trees, Sam began working his way back around camp in the direction of the parked cars, his movements silent and stealthy in the growing gloom of evening. The heavy clouds to the east were moving steadily nearer, growing darker and more ominous by the minute, adding to the heavy shadows already cast by the setting sun. Sam listened to a distant roll of thunder and worried briefly that the approaching storm might throw a wrench into his plans. He could only hope that the rain would hold off until after he had set things in motion.

It took him several minutes to work his way around the clearing to the section where the vehicles were parked, and then he waited several more minutes on the outskirts of the trees, watching and waiting for any sign of guards. When he felt fairly confident that no one was around, he dashed from the cover of the woods, crouching low until he reached the cover of the first vehicle…a sleek black Cadillac sedan.

Letting his gaze sweep dismissively over the nearest set of cars…all luxury vehicles of one kind or another…Sam finally found what he was looking for; a beat up brown Ford pickup truck with an attached bed camper. Keeping a cautious eye out for any patrolling guards, he carefully maneuvered himself over to the truck, pressing himself against the passenger side door. Closing his eyes briefly and praying for luck, he reached out and slowly tried the handle, releasing a deep sigh of relief upon finding the truck unlocked. Cautiously he pulled the door open… wincing at the slight creak in the old metal hinges…and leaned inside.

A quick glance around the truck's interior showed him about what he had expected…empty beer cans, paper litter, an old toolbox, and a greasy cloth sitting on the passenger's seat. Reaching for the glove box, Sam opened it up and rooted around, shoving aside more paper and a thick book he assumed was the truck's operating manual.

Bingo!

His hand closed around the thin metal cylinder of a cigarette lighter, and he drew the object carefully out, testing it with a single flick of his thumb. A flame danced to life on the head of the lighter, and with a satisfied nod Sam let the fire die. Stuffing the lighter into his pants pocket, he finished his quick search of the truck and then carefully backed out, easing the door shut behind him.

For the next thirty minutes…as evening steadily darkened into night and the storm clouds drew ever closer…Sam moved through the mass of vehicles, picking out the older, more run-down models and raiding and pillaging their contents. By the time he had moved back to the cover of the trees, his pockets were bulging with his newfound treasures, and he carried two light denim jackets over his left shoulder.

Settling back into the shelter of the forest, Sam did a quick inventory in the rapidly failing light. Besides the original lighter, he had a matchbook, a wad of old newspaper, two pocketknives, a flashlight, a bottle of water, a roll of twine, and…his prize find…a small first-aid kit. Prying open the kit he found it stocked with several band aids, alcohol wipes, a tube of antiseptic ointment, individual packets of aspirin, gauze pads and a small roll of medical tape.

Tearing open two of the aspirin packets, he popped the four small pills into his mouth before prying the top off the bottled water and taking a couple small swallows to wash the medicine down. He resisted the urge to drink more of the water, not knowing how long the single bottle would need to last.

Snapping the first-aid kit closed and replacing the lid on the water, he began repacking the stolen goods in his pockets. He took a minute to shrug into the larger of the two jackets, wincing heavily as he slid his injured arm into the jacket's sleeve. He tied the second jacket firmly around his waist and then slowly pushed himself to his feet. He had to reach out a hand and steady himself against the trunk of a nearby tree as a wave of dizziness swept over him. Breathing deeply until it had passed, Sam began the slow journey back around the clearing toward the cluster of tents.

It was growing steadily darker by the minute, and he had to move with caution to avoid running into branches or tripping over hidden roots. The wind was picking up, the heavy scent of rain even more prominent in the chilly air, and Sam felt a sense of urgency driving him to hurry. As he drew closer to the group of tents the sounds of laughter and merriment grew louder, drifting from the large pavilion where most of the camps inhabitants seemed to be gathered. Several lanterns had been set around the edges of the pavilion and throughout the rest of the camp to chase away the approaching dark, the light from the flames flickering and shifting in the steady wind, casting dancing shadows across the canvas of the tents.

As soon as Sam was sure there were no guards patrolling the area, he darted from the trees and into the camp, slipping in among the tents while keeping his distance from the well-lit and heavily populated pavilion. Finding a large brown tent on the very outskirts of the camp, Sam pressed against its sides and listened intently for any sounds from the interior. After a full minute had passed without him hearing anything, he cautiously knelt at its front and slowly unzipped the front flap. Peering inside, he breathed a sigh of relief when he found the tent to be deserted. Several sleeping bags, some blankets and pillows, piles of clothes, and a couple of magazines were the tent's only contents.

Quickly slipping inside, Sam set about gathering anything that would easily burn and placing it in a large pile in once corner of the tent, all the while listening closely for any sounds of approach. All he could hear were the shouts and laughter form the pavilion, and he hoped that the tent's inhabitants were too busy drinking and making merry to want to return anytime soon.

Once he had everything in a pile, he rifled through his pockets until he found the lighter and wad of newspaper. Quickly flicking the lighter to life, he lit one end of the newspaper, watching as the paper ignited and began to burn fiercely. Laying the newspaper down against the edge of the pile, he took a cautious step back, watching to make sure the fire was going to take hold.

It took less time than he had expected…a shirt and then some blankets catching fire and quickly spreading the flame to the rest of the pile. Thick smoke was already beginning to fill the tent, and with a satisfied nod, Sam turned and slipped out, making sure to re-zip the tent's entrance behind him. He knew the clock was ticking now and he would need to move quickly if he was to make the most of his planned distraction.

Moving back to the edge of the trees, he began to run, trusting to luck more than anything else to keep him from tripping and falling in the inky darkness. A sudden flash of lightening lit the sky around him, followed almost immediately by the deep bass thrum of thunder. Sam flinched, stumbling slightly as he blinked his eyes to clear his vision after the unexpected bright light. At the same moment, cries of alarm began to ring out from behind him, the word fire clearly distinguishable among the shouts.

Sam didn't bother to turn, but pushed his feet to move faster, his eyes peering intently through the darkness before him.

I'm coming, Dean, he thought fiercely. Let's get the hell out of this place!

Dean's return trip to consciousness was not a pleasant one. The first thing he became aware of was a pounding headache playing havoc with his skull. He moaned, his eyes screwing even tighter shut, his body instinctively flinching away from the pain. But even that small movement was enough to bring to his awareness his other injuries…primarily the burning, lancing pain across his lower abdomen.

Son of bitch!

Dean's eyes popped open, only to be met with the continued presence of darkness. He blinked his lids several times, wondering if he had somehow gone blind. When he attempted to raise his hand to rub at his aching temple, his elbow struck against something solid above him.

Dean froze, his senses slowly returning to him. He realized he was lying on his back, the earthy scent of dirt and grass filling his nostrils, the surface beneath him rough and cold against his bare skin. He began to feel about him with his hands, encountering rough earthen walls only inches away on either side of him and slick, cold metal directly above him. He could feel the top of his head pressed against something solid, and a single flex of his legs told him his tiny enclosure didn't extend much further than the length of his body.

Dean recalled Ty's final words before he had passed out; Put him in the pit for the night… He guessed that "the pit" was where he was now, and he had to fight down his growing sense of panic. He had never been claustrophobic, but being left alone in this tiny prison of earth and darkness was a little too close to being buried alive for his comfort. Experimentally he pressed against the cold metal ceiling above him, unsurprised when it didn't so much as budge.

Damn, Sam wouldn't even fit in here!

That thought brought a sharp flash of pain as Dean remembered the other words Ty had spoken… Your brother is dead.

Dean clenched his eyes closed and gasped for air, fighting against the heavy weight of despair that settled on his chest and made it difficult to breathe. It couldn't be true…it couldn't! He would not believe it until he saw Sam's body with his own two eyes. Of course, the likelihood of him surviving long enough to either confirm or deny Ty's story was looking increasingly unlikely. And if it was true…if Sam really was dead…he couldn't bring himself to really care much about his impending demise.

He had never been much of one for prayer, but he found himself praying now…not for himself, but for Sam. He begged and pleaded for his brother's life to a God he wasn't even sure he believed existed… for the strength for Sam to carry on without him. He feared for Sam's future without him there to look out for him, but as long as Sam had a future, Dean would be content to trust in his brother's inner strength to see him through whatever trials lay ahead.

Despite his father's final words to him, Dean couldn't bring himself to believe that Sam was evil, or even that he had the potential to become evil. Sam was just too good…to pure. He had the biggest heart of anyone Dean had ever met, despite all the loss and suffering he had been forced to endure in his short life. Whereas Dean had grown cold and hard with each passing tragedy, Sam had merely grown more compassionate. He had to believe that whatever plans the yellow eyed demon had for Sam, his brother would resist them…would fight back against the darkness that everyone claimed was his destiny…whether Dean was there to help him or not.

He re-opened his eyes to the darkness, a new sense of resolve filling him. He might only have a few hours left to live, but he wouldn't be going down without a fight. No matter what it took, he would make Ty pay for what he had done to them, and if Sheriff Rawly was within reach…that bastard would pay as well. It wasn't as though he had anything to loose.

A low rumble sounded distantly from somewhere above him, and Dean frowned. Was that thunder? he wondered idly. His lifted his arms and pressed once more against the cool metal above him, this time pressing even harder, ignoring the twinge of pain from his battered shoulder and the slightly-more-than-twinge of pain from his burned torso. Still there was no movement.

With a sigh, Dean settled back into the earthy embrace of his prison, deciding his best course of action would be to try and rest and regain some strength. He would have given his right arm for a stiff drink or two…or better yet, a couple of strong painkillers, but as neither seemed likely, he would have to suffer through the night as best he could. As long as he remained perfectly still his pain level was bearable…if just barely…but he doubted he would be getting much sleep.

Another rumble of thunder echoed distantly from above him, followed almost immediately by what sounded like a loud grunt and a distinct thump, as though something heavy had fallen on top of the metal panel that made up the ceiling of his tiny prison. He frowned, listening intently as something scraped roughly across the metal above him, followed by the distinct grating sounds of several bolts being moved out of place.

A moment later, the panel above him swung upward and away, letting in a blast of cool air that smelled strongly of rain. Dean felt goose bumps raise along his arms as he blinked up into the dim light outside his prison, trying to see which of his captors had decided to pay him a visit.

"Dean?"

His whispered name cause Dean to jerk, his eyes widening as his breath caught in his throat. For a second he thought his tired mind must be playing tricks on him as a large, shadowy figure leaned down over the top of the pit, blocking out what little light had been filtering down to him from outside.

"Dean…can you hear me?"

Dean gasped, his fists digging into the soft earth beneath him as he pushed himself into a semi-upright position, his eyes locked on the shadowy figure above him. "Sammy?" he whispered, barely daring to believe his ears even as hope and joy blossomed inside his chest.

"It's me," came Sam's whispered response. "Come to save the day…" His arm appeared out of the darkness, reaching for Dean's hand. "Let me help you out."

Dean reached out and grabbed Sam's proffered hand, desperate for the physical contact to prove to himself that his brother was really there…that he was not merely dreaming. Sam's hand closed around his wrist, then readjusted further down his forearm as his brother prepared to help haul him from the pit. Dean took a deep breath and steeled himself against the pain he knew was coming. As Sam pulled from above, Dean pushed the hand of his other arm into the soft ground beneath him and pushed, biting back a sharp cry of pain as the wound on his lower abdomen objected violently to the movement.

With his brother's aide, Dean pulled himself up and out of the pit only to drop to his knees as soon as he was free, gasping in pain and bent forward, his right arm gently cradled against the bandages swathing his injured abdomen. He felt Sam's hand come to rest on his back, shockingly warm against his cool skin.

"It's okay," Sam whispered soothingly. "Just breathe through it Dean. Just breathe…"

Dean ground his teeth tightly together and fought for control. The pain across his chest, combined with the renewed pounding in his head made him feel lightheaded and dizzy, and he was worried he was about to pass out again. He focused all his attention on the warm heat of Sam's palm against his back, on the comforting cadence of his brother's voice, and slowly brought his breathing back under control. After several minutes he raised his head, looking sideways toward the shadowy figure that was his brother, desperate to see his brother's face…to prove to himself that Sam was really there.

Sam's concerned face slowly swam into his vision, muted and shadowed by the darkness of night, but still the most beautiful sight Dean had ever seen.

"You okay?" Sam asked softly, his hand still resting cautiously between Dean's shoulder blades.

Normally when his brother showed concern for him, Dean's natural response was to throw up a wall of indifference…a strong front that he used to protect himself from Sam's too knowing eyes. But at the moment he was too overwhelmed with relief and gratitude to put on any kind of act. He tried to answer his brother, but his throat was suddenly too tight with emotion for him to get the words out, so he settled for a tight nod.

Sam didn't look convinced.

"I'm okay," he managed to croak out, his voice sounding weak and unconvincing even to him. "Just need a minute," he added, managing to get a little more strength behind the words.

Sam nodded and took a step back, his hand leaving Dean's back. Dean was surprised at the sense of loss he felt with the loss of contact with his brother.

"Sit tight for a second," Sam ordered in his take charge tone of voice. "I have to take care of something before we go."

Dean frowned, following his brother's dark figure with his eyes as Sam moved to the far side of the pit. A bright flash of lightening lit the clearing in a starling display of light, and Dean had a quick view of Sam bending over a shadowy figure lying on the ground. The deep growl of thunder almost drowned out Sam's grunt of effort as he pushed and shoved the body forward until it rolled down into the pit previously occupied by Dean.

"Who…?" Dean began, blinking in surprise at the still form lying down in the hole at his feet.

"Your guard," Sam replied shortly, swinging the heavy metal doorway back into place and securing it with several thick bolts. "I knocked him out with a branch. He shouldn't be waking anytime soon."

Sam's voice was strained, and as he moved to straighten from his task he let out a small gasp, stumbling forward. Dean's protective instincts kicked into high gear, and he was pushing himself to his feet before he even realized what he was doing, reaching out a hand to help steady his brother.

"Whoa, easy there," he murmured, a worried frown flickering across his features as Sam's grip tightened around his forearm…as though Dean's presence were the only thing keeping his brother standing. "Are you hurt?" When Sam didn't immediately respond, Dean tightened his grip, pulling his brother closer to him in the darkness so he could peer into Sam's face. "Sammy?"

"I'm okay," Sam finally gasped, straightening and pulling away from Dean's grip. "Just got a little dizzy is all."

"Bull shit," Dean shot back, his eyes raking up and down Sam's form in search of injury. Unfortunately it was simply too dark to make out any details, and Sam was already moving away from him.

"Seriously, Dean," Sam's voice held weary resignation. "We don't really have time for this now. When we get safely away we can take care of our injuries, but for the time being…we're just going to have to suck it up."

Our injuries. So Sam was hurt. Dean clenched his jaw, wanting to argue with Sam but realizing his brother was right. He gave in with a tight nod he wasn't even sure Sam was able to see. Another bright flash of lightening lit the sky with brilliant light, and both brother's flinched at the loud boom of thunder that followed directly on the lightning's heels.

"Not that I'm not glad to see you," Dean spoke quietly after the last rumble of thunder had finally faded away, "but what the hell are you doing here. How did you find me? And how did you get hurt, anyway?"

Sam shook his head, unwrapping a jacket from around his waist and handing it to Dean, his movements stiff and weary. "It's a long story," he replied simply. "When we get safely away from here I'll tell you all about it. I'm a little curious to hear your story myself."

Dean carefully shrugged into the jacket, grateful that it was loose enough that it didn't constrict against his bandaged chest. "Alright, then, let's get out of here," he breathed, looking around him with wide eyes. "Before this guard's buddies come looking for him."

"That shouldn't be a problem," Sam replied immediately, smug satisfaction filling his voice. "At least not for a while, anyway. The other guards are a bit busy at the moment."

Dean arched a questioning eyebrow, then realized a second later that his brother wouldn't be able to see it in the darkness. "What's that supposed to mean," he asked, wincing as Sam reached out and grabbed his right arm and swung it across his shoulder, stooping down slightly so the angle wouldn't be so awkward for Dean. Dean's stiff shoulder put up an aching protest to the position, but he bit his lip and didn't say anything. He would have protested Sam's help at all if it weren't for the fact that he was still struggling just to remain conscious, let alone standing. Sam's left arm snaked around Dean's waist, helping to steady him as they began to slowly move away from the camp and toward the dark shadows of the forest.

"I set fire to one of their tents," Sam replied simply, his self-satisfaction still apparent in his tone.

Dean let out a short huff of laughter, noticing for the first time to the muted calls and shouts of alarm echoing from the camp behind them. "Nice job," he praised, impressed as usual with his brother's ingenuity.

It was Sam's turn to let out a small laugh. "The thing is, I think the wind took hold and is spreading the fire further than I intended. Last I looked in that direction, it appeared like half the tents were going up in flames."

"Good," Dean stated with vehemence. They had reached the trees and Sam began steering them in a slight angle away from the camp, his footsteps surprisingly sure in the gloomy darkness. Besides the bright flashes of lightening that would occasionally light their path, Dean could see practically nothing, and had to rely wholly on Sam not to run him into a tree or drop him off the side of a steep drop-off.

"Dude, how can you see where you're going?" he finally asked, stumbling slightly over a root and leaning heavily on Sam in order to remain on his feet.

"I can't," Sam replied stiffly, his voice sounding strained. Dean immediately tried to lessen the amount of weight he was leaning on his brother. "I'm just winging it. When we get a little farther away from camp I have a flashlight we can use to light our way."

Dean shook his head in disbelief. "And do you know exactly where we are going?"

"Exactly?" Sam asked. "No…but I do have a general direction."

Dean let out a small moan at his brother's admission.

"What," Sam asked wryly. "Isn't away a good enough destination for you?"

Dean didn't bother to respond as it was taking all of his focus to remain on his feet and keep moving. Lighting was beginning to flash across the sky in increasing frequency, with the unexpected positive side effect that they were able to better navigate through the thick trees by the brief flashes of light. Still, the going was slow and the terrain was rough, and Dean soon found himself panting in exhaustion.

They had been traveling away from the camp for less than ten minutes before the rain arrived, pouring down in a curtain of water that immediately soaked them and made their footing treacherous. Still, they pushed on with determination, stumbling forward into the night, their only thought to put as much distance as possible between themselves and any possible pursuit.

Dean found himself leaning more and more on Sam for support as the night wore on, but his brother made no sound of complaint and Dean assumed his brother was doing well. His assumption was proven wrong, however, when with no warning Sam suddenly stumbled and went down, dragging Dean down on top of him.

Dean's vision went white with pain, and he let out a small cry as his wounded torso was jarred violently. Despite his agony, he quickly rolled away from Sam, worried that he would somehow hurt his brother.

"Sam?" he groaned, closing his eyes and clutching at his abdomen.

Dean's eyes flew open when there was no reply, and his gaze snapped to where his brother lay sprawled on the ground next to him. Sam was very still…too still…and Dean let out a small curse as he pulled himself closer, reaching for his brother with an unsteady hand. As his finger's brushed across Sam's face he became aware for the first time of the warm heat radiating from his brother's skin. The rain and cold wind should have left Sam chilled to the bone as it had with Dean, but his brother's skin was shocking warm to the touch…much too warm.

"Sam?" Dean called again, shaking his brother's shoulders in an attempt to wake him. There was no response, and Dean felt the first cold fingers of dread grip him.

"Sammy!"