Author's Note: I AM SO SORRY. Seriously, I'm pretty sure there are laws against updates this late. Wow. Anyway, if you are for some reason still following this story, here's the update. Heheh. And I'd like to thank StyxxsOmega, Kas3y, and whimsicalbarwench for their reviews, as well as anyone who alerted the story : )

Enjoy!

Chapter 2: Darkest before dawn

Dean wakes up lazily. The laziness is not by choice exactly, but more out of necessity. He literally cannot bring himself to move with the stabbing pain in the back of his head. Seriously, it feels like he's got a knife wedged in there or something, and he just knows that if he so much as moves his head he'll be hurling all over himself. Feels like a damn hangover. It's not though, he can tell. Sure, he's been pretty drunk at times but he's always ended up back in a bed. Right now though, he is not lying on a bed. Whatever he's lying on feels wet and uneven, while his head is sat uncomfortably against something hard and pointy. Also, he's pretty sure there's a pinecone poking at his ass.

So not cool.

He remembers that he was on a hunt. In a forest. With a monster. The thing came out of nowhere, and he remembers flying through the air, courtesy of a clawed arm and a whistle that he's pretty sure burned out his eardrums. His ears hurt even in retrospect. Vaguely he wonders if the thing is still around. He should probably look around for it, but even the thought of opening his eyes sends waves of nausea to his throat. It's not like he hasn't tried opening them, it's more that his eyelids seem permanently glued together.

That's fine.

After all, he doesn't really need to open his eyes right now. He doesn't feel like he's in any imminent danger. The monster's probably being taken care of right this moment and when that's done they can go home and he can sleep for a century. But they'll take care of the monster, and then of him. Dad and Sam with….

SAM!

And just like that his eyes are open, and he's sitting up looking for his brother. Sure enough, as soon as he's sitting, he bends over and expels his entire greasy dinner. But he needs… Fuck… He needs to see where Sam is, because he was still here when the monster was here and he needs to be okay, and Dean needs to make sure of that.

When Dean can finally manage to open his eyes again and sit up, he's greeted by the sight of a small clearing. It's still dark and the grey skeletons of the trees rise menacingly above him. That's not what frightens him though.

What's scary is that though this clearing is – mercifully- monster-free… it is also Sam-free.

And that… is bad.

Dean's heart is somewhere in his stomach and it's beating up a storm. When he looks around a second time and sees a leather and denim lump lying at the base of a tree to his right, his heart drops the remaining four inches out of his body. He'd recognise that particular lump anywhere, and he knows it's Dad.

And that… is also bad.

Because if Dad is here, and Sam is not. That means that Sam is alone. And if the monster is not here either that means that Sam is alone with the monster. And Dean can't even see if Dad is breathing from here. And he's not sure if he can even manage to move from where he's seated. And he could lose his entire family here tonight if he doesn't get the hell up to his father.

His father, who is completely alive.

And then, when Dad's awake the man will know what to do to find Sammy.

Sammy, who is also alive and completely fine.

And when they've found Sammy they'll go and find the son of a bitch that did this to them and kill him.

That monster will not be alive after seeing Winchester wrath.

And after all of that they'll all go home, take a shower and sleep for three weeks. Sounds like a brilliant plan. And really he only has to do one thing to make it work, Dean tells himself.

He just has to get up.

John Winchester wakes up to the fearful pleading of his eldest son. When he opens his eyes he looks into two panicked orbs. Just like that John's heart rate goes up. If there's something around that can make his son look like this, then it is bad.

Really bad.

Somewhere in the back of his mind a soft voice whispers an even more terrifying possibility. There's only one thing that can make Dean look scared, and that's Sam in danger. With the boy looking like this there's only one possibility. Sam is dead.

Which is impossible.

Because that would tear whatever sanity he has left right out of him. So John reaches out, momentarily ignoring the painful beating in near his ribs. A small part of his mind helpfully provides that he must have hit the tree he's leaning against with his side. He must have bruised, or broken his ribs, and that the hit must have caused him to pass out. The rest of his mind is focussed on the blood leaking from his oldest son's head and the absence of his youngest.

"Dean." The name comes out as an order, rough voice harsh with fear. And damn it, doesn't he always sound like a fucking general? Even when he's comforting his son. "You okay?"

Dean nods, then pales considerably as he is painfully reminded of his head wound. John reaches out, calloused fingers trailing along the broken skin at Dean's hairline.

"You got a concussion?" He asks, putting some extra authority behind his voice because he knows the boy will always downplay his injuries. Especially when Sam is on the line.

Sure enough Dean replies with a diplomatic, "I don't know."

But John can see pain lines around glassy green eyes and he knows already that his son does indeed have a concussion. And that it's probably going to come back and bite them in the ass. All he really wants to know is where Sam is. Wants to know that Sam is and not was. But first Dean, because you make sure a soldier is uninjured before you ask them about a mission.

And you make sure your son is uninjured because you want him to be okay.

"Any other injuries?" John asks then, "And don't lie to me, because I will find out."

"No, I'm…" Dean's voice almost shakes, "I'm a bit bruised but I'm fine. Dad, Sammy, he's…"

"Where is Sam?"

"I don't know. I woke up and he was gone." A moment of silence follows that sentence as both men try to quell the impending panic that's starting in their hearts.

"You were awake longer. What happened?" The words are spoken softly, but John can hear the accusation under the words. You were awake, you should have taken care of him. And he should have, damn it.

John sits up, momentarily ignoring the spikes of pain emanating from his chest. With a soft pull of his hand, he wipes the rain off his face. What happened? He grills himself, what happened before you woke up here?

"I…" he begins, and shit, he wishes he didn't sound vulnerable like this in front of his son. He takes a deep breath. He needs to think, needs to forget the fear that's fogging up his mind. Dean's panicking, and John really can't afford to do the same. Hunter mode, that's what he needs. Just another hunt, and they need to find their victim alive. Now more than ever.

"I used the flare on it, and that just bounced off. Then it threw me into this tree before I could really try anything else. Something must have happened between then and now." John's voice is cool, his mind clear. The thing doesn't leave behind bodies, which means it has a lair. That's why he thought it was a wendigo. The MO fits so perfectly. But it's not, and it has Sam back wherever it's stashing its prey. They just have to find where that is.

Suddenly, John notices that Dean has paled. He briefly wonders if it's the concussion, then he realises what he just said; that Sam had to deal with this fire-resistant monster on his own.

"Dean," he allows the part of him that's still the father of two sons to come out, "Sam can handle himself, he's been trained for things like this."

"He doesn't even like hunting. If he dies…" Dean starts, and if John didn't know already, this would be a confirmation that the boy has a concussion. In Dean's own words, he doesn't do chick-flick moments. Unless he his concussed, apparently.

"He ain't dead. We'll get him out alive, like we always do." There's so much conviction in his voice that he almost starts believing his own words. Dean looks up at him with a look that would break his heart if it hadn't already been ripped and trodden on by this life. It's that look of utter trust and hero worship that he hasn't seen in his son's eyes since he was eight. The same look that Sam reserves solely for Dean.

God, the faith you have in me, John thinks.

In his mind John starts planning, "Alright, Dean, we need to regroup, figure out what this thing is and what can hurt it, anything you can remember…" He waves his hand vaguely towards the pack that Dean is practically sitting on, signalling him to hand it over.

"No, first we find Sam." It's an order, almost, and John would have said something about that if the times weren't so dire.

"We need to figure out what will hurt this thing," John replies instead, "Hand me the pack."

When Dean does nothing, he adds, "If we want to save Sam we need to be able to fight this thing."

Reluctantly, Dean hands the pack over with a look somewhere between a plea and a threat. Choosing to ignore that look, John digs through the bag. Two pistols, a shotgun, and iron and silver rounds peek up at him from the bag. Then at the bottom lies a flask holy water and his leather journal. He's never been happier to over-pack, especially in the knowledge that Sam has (not had, has, John reminds himself) his own knife on him, the hooked one he got for his birthday.

He sets his hand on Dean's shoulder, looks him straight in the eyes and asks, "You good to walk, son?"

Dean head does a twitch that's almost a nod, and that's good enough for both of them.

"Let's go find your brother, then."

With those words, and the little hope that they have left, they set off in search of a stubborn fifteen-year-old named Sam.

Sam wakes up half deaf. There's an annoying whistle in his ear that just won't go away, and he briefly wonders if Dean finally managed to sneak him into a bar last night. But that doesn't make sense, because there's fire in his right arm, eating at it like a hungry ghoul, and his ribs jostle every time he tries to breath. Something is very, very wrong.

Then the memories come crashing back, and his eyes open on a gasp. Wherever he is, the place is sparsely lit, shadows filling most of the room. Stone walls stick out from a mossy ground that has long since been reclaimed by nature. If he squints, he thinks he can see an actual tree sticking through the cracked roof of the place. That would explain the water that drips into his shoulder every once in a while.

The stench that permeates the place is almost too much to handle, dank and rotten, like death came here to fart. And Sam really hopes that he made that analogy because of Dean, and not because he would actually ever think something like that himself. The smell is strong enough that he can practically taste it on his tongue when his mouth is open, and he knows, he knows that means he's holed up with a dead body. Actually, considering the death toll that attracted them to this hunt in the first place: several dead bodies.

It's only after taking in his surroundings that he realises that he's tied up. Not just tied up, but strung from the ceiling like a slaughtered animal. And that's really a metaphor that he's trying his best to ignore. Something rough, like a rope or a vine bind his hands together over his head, where it leads to the ceiling. He's hanging from his arms, and it's really a miracle that nothing has been dislocated yet.

All in all, he's in a pretty bad position. Still, where he is, or how he's strung up, that's not what makes his heart race, or the hair on his neck stand up. What does, is the absence of the thing that took him here. There's no sign of bloody red eyes or billowy smoke. No claws or slow steps as it drags forward.

Just that bloody whistle that cuts through his ear drums and into his mind.

Which means it's here, only out of his line of sight. That alone, is terrifying enough.

And then he sees the bodies.

Corpses half hidden by shadows, hanging from the wall like macabre puppets. The ground too, is lined with carcases in various stages of decomposition. Sam's heart skips a beat while nausea rises in his throat. He really does not want to puke, but with the smell, and the dead eyes that seem to be staring back at him, there's really not much he can do.

So he gags, hanging his head forward so as not to puke on himself, but nothing comes out. He wonders why he does that, why he still tries to work against the indignity of puke on his clothes when he'll probably be dead in a few hours. No. No, no, no.

Stop panicking! It's dad's voice, stinging through that impossible whistle. Sure, Sam knows it's not really here, that it's just a figment of his imagination, but he has never been happier to hear the voice. Even if it is only in his mind.

Dude, breathe. And maybe he should wonder at the fact that his inner voices are his family's, because that probably means all kinds of complicated psychological stuff, but it's working. As long as it's working, Sam is not going to complain.

Deep breaths. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

In. Out. In. Out.

It's while Sam is doing this that he sees the markings on the floor.

"Beidh mé ag ithe" it reads in what Sam recognises as Irish. And Sam knows what that means, because John made sure he could read Gealic.

I will devour.

Shit.

The two oldest Winchesters stumble through the thick underbrush of the wood. Roots stick out everywhere, and the rain makes for an almost impenetrable barrier. Even with the rain, and the darkness, they can still make out Sam's trail. It's blatantly obvious where he walked, broken twigs, and deep footprints in the mud. Sam wasn't trying to hide, and Dean is really trying to ignore what that means.

The creature must have been right behind Sam. Or, they guess it was, because there are no tracks other than Sam's, and they know he would have covered them if it were necessary.

John is brainstorming. Loudly. Though, really, everything is loud right now. Every drop of rain, or crack of a twig sends a spike of pain through Dean's head. And Dad's murmurs are worse, every word feels like a stab through his eyes.

But that really doesn't matter, because they need to find Sam.

John is having trouble with this, they went in on good intel, but it all turned out false, and now he has no idea what they're hunting. Usually always in control, the prospect of facing an unknown enemy is terrifying. Dean notices, of course. He's a perceptive like that, he always notices things.

Sam would have figured this out by now, Dean thinks. Kid is too smart for his own good sometimes. No matter what situation he is in, he's probably sitting somewhere with the solution to their dilemma already figured out, waiting for them to do the same. Then when they find him, he'll complain about how long it took them. He won't brag though, Sam never brags for some reason. He bitches, sure, but he never brags.

He can brag this time though. He can brag and bitch all he wants, if that only means that he's alive.

There's a root, and Dean trips, the sudden move down almost makes his head explode, and for a second everything goes white. When he can see again he's looking into Dad's worried face, and that in itself is bad. Dad, the awesome John Winchester, does not get worried. Angry, sure. Vengeful, righteous, compassionate and kind sometimes. But not doubtful. Not worried.

"Dean." It's not a question, not even an order. It's one of those statements that only Dad can give. Dean knows what it means, even if he's the only one that does. You need to do this, because there is no other choice, is what it means.

Which is true, there is no other choice. It's Sam on the line; Dean's entire life on a plate. So Dean will be fine. Dean will walk as far as he has to. Dean will do anything he needs to do, because what Dad needs, what he needs, is Sam.

Always Sam.

"I will devour." Sam says loudly in an attempt to drown out the all-encompassing whistle that is slowly driving him insane. He says it a few times. Shouts it, whispers it, stresses each word separately, as if that will help him figure this thing out.

It just doesn't make sense. Whatever nightmare this creature crawled out of, it doesn't eat its prey. As far as Sam can see, none of the victims have actually been eaten. Some bodies are hanging, some are strewn over the floor, but they're all intact. Well, mostly intact. There are deep puncture wounds in the necks and chests of some of them, but no bite wounds. Actually, Sam realises as he thinks back to the creature that captured him, he doesn't remember seeing teeth, or even a mouth on the creature at all.

I will devour. What does it mean?

Through his foggy mind Sam can only imagine large molars and sharp front teeth cutting deep into his flesh and eating him alive. Blood and muscle and gore spouting everywhere, and God, he really wants to get out of here. He reminds himself that though the other victims are dead, they have not been eaten alive.

Vaguely, Sam realises that the fact that that is somehow comforting for him, is so screwed up.

Sam closes his eyes. Dad would know what to do. Like always. And Dean would definitely have figured this out by now. He would have systematically gone through every creature he knew, and come up with the only solution. Everyone says that Sam is the smart one, but he knows better. In a situation like this, in any situation really, Sam needs Dean.

Suddenly the whistle grows louder, and all the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand up. Slinking slowly into view, with its shocky teleportation, the creature appears. Deep black in comparison to its grey surroundings, red eyes boring straight through Sam.

Slowly, so very slowly, it reaches out a clawed hand, and lays it delicately on Sam's chest. Hardly daring to breathe, Sam looks into its eyes, deep, red, unfathomable.

As the creature slowly digs one claw after the other into Sam's chest, he has a sudden epiphany. Beidh mé ag ithe. Not I will devour, but I will consume.

That really doesn't sound much better.