AN: While I was writing this, I heard Enter Sandman, which I happen to love in any genre, performed by bagpipes! It was certainly unique.

I'm extremely grateful for Janice and her beta work, especially since I made even more mistakes than usual in this chapter!

Oh, and there's one or two little things in this chapter that were directly inspired by comments from readers.

* * *

Solatium / sǝ – lāSH – ē – ǝm / noun (plural solatia)

something of value given to another as payment or compensation as consolation: recompense, restitution

* * *

Dean had his knife out, but using it would mean letting himself fall face-down into the water again. He didn't actually have much choice about using the knife, however, unless he was comfortable with letting the yataveo turn him into human jam. He sucked in the biggest breath he could and twisted to slash at the branch wrapped around his chest. His face smacked right down into the surprisingly cold water as he cut and cut and cut. The fact that this wasn't the worst thing that had happened to him in the last hour spoke volumes about his life, he thought.

The branch he was attacking released him, a piece actually falling off, and Dean pushed his head up again. A well-timed lightning strike revealed that a good dozen more branches were rushing toward him. A few grabbed at his legs as he gulped air, then let himself fall forward again. Dean nearly had the branch holding his other arm cut through when a new one wrapped itself around his neck, not squeezing especially hard, but holding him underwater.

Panic wasn't really Dean's style, but the thought of drowning in an 18-inch-deep desert mudpuddle then being used as a juice box by an evil bloodsucking tree got him within spitting distance of panic. He knew exactly what to do with the adrenaline, however. He twisted his shoulders to the point of pain and pried his left hand between the branch and his neck and sawed desperately with the knife in his right. As expected, the branch tightened in retaliation, but he at least kept it from crushing his trachea. Since none of that would matter if he didn't get loose in the next thirty seconds or so, he sawed harder, heedless of any skin in the way.

As pinpricks of white popped up behind Dean's lids, the branch gave such a violent jerk that he was pulled onto his side long enough to suck in two parts air to one part mud and water before he was face-down again. Shit, had the thing gotten a taste of his blood? he wondered as he kept sawing. Or – a harder twitch and he was suddenly free of all holds except a feeble one on his ankle he kicked loose easily. Gratefully, Dean rolled onto his back coughing. As pleased as he was to be breathing mostly air (mostly, because it was still pouring, though at least now it was coming almost straight down like normal rain), Dean didn't stop watching for the next attack.

Which didn't come. Dean sat up warily, then climbed to his feet, noting he'd ended up far closer to the trunk of the tree than he was entirely happy with. A branch brushed his shoulder, and he cut the tip off, but it was only a passing touch. In fact, the entire tree seemed to be twitching, almost seizing. Maybe, just maybe, it was dying.

The movement of the branches was getting wilder now, and Dean crouched to avoid any slaps across the face. The frenzy of it was like the roots in the tunnel, except this was jerky in a way that he really hoped meant it freaking hurt. This wasn't seeking a meal – this movement was unintentional. Dean probably should have backed out of the danger zone entirely, but he wanted to watch the yataveo die with a fervency that might mean there was something wrong with him. He didn't care. Cursed, man-eating trees weren't meant to exist, much less in this little town where all the little foibles of humanity coalesced in an amalgamation of friendly-nosy-homey that shouldn't have felt so comfortable to a professional nomad like Dean.

And more pressing, the yataveo was the reason Sam was in danger. So Dean would stay right damn here, rain and mud notwithstanding, while it died. His bad leg protested the position – loudly – but Dean still didn't move, watching the increasingly weakening movements. He waited for three flashes of lightning after the tree fell completely still but for the way the branches flapped in the wind before standing up painfully. Though his body protested every movement, revealing a hundred hurts he'd ignored up until now, Dean walked right up to the trunk and plunged his knife straight in. It slid in easily three quarters of the way, then seemed to strike something harder. Dean had his answer anyway. The yataveo hadn't so much as twitched at the intrusion, meaning it was well and truly dead. Guess it had guzzled enough of the treated blood after all. Dean smiled grimly as he pulled the knife free.

For one split second before the rain washed it away, he was pretty sure that there was red blood on the blade. Maybe it was some of the blood the thing had just drunk. Maybe one of poor people it had eaten was inside the trunk. Or maybe he was imagining things, given how unsteady he was feeling.

Dean turned back toward the motel, feeling that he needed to get inside sooner rather than later. "Sammy better be there," he told the back of the motel.

The walk back was a thousand times longer than the walk there, despite the fact that the storm was quickly winding down and a tiny stripe of light had appeared on horizon, promising sunrise soon. It seemed auspicious, and fitting, given the death of the bane of Tonopah. Dean still couldn't make his body move any faster. Actually, he felt that nausea/dizziness/weakness combination that said blood loss. He trudged on, though. He didn't have any good explanation for his appearance if any civilians saw him looking like this.

Dean was doing a lot worse than he'd thought and sort of had to use the side of the motel to help him walk. He could really use some of the adrenaline from before, he thought, shivering from having spent the whole damn night soaking wet. By now, his whole being was just moving forward on autopilot, an internal chant of gettoSamgettoSam somehow keeping his feet moving.

He was so singularly focused that if an entire restaurant's worth of Hooter's girls had suddenly appeared in front of him at that moment, Dean would have walked past them without a second look, yet he found himself pausing at the sight of Greymalkin. She hunched on the threshold of the motel office, soaked and forlorn in the light but still steady rain, and Dean remembered that she'd helped him find Sam earlier. He paused and tried the door. Finding it unlocked, he let her into the unoccupied room before finally getting to their motel room. That, of course, locked automatically. And, of course, Dean still didn't have his key. He was too worn out even to swear as he forced his shaking hands to pick the lock again.

Two steps and Dean was inside and flicked on the lights.

Brownish reddish drops patterned the table, and the trash can overflowed with empty blood bags, lending a heavy iron tang to the air. Witch balls swayed gently from the air movement caused by his entry. But there was no Sam. Dean stared, unbelieving. The tree-thing was dead, and Sam had said "Puck's gonna hold onto me until you kill the yataveo." That meant Sam should be here. If Puck had returned Sam to the tunnel (the collapsed tunnel) or some other stupid shit, Dean was going to tear him apart, Old One or not.

"Puck, you asshole!" Dean roared. Okay, it was more of a growl than a roar, but it was the best he could do at the moment. "If you made a deal with Sam, you damn well better honor it!" The effort of yelling set Dean swaying, so when pain ripped through not just his thigh this time, but his very veins, he went down like a house of cards in a gust of wind.

Huh, he thought muzzily. Carpet's even uglier up close. Then it all went dark.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

There was no slow return to awareness for Dean. No, it was zero to sixty in .01 seconds, dark to light, click of the remote, in less time than it takes to say the words. He reflexively grabbed at his right thigh but found it didn't hurt like he'd expected it to; it barely hurt at all. Actually, a number of things weren't as he'd expected. For example, he clearly remembered hitting the floor, but he was lying on a bed. And he'd been soaked and muddy and bloody, and he was now clean and dry. He might have thought Sam or some mysterious human benefactor had been responsible, except that he was wearing the same clothes he'd had before, and not only were they perfectly laundered (not a single drop of blood where they'd been saturated from mid-thigh to knee), his jeans were no longer torn.

That last detail got his attention and he jackknifed to a sitting position though he knew better than most what a bad idea it was to move quickly before a thorough self-assessment when he had just woken from being unconscious. Luckily (but freakily), he felt fairly good. Stiff, sore, but not like he'd been injured enough to pass out.

A rapid-fire assessment of his surroundings proved that Dean was still in the motel room, but it had been set to right. The mud that had been everywhere in the first hundred square feet of the room was cleaned up perfectly. The spilled blood and Epsom salt were gone, and the bag with the remaining salt was neatly resting against the wall, next to the bucket and the – how the hell? – Treeminator, impact drill, and air compressor. A quick glance at his watch said he'd lost less than two hours. How…?

Dean knew what he was going to see next, and he probably set a land speed record getting off the bed and crossing the short distance to the other bed. "Sam," he breathed. His brother was cleaned up, too, although obviously not completely healed. There was a thin line of blood across his forehead, the back of one hand, and the side of his neck, all of which made Dean remember catching a whip-crack of a root across his own cheek. War wounds of their underground fight, then. Sam's wrist was still purple and swollen, too, though the bump on the back of his head was nearly gone. His knuckles were scabbed over, but that could have been left over from the bar fight. When weren't their knuckles scabbed?

The long and short of it was that Sam looked mildly beat up, but there was nothing Dean could identify so far that accounted for his unconscious state. He looked downright healthy, only the staccato flicking of his eyes under their lids indicating that he was doing anything but resting peacefully. Dean flattened a palm on Sam's forehead both to check his temperature and to annoy him into waking up, because the gesture irritated Sam. He was disappointed when Sam didn't react. He seemed to be running a low-grade fever, too.

Fine. Dean could assess someone's condition with the best of them.

Sam didn't react any more to being undressed and checked over than to he had to anything else. He didn't even twitch when Dean sewed up a gash on his calf that was the only real injury besides the sprained wrist. Wracking his brain with what to do next, Dean dressed Sam in a t-shirt and pajama pants and tucked him in. He paced, trying not to scratch at his cheek. When he'd gone to wash his hands before stitching Sam's calf wound, he'd noticed that he had a few cuts that were bleeding sluggishly, most notably on his cheek. He'd slapped on a butterfly bandage mostly to make sure he didn't bleed onto his shirt. And he was not-so-secretly hoping that Sam would wake up and bitch at him and insist on stitching it to be sure it wouldn't scar.

Dean rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. "You wake up and I'll let you choose the next hunt," he wheedled, as if promises would get his brother to wake up. "I'll stop at every farmer's market between here and Pastor Jim's. I'll take you to a – to a jazz festival or whatever it was you always talked about when you were like 14." He dropped to sit on the edge of his bed. He shouldn't be so freaked out when Sam hadn't been unconscious all that long, but a lifetime's worth of time observing supernaturally-induced maladies told him that something more dangerous than cuts and bruises was affecting Sam.

He leaned forward and laid a hand on Sam's forehead again, uselessly, just for something to do, then located his phone sitting on a side table, plugged into the charger just like he would have done himself. The further reminder that someone had been in their room prickled like a burr. He'd like to imagine that Sam had done all the clean-up before lying down and passing out, but while the guy had a number of gifts and talents, he couldn't have retrieved the equipment from the collapsed tunnel or repaired Dean's jeans back to their original, pre-torn state.

With a sigh, Dean picked up his phone and chose a contact without looking. He bit his lip hard when Dad's voicemail came on after a single ring, took the time to draw in a long breath and make sure his voice was, if not nonchalant, at least calm. After all, as he could almost hear Dad saying it had only been a little while and there was no cause for panic.

"Hey, Dad," Dean said when prompted, and was impressed at just how casual he'd managed to sound. He was a little hoarse from being strangled and almost drowned, but at least he didn't sound whiny. "Sam and I killed an evil tree thing, uh, yataveo, in Nevada, but there might be something else here. Gimme a call if you can, huh?" The click when he closed the phone was as loud as a slamming door to Dean's ears. No help from that quarter, then, and he wasn't quite ready to call anyone else. Asking for help was something that didn't come easily for Dean, and he didn't know for sure if his mini freak-out was warranted. He set the phone down and settled in to keep watch until Sam woke up.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

It was only 10 a.m., and Dean felt like he'd been watching Sam's unmoving form for days. And he was truly still. Sam breathed, and his eyes practically did the salsa under his lids, but other than that, he barely even twitched.

Dean had read every single word of the notes that Sam had taken on the case and anything he could find on Puck that sounded the least bit plausible, including some long, lame-ass story about him visiting some kids who'd been performing some Shakespeare play that mentioned him and the ridiculously long play itself. And he detested Shakespeare with a passion. Wasn't reading bad enough on its own? Did it have to be so much work just to figure out what people were saying?

Dean was crabby and worried and out of good ideas. He was also starving, but the thought of leaving Sam alone while he was completely vulnerable was out of the question.

"Shakespeare," he realized aloud. Yeah, he talked to Sam. He'd seen the news articles that said that people who were unconscious could often hear the people around them. Besides, who else was he going to talk to? "It was a Shakespeare geekfest you wanted to go to when you were 14 but we couldn't stick around after the salt-and-burn got a little messy and that sheriff got suspicious." He couldn't believe he'd forgotten that Sam had been so excited about something so nerdy. Like, if someone were to write a nerd cliché, they'd definitely include Shakespeare. Actually, until Sam discovered "the Bard" Dean had honestly thought that nobody really liked reading it, but just pretended so they'd seem smart and cultured. But Sam had actually found it an interesting challenge to understand the old English and studied it like he was getting paid.

Of course, it turned out that Sam mostly just liked a girl who liked Shakespeare, but still. Lonely, single male nerd seeks female of the same.

"Geekboy," Dean said out loud, letting more affection into his voice than he'd allow if Sam were actually awake. He looked at his watch again. 10:27. Maybe he should bundle Sam into the car and bring him to the hospital to get checked over. Maybe he should drive him to Pastor Jim's to recover. Somewhere safe and away from that fricken Puck, who Dean held responsible for his condition. But...Sam had said "don't leave town" while wearing his I-really-mean-it face, and going against things Sam said when he was wearing that face often resulted in Really Bad Things. Like a rabid, human flesh chomping kobold being released from the curse box where it had been trapped. Or a smallish explosion that should have been perfectly safe setting off a mudslide that very nearly buried the entire Winchester clan. Or a symbol of protection not quite drawn exactly right accidentally summoning a very grumpy drekavac that tried to scream them to death.

Allegedly. Still, he was going to do his level best to follow Sam's instructions, because that request was a little too unusual and a little too forceful to not be something significant.

Fine, if Dean couldn't leave and couldn't do anything else for Sam, he was going to confront the last monster standing. It was a stupid plan, sure, but at least it was a plan. "I'll be right back," he told Sam, tucking his knife – now as miraculously clean as if it had never been dipped in molten salt – inside the coat he didn't need in the muggy, post-storm heat. But not only did the coat hide the weapon (and the others he was carrying), it felt like a little piece of armor. It gave Dean a bit of the swagger he needed right now, plus leather could slow or even stop a knife or claw. (Which would be helpful against something like a Snallygaster, but was pretty much useless against an Old One except for the unwarranted confidence wearing it always gave Dean.)

Armed up – though his weapons were no better than pea-shooters against Puck, most likely – Dean patted Sam's shoulder, pocketed his key, and went to the office. Kamikaze, table for one, please. Yes, of course I'll pay for my drink up front, he thought, snorting at his own musings.

What he could see of the town was a bit of a mess. Thick, drying mud was everywhere he looked, including splattering the bottom foot or two of all the cars and buildings. A few of the tombstones in the old cemetery were leaning a little more than they had been before the storm, and the tree's branches hung listlessly, the entire thing leaning significantly toward the motel and a scattering of leaves and small branches littered the ground beyond it. It made Dean smile a little. The leaves that were left attached were still green, but that wouldn't last. There was one convenient upside to the whole weather misadventure. When it became clear that the fucker was dead, people would assume that the storm and the cave-in of the tunnel had done it.

The sky had that pale-blue sheen that made it look scrubbed clean, and the sun was already hot and burning away some of the oppressive humidity without the aid of a breeze. It was going to be a hot day for cleaning up the storm's detritus.

Though almost all of his focus was on the office door, Dean spared a glance at his baby and winced. The magical restoration the motel room and its occupants had experienced hadn't extended to the car. She was filthy inside and out. But again, she was relegated to second status. Dean had another charge to take care of first. He paused at the door, surprised to hear someone talking, but opened it anyway.

Puck, looking about 25, was standing next to the old desk with his hands on his hips, looking down at his weird cat, which was sitting on its haunches looking up at him like they were in a discussion. It slowed Dean, but only for like half a second. Then he had the door closed behind him and the knife out. The gun wasn't likely to be any more help than the blade, and this was quieter. Besides, it seemed fitting to go after Puck with the same weapon that he'd used on the yataveo.

"Wake him up," he growled in a voice designed to make opponents piss their pants.

Puck didn't even bother to take his hands off his hips. He looked back down at the cat. "See that? That's the 'heroic boy' you keep defending. His 'poor, sweet brother' tried to stab me too, and I was helping him at the time. Still think I owe them something?"

He turned to Dean then with an unconcern for the weapon that was a little bit terrifying, or would be if Dean got scared like normal people. "She seems to believe that I owe you some kind of recompense. Even after I restored everything for you at her insistence." Puck shook his head. "She is a selfish creature, which is the cause of her condition, yet she's offering to remain my underþéodu forever if I only help the poor Winchesters. She says you're heroes." The Old One's voice was mocking, but there was something else in it too, like surprise or maybe even a touch of wonder.

Dean couldn't interpret even half of that. All he got was: Puck talked to his cat, said cat was ostensibly arguing on their behalf, and Puck was behind the supernatural remediation of all their room, clothes, and supplies. "Blah, blah, blah," Dean growled, still holding out the knife threateningly. He'd really appreciate it if Puck looked even slightly threatened. "You and your cat can discuss shit later. Right now, you need to fix Sam so he can wake up. Because I know you and he worked something out, and the tree's dead, so give. Him. Back."

"I can't." Puck's face went through a series of expressions that Dean didn't even try to interpret, but his eyes literally swirled with crazy colors as he finally turned to face Dean fully.

"Bullshit." Dean took a step forward, which meant he was right in the other man's face. "If you can heal my leg, you can fix whatever you did to Sam." He raised the knife to Puck's neck and rested it there.

"Have care, little Hunter," Puck hissed as if he didn't have to look up to meet Dean's eyes. The colors his own eyes swirling faster. "Time moves differently in the other realm, meaning that your brother spent days in a reality that is not meant for humans. I am surprised he is even alive. I have honored every deal he and I struck and shown you both kindness and compassion, though I am known for neither. I could end you with a thought, and then your brother would have no hope at all." He leaned into the knife a little.

And that was, well, freaking terrifying, if Dean were honest. "Does he have any hope?" he asked in a voice significantly deeper than his normal register, not backing off a single inch. "Because if he dies, who the hell cares if I do too?" Anger was easier than hopelessness, so Dean clung to the former.

Puck did a little flick thing with his fingers, and Dean slid backwards all the way to the door. The Old One and his cat exchanged what looked like a significant glance and Dean wondered again what the deal was with the feline, even as he struggled to move forward again. It was like walking against hurricane force winds and every time he made any progress, he quickly slid backwards into the door again.

"Son of a bitch!" burst out of Dean, and for some reason it made Puck laugh.

"Yes, I see," he said to the damn cat again. "Very well."

Finally deigning to pay attention to Dean's ever more frantic struggles, Puck turned to him and frowned in thought. "I will tell you a story. A true story. I have a weakness for storytelling," he admitted with a tiny smile.

"There are few things in this realm or mine that I haven't seen before." Puck tipped his head to the side and though his eyes were pointed at Dean, he'd have sworn that the demigod was looking at something else entirely, something in the air between them or maybe even something inside Dean. "But I have never seen or tasted destinies, or if you prefer, potential like yours and your brother's. It tastes utterly unique, and I wanted to keep it near me and understand it –"

"I knew you were feeding off him and that's why you keep getting younger," Dean burst out with a fresh burst of anger.

"Hush and listen. I was intrigued, so when the younger one offered himself for your life, I agreed. I had never yet failed to convince a human to stay in the other realm, and I thought he would choose to stay." Puck shook his head and paused, as if waiting to see if Dean had any questions for him. But Dean wasn't even pushing back against the force against him any longer. Hell, he was hardly listening, struck dumb by the bald words trade himself for you. He'd suspected, been virtually sure that Sam had done something like that, but to hear it spoken to starkly shook him to his very core. It was not what was supposed to happen. Not ever. Not...didn't Sam know he might not be able to take it back? Didn't he know that he was worth too much to throw away? Didn't…?

"But there was one thing larger than your destinies, boy," Puck boomed, and Dean had the feeling that he was repeating himself. Maybe had already, more than once. A slender finger pointed at Dean's chest, and it was beyond crazy that this slim, almost effete little form held so much power. "Your connection. It is…" He broke off, then seemed to give up on the search for the right words. "While I do not truly believe that your brother will ever awaken, if it happens, it will be because he is coming back to you. You, the reason he was willing to go the other realm and the reason he refused to stay." Puck gave one of those indolent shrugs. "So you can stay here dashing your ship upon the rocks, or you can go to your brother and try to call him back."

Dean believed the demigod, even if he didn't want to. If he was Sam's only hope, he couldn't risk his life against Puck at least until Sam was safe. "If he doesn't wake up perfectly fine, I'm going to cut your head off and feed it to your weird cat, then threw your body in a landfill." Dean turned, completely freed, and slammed the door hard behind himself.

As he did, he heard Puck say, almost plaintively, "I don't think he likes me, Grey."

* * *

AN: Hooters is a restaurant chain known for well-endowed waitresses in tight t-shirts.

The stories Dean read are Puck of Pook's Hill by Kipling and Midsummer Night's Dream by Shakespeare.

Timelady66: Hopefully you're feeling better and find this chapter more palatable! I'm lucky that I'm allergic to a lot fewer things in the summer than spring and fall, so I'm pretty good with sinuses at the moment. Anyhow, feel better!

Christine: Demonic whumping willow is such a great description for the yataveo! I'm pretty much addicted to flashbacks and memories in my stories, so I'm very glad you like them. :-) It's like I can't help it.

muffinroo: Right? Puck really doesn't know Sam very well, does he? Yup, the chapter got kind of weird, I know. The memories were fun to write though. And, hey, we're finally about to get the boys together again, which is (almost) always a good thing!

Colby's girl: No shame here! We all the love the Winchesters, right? Thank you so much for your words. It was really hard to keep it grounded while things were utterly nuts, and I wasn't sure if I'd managed, so your comments mean a lot. As for the basil, I do dry some of it, but I flash-freeze more of it because I feel like it keeps more of the flavor (and it's also really easy). I usually make pesto from the frozen stuff, then freeze that too. And all season, I put fresh basil in pretty much everything!

Jane: I love that about the guys too! I can get a little schmoopy about it in my writing sometimes. Okay, a lot. I wrote a story once where I just put in all the schmoop I wanted and I had no idea what readers would think, but it got positive reviews (cuz y'all are awesome). I know this story puts both of the guys through the wringer, but that means there will be brotherly bonding once they get through it – promise! You are so very kind. I hope that your recovery is still going well.

stedan: Flashbacks are just about my favorite thing. I sometimes use them to make my thoughts about certain things (like Sam not being worried about Dean when he was "missing") clear. I didn't think about Puck's tricks being similar to a djinn dream, but you are so right! Puck is pretty ambiguous, I agree. I think he doesn't hate the Winchesters like some monsters, but he's also not above selfishly messing with them. Sounds like Sam definitely surprised him, and Dean too.

Jenjoremy: Hey, that never happens! Maybe that's because they were such short snippets rather than implied stories. Or maybe just because of the epic weirdocity of that chapter. Acid trip indeed! LOL

Kathy: I like to think that Sam's stubbornness is an asset! (Or course, that may be because I share that particular vice…though not to that level.) I'm glad you like the "weird and wonky things" and if they gave you nightmares you're too nice to say so. Yup, I'm such a sap for the guys' connection, seriously can't stop writing about it. I'm so very glad that you thank Janice too. She is funny when I thank her, saying she likes doing the beta thing, but it takes up her time, and I'm so grateful that she does it.

Anne: Your comments are like dessert – I look forward to them so much! And I got three desserts at once this time – woohoo! It's lovely to know that the action scenes work for you. For a very long time, I struggled with every single action scene and I'm finally relaxing about writing them; a good deal of that is because of comments like yours. Thank you. I think Puck's unpredictability is what makes him so scary, at least to me. Sam is so smart...I remember being completely floored when he did an exorcism backwards, and my admiration for that big brain makes it into a lot of my stories. I so so so much love what you said about Anne of Green Gables. I can't remember if I told you this before, but my youngest's middle name is Gilbert, and event though that was also my grandpa's name, it makes me think of Anne. She's almost a real person to me. Your story (and a few others of yours) are on my 4th of July weekend reading list and I'm excited! I love the title...I suck at titles so bad that I have extraadmiration for really good titles and the people who think of them. Luckily for me, it's a gift Janice, my beta, has, so if a story or chapter of mine has a decent title, it's almost certainly from her. I know I'm going on and on in this response, but I think I could write a few more pages and not respond to everything you wrote the way I want to. Just: thank you. Muah!

Chiiva: I'm so glad you're reading! And of course, your comments are such gems to me. Where did I get the craziness from Puck's realm? Some of it came literally from my own dreams, which are usually weird and wacky but which seem perfectly normal to me while I'm dreaming. Thank you again, always, for your kindness.