Summary:  What secrets are hiding in the forested mountains of Oregon? Truth can be elusive and one of the brothers doesn't have time to spare. After Dean is injured, Sam must finish the hunt and get his brother out of the woods, before the hunt finishes them.
A/N:  Dedicated to Heather03nmg for passing her nursing exams! Congratulations and happy graduation day on Monday!
Thanks to Wysawyg for being the best beta a girl could hope for. Truly, thanks.
Disclaimer:  Eye don’t own Supernatural, nor dew eye profit from this inn any weigh, sew their! (Ouch, I hurt me).

The wind blew gently through the large, old-growth trees and above, the full moon shone brightly through the dense foliage. Dean hunkered down in the underbrush and scanned the area, keeping his rifle at the ready. He and Sam had followed the clues to the werewolves’ whereabouts and they had ended here, in the middle of an ancient forest in the foothills of southern Oregon. They had passed through a small town, turned onto a country road for endless miles and then an old, gravel, abandoned forest road for ten more miles. They were truly in the middle of nowhere and Dean was certain the Impala was angry with him for the pot-holed trip she’d been forced to endure.

Despite the near ninety degree weather of the early June afternoon the temperature had steadily plummeted when the sun dipped below the horizon. Dean estimated it was no more than fifty degrees now and the temperature was still dropping. He ignored the slight chill that ran under his coat and up his spine. The werewolves were in the area and he needed to be on the alert.

Sam had circled around the northern direction and he was headed around to the south. They knew there were at least two werewolves in the pack, but there existed a possibility of one to four more. When he spotted the werewolf through the trees, Dean raised his rifle and fired.

The shot rang true and the large beast fell to the ground with a crashing thud. Dean warily approached the morphing werewolf. He was relatively sure he had mortally wounded the creature, but cautiousness was more than just prudent while hunting, it kept you alive. He looked down at the wolf that was quickly changing back into a dark-haired man, scratch that, boy. He was no older than eighteen. Dean instantly renewed his vigilance and surveyed the landscape. That left at least two remaining werewolves.

The smell of wet dog coupled with dead rabbit reached Dean’s nose on the gentle breeze. He whipped the barrel of the rifle upwind. The forest was quiet save for the occasional rustling of leaves and the chirping of crickets. Dean picked up the distant sound of crashing underbrush and saw the dark shape of the second werewolf dashing between the trees. Without hesitation, he gave chase.

He followed it through the thick woods, but stopped at the edge of a clearing. The werewolf raised its snout in the air and sniffed. It snapped its head in Dean’s direction, the light of the moon reflecting in the glowing eyes and then it took off running in the opposite direction.

Cursing under his breath, Dean pursued the lycanthrope at top speed, but still lost ground. He found himself on the other side of the clearing trying to catch sight of the elusive creature. Dingy fur and sharp teeth suddenly appeared directly in front of him, as the werewolf swung down from a low branch of the nearby tree. The claws of its hind-legs raked his chest when it kicked him backwards before dropping to the ground.

Dean fell, but managed to maintain his grip on the rifle when he hit a pile of wood debris and stones with a solid thud. He aimed his gun at the werewolf and his finger tightened on the trigger even as the werewolf snarled at Dean and sprang towards him. He fired.

“Son of a…” Dean swore as the recoil jostled sore muscles. He never saw if the bullet found its mark because the ground beneath him gave way in a rumble of tumbling stones and cracking wood. He fell in slow motion as rocks, debris and even himself bounced off and collided with each other and the sides of the hole. He fell as the moon moved further away in the sky and his body impacted with the ground below before the stars flicked out.

Sam crouched next to the body of the dead werewolf taking in the appearance of the young woman before him as it changed back into a human being. His mind moved to Madison, but didn’t linger there long. He needed to keep his thoughts focused on the hunt and verify Dean was successful before allowing himself the luxury of introspection.

The breeze that had been blowing gently all evening grew in intensity as the night wore on. It was a cold wind that ran down the collar of Sam’s jacket and into his bones. He ignored the snap in the air, numbing his fingers and instead focused his concentration on the task at hand. The forest surrounding him was still and silent. Sam eyed the woods carefully looking for any indication of more werewolves or of his brother.

There was no movement in the area, no sound reaching his ears and Sam was aware of just how wrong that was. He moved stealthily through the trees, keeping the barrel of his rifle at the ready as he worked his way back towards Dean. The stars sparkled brightly in the cold sky and the moon shone through the patches of leaves in the trees. He could see well enough to walk without a flashlight so he chose to keep his turned off. There was no reason to give the werewolf more advantage than it already had.

Sam caught the silvery light of moonbeams bouncing off an object on the ground in the distance. He quickened his pace and the object on the ground became the white flesh of a dead, teenage boy. He crouched down next to the body and examined the bullet hole. It was a clean shot to the heart and Sam knew it was one of the werewolves. Dean had been here.

Wiping his hand on his pants, Sam stood up and looked around for signs of where Dean had gone from here, though he did not really expect to find anything. Dean could cover his tracks without even giving it a conscious thought. As Sam suspected the forest kept her secrets and the location of Dean remained a mystery. Sam knew the body on the pine-needle floor meant one more werewolf must still be in the area. He may not be able to track Dean, but he could track the other wolf.

The woods filled with the sounds of crickets chirping and the gentle rustle of leaves. It took Sam a moment to realize the world had gone from a black and white silent movie back to Technicolor surround sound. A change in the environment of that magnitude could only mean one thing, a predator of some type had moved out of the area. He knew he could not let his guard down because the werewolf could still be around, but the signs were not good. Dean would have moved out with the werewolf, so that left that much more ground to cover. Sam lifted his rifle to the ready position and headed out to look for the werewolf’s trail.

Dean felt hard pebbles under his back and digging into the back of his head. Damn, that meant he hadn’t made it back to a motel room. His head hummed at a frequency so high he figured every dog in the nearby vicinity would home in on him at any moment. Dean wondered briefly if they had gotten his money or if he had simply pissed them off and they had beaten him and left him here. It did not matter because either way, he needed to pick himself up and head back to the motel before Sam came looking for him. If his little brother knew he had managed to get the stuffing knocked out of him there’d be no end to the lectures or the mother hen routine.

The last time Dean had returned from a bar with a swollen lip and bloody knuckles Sam had discussed Dean’s behavior and the likelihood it had contributed to his current appearance ad nauseam.

“You’ve been out hustling pool without back up again, haven’t you?” Sam asked when he opened the door.

“We needed the money, Sam. You know we can’t keep using the bogus cards with the Feds breathing down our necks right now,” Dean replied, shouldering his way past Sam and into the motel room.

“I would have gone with you,” Sam said, walking to the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit.

“I didn’t want you to,” Dean replied, flopping into a lumpy, upholstered chair.

“What kind of bar did you go to?” Sam asked, his voice filtering in to Dean from the bathroom.

“The kind that would have had me defending your honor instead of my cash,” Dean answered with a smirk as Sam reappeared.

“Nice, can you be serious for two minutes?” Sam snapped, pulling up a hard back chair in front of Dean.

He eyed Sam warily as he pulled out a gauze pad, doused it with liquid and pressed it to Dean’s forehead. “Ouch!” he protested, pushing Sam’s hand away. “I was being serious. What do you have in that thing?”

“It’s just peroxide,” Sam insisted pressing it to the cut again. “Stop being a baby. It won’t work anyway. What bar?”

“It wasn’t so much a bar as it was a kind of club,” Dean admitted.

Sam’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and he sighed, “Dean, don’t you think the job itself is dangerous enough?”

Dean didn’t have a response that Sam would find reasonable, so he simply frowned at Sam and let him finish his ministrations and ranting.

Dean was pulled from his memories by an increase in the intensity of the fizzy-popping noise in his head. He furrowed his brow in pain. White light flared behind his eyelids and he groaned as the buzzing and the light merged and expanded until it blocked out all thought and the darkness came once more.

Sam followed the trail of the werewolf until it ended at the edge of a clearing. He passed through the clearing twice looking for signs of where the werewolf had re-entered the woods, but to no avail. The trail was cold. Sam wanted to call out for Dean, he had a feeling his brother was close by still hunting the werewolf, but he didn’t want to risk giving away Dean’s, or his own, location to the vicious lupine.

According to his watch there were only two more hours before dawn. Sam worried he would not be able to connect with Dean before daybreak and the only place Sam could be certain Dean would eventually turn up was the Impala. His decision made, he headed back to the waiting car on Waldo Road. Sam tried to keep his attention on the sights and sounds around him, but a portion of his brain could not help but dwell on his brother. Trouble had a way of finding Dean.

Sam paced the confines of the motel room in tight lines. He had finished his homework hours ago; Dean and Dad should have been back already. He flicked on the television and flung himself into the motel’s only chair. He jiggled his leg and tapped his thumb on the armrest, while attempting to distract himself with the mindless drivel on the set. Turning off the television and standing up, Sam threw the remote into the recently vacated chair and started pacing again in earnest.

He could not wait until he was eighteen like Dean so his dad and his brother would stop treating him like a child. He was not sure he was ready to hunt, but he was ready to stop being left behind. They had only left Austin a week ago and already his father had found a new hunt – a possible chupacabra sighting in New Mexico.

Sam started his third lap around the small room when the door burst open and his absent family members stumbled in, the younger supported by the elder.

“Dean!” Sam exclaimed, moving to intercept with his brother.

“Move out of the way, Sammy,” John commanded, manhandling Dean to the bed. “Grab the first aid kit.”

“Dad, what happened?” Sam asked, grabbing the kit and taking his place at Dean’s side.

“Wild dogs,” John replied simply. “We almost didn’t make it back to the car.”

Sam watched as John cut away Dean’s jeans from the cuff to his knee. Bite marks left streaks of red on Dean’s leg. “It looks like Dean didn’t,” Sam replied. He had not meant to sound accusatory, but it came out that way even to his own ears.

“He’ll be fine,” John said in a clipped tone. Turning his attention to Dean he asked, “Won’t you son?”

“I’m okay, Sammy,” Dean replied, directing his tight response to his anxious little brother.

“Sam, hand me the peroxide,” John barked, holding out one hand for the peroxide while the other held a sterile gauze pad to Dean’s leg.

“What about diseases – like rabies?” Sam asked, the worry in his chest creeping out through his throat. “We don’t have anything for stuff like that.”

“One step at a time, Sammy,” John replied. “One step at a time.”

Sam arrived at the Impala with the strange feeling of being unable to recall exactly how he had managed to get there. Great Sam, way to pay attention, he silently chided himself. He rested the rifle carefully along the side of the car and fished in his pocket for the lock pick set. Dean would be angry if he knew Sam was picking the lock, but then Dean should not have taken the keys with him as usual. The sound of a twig breaking behind him had Sam whirling around.

A flash of brown appeared in his vision, the only warning before a giant weight connected with his chest. The back of his head connected with the Impala and Sam felt an odd sense of relief at hitting the metal frame rather than the window. He did not want to be the one that told Dean the window was broken on the car – again.

One hand grabbed for the rifle while the other hand rose in a feeble attempt to stave off the next attack. The next hit came at him from the side and caused him to stumble to the right. He lost his footing on the rough gravel and fell to the ground. His fingers found the rifle butt on the way down and when his back hit the gravel, he rolled in one motion to a crouching position, braced the weapon with his shoulder and fired.

When Dean awoke for the second time, he was able to crack his eyes open to peer into the darkness. Stars above his head told him he was outside. Why was he outside? Dean’s head pounded and he moved his hand to the back of his head. It came away sticky and he groaned. The stars glittered and blurred and Dean wondered why they danced in erratic patterns and the ground shivered in response. He realized belatedly that it was he, who shivered and the even longer before he put together the clues to his probable concussion.

Images came unbidden of a hunt for the werewolves: Research at the rundown motel, leading them to the hunting grounds of the werewolf pack; he and Sam splitting up to search for the werewolves; chasing one through the trees and then - falling. Sam was still out there, hunting a pack of werewolves by himself and no doubt searching for him. “Sam!” Dean called out weakly without thinking. There was no response, but Dean was not expecting one. He knew Sam would not have left him bleeding at the bottom of a hole if he was nearby.

Unfortunately, that meant he had to find a way out of here. The fact that Sam had not found him when he had obviously been here long enough to bleed a fair puddle on the rocks beneath him had to mean something was wrong. Dean attempted to roll to his side and his back screamed in protest. Without warning the contents of his stomach made an unexpected and forceful exit out of his body. He retched several times and when he was done, he blew his nose to remove any vomit that had lodged in the alternate route. He lay there panting with his eyes scrunched closed trying to catch his breath, but his lungs refused to cooperate. The stabbing pain in his lower back that he had not noticed while lying supine joined in the chorus.

His breathing finally under control, Dean opened his eyes and surveyed his surroundings from his new perspective. Rocks littered the ground and he could see clearly that the hole he had fallen in was no more than six feet in diameter which explained why he had been lying in such an odd position earlier. Dean wanted to squirm away from the strong smelling sick puddle only inches from him, but he lacked the strength at the moment. The one thing Dean had not anticipated was the man sitting on the opposite side, his leg bent awkwardly beside him and his skin pale.

The man turned to look at Dean with glassy, unfocused eyes. “They put us here,” he whispered. “They put us here, but they’ll be back.”

“Who?” Dean asked, shifting slightly. He regretted his actions as shoots of sharp pain moved up his legs, along his spine and into his head. “The werewolves?”

“Yeah, they put us here,” the man repeated, turning away from Dean and leaning back against the wall.

Dean took in the man’s odd appearance. The worn overalls and scuffed boots hinted at farming or ranching. “Have you seen anyone else?” Dean questioned him. He doubted this man had seen Sam, but he had to know for sure.

Dean thought at first that perhaps the man had not heard him or that he had passed out, but instead he seemed to be sleeping. “Hey, hey!” Dean called, hoping to wake him up. When he saw the man’s eyes flutter open he continued, “My name’s Dean, what’s yours?”

“Not that it matters because we won’t be making it out of here alive, but my name’s Gibbs, William Gibbs,” William replied, still not looking at Dean. His face contorted in pain and he moaned.

“We are going to make it out of here alive. Do you hear me?” Dean asked. His question was met with only silence and Dean could feel the tug of unconsciousness pulling at him once more. He blinked hard against the burn in his eyes and fought back another wave of nausea. “William, we are going to be okay. I have to get out of here and then we’ll find my brother.”

William turned sad eyes to Dean. “I’m sorry I have to be the one to tell you,” he stated. “They got him.”

“Got who? Sam?” Dean demanded. No way did this man know who Sam was.

Gibbs nodded slowly. “They hurt him. He was bleedin’ and yellin’ as they ripped him open.” Gibbs leaned his head back and gave all appearances of sleep once more.

Dean’s mind whirled. He couldn’t know who Sam was. Dean had not described him or given any indication that would help the man link Sam to him. Although in truth, there could not be that many people wandering about in these woods. The longer Dean’s muddled mind dwelt on that fact, the stronger his conviction that Gibbs actually did know who Sam was. “How, how do you know he was my brother?” Dean asked quietly and brokenly.

Gibbs did not open his eyes or turn his head towards Dean. “I wouldn’t have at all, ‘cept he was callin’ for you.”

Dean’s heart sank into his stomach. He refused to believe Sam was dead. He was hurt, he needed Dean to climb out of this hole and help him, but he was not dead. Dean struggled to stand, but a lack of strength coupled with uncooperative limbs conspired against him. He flopped back onto the ground and fisted loose dirt in his hands. He tossed the dirt impotently across to the other side of the hole and braced himself against renewed flares of pain. Dean fought against the hopelessness threatening to consume him and the waves of panic clawing at his brain. His head swam with dizziness and this time he allowed himself to sink into blissful unconsciousness.

The third time Dean awoke diffused sunlight filtered through the leaves, down twenty feet to where he lay on his side at the bottom of the oubliette. He blinked sand-filled eyes and tried to focus on the area around him. The coarse rancher, Gibbs, was nowhere to be seen. Had he simply imagined the old guy? It was a wonderful, beautiful thought, but Dean knew it was not true. Gibbs had been here and he had told Dean what had happened to Sam. The question remained, where was Gibbs now? The obvious answer was not a pleasant one and Dean quickly tucked it away in favor of assessing his current predicament.

He eased himself onto his back and looked up at the faraway, slowly lightening sky. The sides of the deep hole were lined with protruding rocks and dry, exposed roots. Dean figured he could free climb using the natural hand and foot holds. It would be a stretch in some places, but it would be possible. He attempted to prop himself onto his elbows, ignoring the spasms in his back and the pounding in his head. His muscles quivered from the strain and he wondered how he was going to scale the dirt wall.

Tossing aside feelings of doubt, Dean strengthened his resolve to free himself and to find Sam. He used his feet and elbows to push himself along the bumpy ground until his back hit the wall. He groaned as he wriggled into a sitting position. Curiosity as to the time had Dean raising his arm to check his watch. He ignored the twinges in his shoulder and focused still blurry eyes on the digital display. It was either three minutes after eight or eight minutes after three, Dean could not tell which. He decided it was shortly after eight in the morning based on the amount of sunlight and lack of heat.

Wrapping trembling arms, weak from effort, around his knees Dean gathered his strength for the next round. His stomach gurgled in angry opposition of Dean’s recent activity and his brain throbbed as if trying to escape the confines of his skull. “Come on, Winchester,” he coached himself. “Get your rear in gear, you’re okay.” It was funny how his father’s words came out of his own mouth when he least expected it.

Dean slowly peeled off his jacket, his breath hitching when his ribs burned hot. His breathing gradually returned to normal and Dean searched his coat pockets for anything that may be helpful once he reached the top. He pulled out a gas receipt, a book of matches and three, slightly linty peanut M & M’s. He shoved the matches into his jeans pocket, dusted off the M & M’s and popped them into his mouth. He was not hungry, in fact he was far from it, but he knew he should eat to help replenish what he had lost hours earlier.

He leaned back, allowing his head to gently rest against the dirt wall. From his new vantage point Dean craned his neck and looked up from the bottom of the hole. The top loomed impossibly far away and Dean closed his eyes, momentarily. Steeling himself for the long haul he staggered to his feet. Failure was simply not an option.

Sam grunted under the exertion of pulling the large beast away from the car. He huffed from the effort as he hid the carcass of the cougar under the thick underbrush. He had not wanted to leave the cat near the Impala on the off-chance of a Forest Ranger driving by. The fact that he had managed to walk away from the attack with only bruised ribs and a large scratch down his left arm was something to be thankful for.

He pulled out the lock pick set and walked around to the back of the Impala. Within seconds had the trunk open and he began to carefully pack a small duffel with the essentials. Rope, axe, emergency blanket, power bars, water, lighter, accelerant and salt all made their way into the bag; after some thought Sam also stuffed extra silver bullets and a sharp knife in with the rest. He kept out the first aid kit to patch up the cut on his arm.

Slamming the trunk closed, Sam made his way to his traditional spot on the passenger side and crawled into the Impala to wait for Dean. He turned on the interior light and slipped out of his jacket and the long sleeve outer shirt. Examining his arm closely for the first time, Sam realized he actually had one very long, deep cut as well as three shallower cuts. The cougar had gotten in a full swipe. After cleaning the wound and suturing it closed with a multitude of steri-strips, Sam re-donned his shirt and jacket. He shook out two ibuprofens and swallowed them down with a huge swig of water.

Knowing there were at least two hours until daybreak, Sam leaned back in the seat to wait for Dean. If Dean was not back by then, he would begin searching again. Sam wrapped his coat tighter around him and tried desperately to get a little sleep. If Dean really was not okay, Sam needed the rest. Dean never got himself in just a little trouble. Sam’s eyes grew heavy and he blinked lazily out the windshield.

Sam hesitated at the side of the bed. On the one hand, he wanted reassurance that Dean was okay and on the other, he did not want to accidentally cause Dean any pain by bumping his injured legs. Their dad was already asleep on the other bed, so Sam’s only choices were next to Dean or on the floor. He stood beside the bed, silently hovering, weighing his options when Dean groaned softly.

“Just come to bed, Sammy,” he sighed without rolling over to face Sam.

“Scoot over,” Sam whispered, making shooing motions with his hands behind Dean’s back.

Dean rolled half-way over and looked over his shoulder at Sam. “You know I sleep on this side. Climb over.”

“Not tonight,” Sam insisted, making no move to the far side of the bed.

Dean glared, but it was half-hearted. The painkillers had dulled his reactions. “Sammy…”

“Not tonight,” Sam reiterated. “Sometimes you need to let me be on the outside.”

“Tonight’s not that night,” Dean stated, rolling back onto his side.

Sam sighed and gingerly climbed over Dean to his customary spot between Dean and the wall. ‘One of these days, Dean,’ he thought. ‘You’re going to have to let me.’

Sunbeams glinted merrily through the trees, hitting Sam directly in the eyes. He glanced at his watch and realized he had been able to snag a couple hours of rest. Dean had obviously not returned to the car, so Sam shoved the first aid kit into the duffel and headed out to find his brother.

Dean’s hand shook as he stretched to reach the next handhold. The sun was not yet shining into the confines of what he decided was an old well. Although there was not any direct sunlight beating down on him, it was already very warm and Dean wiped sweat off his forehead onto his shoulder. Rocks gave way under his foot and Dean hastily grabbed for the exposed root above him. His fingers grazed the dry tuber, but his foot slid further off its perch and Dean’s damp hand could not maintain its grip.

Sliding down the side of the well, Dean frantically searched for any protruding object to latch onto. With a resounding thud he landed back on the ground, his ankle popping and a smaller thud as his bottom hit moments later. Dean wheezed; no breath to spare even for a curse. He panted shallowly and squinted as the sun crested over the edge. He squeezed his eyes shut and rested his head on bent knees in frustration.

He was not sure how long he stayed in that cramped position, but the sun beating on his head encouraged him to move. He eased himself up very slowly and stood carefully on the ankle he had turned. It was sore, but not broken. Things were looking up. Favoring his left ankle, Dean hobbled to the edge of the well. Winded from the short trip, Dean bent forward, resting his hands on his legs trying to catch his breath.

The sun continued to bake his head and back until he straightened. He looked closely at the wall-face in front of him. There were no longer any significant rocks in which to hoist him out of here. He had searched the other areas earlier and knew there was not any low enough to use. He slumped back down to the ground in defeat. “Sammy,” he whispered.

Whether it was the heat or the concussion, Dean was losing the battle to stay awake yet again. He rested his head on his knees as it was more comfortable than bracing it against the hard wall. He felt the back of his head and discovered the large lump he was certain was the cause of the double vision, but he did not think it adequately explained the light-headed feeling that was continually worsening. It had to be the heat and the lack of water.

He fought against the pull of sleep because he needed to escape before nightfall. He was convinced the werewolves had returned for William before daybreak. Not to mention the ominous news from Farmer Gibbs that Sam had been hurt by the lycanthropes. He still clung stubbornly to the hope the man could not really know Sam and while he may have been calling to Dean it was in Sam’s attempt to locate him, not because he was hurt. It appeared increasingly likely to Dean that he would not be able to free himself to help his brother and the loss of control over Sam’s welfare had him wallowing in self-imposed, nearly debilitating guilt.

He blinked several times trying to stay awake, but in the end the heat and the head injury proved too much to overcome and he lost consciousness in the sun-baked bottom of the old well.

Dean watched Sammy from a partially hidden spot on the perimeter of the park. He had followed Sammy when his brother had wandered away from the playground area apparently ignoring the rule that he needed to stay by Dean at all times. Sammy crouched in the grass, gazing intently at something. Dean assumed he had found an interesting bug of some type. Sammy had recently become enamored with insects of all kinds.

Sammy looked up and scanned the playground. Dean could tell by the expression on Sammy’s face that he was looking for him. To Sammy’s credit he did not appear scared or upset not to have Dean in his immediate sight, but with the increasing frequency of the glances Dean knew he was searching for him more urgently.

He decided to end the game. Dean had only been trying to teach Sammy the importance of obeying dad and staying near him, but he did not want to scare him. “Hey, Sammy,” Dean called stepping out into full view. “What do you have there?”

Sammy looked up, relief clearly evident on his face. “It’s a praying mantis,” Sammy replied with a smile, the gap from his two missing front teeth showing. “He’s a hunter too.”

Dean returned Sam’s smile and bent down to look at the praying mantis. After a beat he cautioned, “You know, you were supposed to stay by me on the playground.”

“I know,” Sam replied ashamedly. “I’m sorry.” He looked up at Dean, his hazel eyes conveying his sincerity. “I wasn’t afraid though.”

“It’s not really about you being afraid. It is about you being safe,” Dean lectured. He put an arm around Sammy’s shoulders.

“I was safe,” Sammy insisted. When Dean opened his mouth to contradict him, Sammy added, “I knew you were here watching me somewhere. You always are.”

As much as Dean wanted to push his point, that Sammy needed to learn to obey the rules, the big brother part of him swelled in pride at his independence and his faith in Dean. “And I always will be.”

Sammy laughed and wriggled out of Dean’s embrace. He ran a few feet away and turned around to face his brother. “N’yah, n’yah, you can’t catch me.”

Dean rolled his eyes. His little brother never tired of this game and the reason eluded Dean. There had never been a time he had failed to catch Sammy. When Dean sprang to his feet and gave chase, Sammy squealed and almost tripped over his own feet taking off. “Dean!” Sammy screamed in the high-pitched delight only small children could muster.

Dean was almost on him when he shouted again, “Dean!” Dean frowned. The voice was still Sammy, but the deep voice was incongruous with the child in front of him.

“Dean!”

“Dean!”

Dean’s eyes flicked open. Sam’s normal alto voice had dropped an octave, the way it did when he was upset or concerned. “Sam?!” Dean croaked in a dusty voice. He licked his lips and tasted the salt from dried sweat. He swallowed hard, but he lacked saliva to soothe his raw throat. “Sam?!” he tried again. There was no response and Dean thought for a moment he had imagined his brother calling him.

“Dean, thank God,” Sam’s voice came from directly overhead.

Dean looked up and tried to focus his swimming vision on Sam, but he could not make the colors stay in the lines no matter how hard he concentrated. The blurry vision was making him nauseous and he closed his eyes. He would wait for Sam for he could do nothing else. At least he knew now, the bastard had lied to him.

Sam dropped the duffel next to a tree close to the pit. He snagged the canteen and slipped it over his shoulder. He then pulled out the length of rope and wrapped it around the tree. His sweat-dampened fingers slipped on the rope as he worked frantically to tie a tight reef knot. He hurried back to the edge of the deep hole uncoiling the rope as he went, concerned whether or not it would be long enough to reach Dean. He did not appear to be in any condition to climb out by himself.

He tossed the remaining coils into the well, taking care not to hit Dean. Sam lay on the ground, hung onto the rope and eased his legs over the edge. His fingers slipped as he struggled to control his rate of descent. Hands burning, he hit bottom with enough force to rattle his teeth.

Sam rushed over to Dean and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Dean?” he asked, gently shaking his shoulder. He could feel the heat radiating through Dean’s shirt. Dean looked up at Sam, his head lolling to the side and Sam took in his appearance. His sunburned face was scarlet red and puffy, his lips were chapped and his pupils were unequal with a glassy finish. All in all, Dean looked a bit like a hotdog, left too long on the grill. Sam knelt down next to Dean. “Hey, big brother, let’s get you out of here, okay?”

Awareness gleamed in Dean’s eyes. “Sammy?” he asked, placing a hand over the one Sam had on his shoulder.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Sam replied, with a small smile.

Dean frowned. “You okay?”

Sam chuckled on the verge of hysterical relief. “I’m fine, Dean. You’re the one who’s hurt.”

“M’fine. Gimme a minute,” Dean slurred, struggling to stand.

“I could give you a hundred minutes,” Sam stated bluntly. “And it wouldn’t matter. You’re hurt.” Sam pushed down softly on Dean’s shoulder encouraging him to remain seated. Dean scowled, but otherwise said nothing. Sam unscrewed the lid on the canteen, lifted it to Dean’s lips and slowly tipped out the water. Dean drank in a sloppy, uncoordinated fashion, as if he had forgotten quite how to swallow. Sam lowered the canteen after giving Dean a few sips and screwed the lid back on. “That’s it for now. I don’t want to risk upsetting your stomach.”

“Did that once already,” Dean managed with a slight frown. “Didn’t like it, hurt like a mother.”

Sam threw Dean a concerned look. Dean admitting something hurt was tantamount to snow on the Gobi dunes. The dry, hot skin and the confusion were both indicative of heat exhaustion. He needed to get Dean out of this hole and into the shade quickly. “Do you think if I tied a makeshift harness you could hold the rope?”

Dean’s scowl turned into a grimace. “Yes,” he snapped, his frustrated retort made less potent by his swaying.

“Prove it,” Sam challenged. He grabbed the end of the rope and held it in front of Dean. Dean made three attempts to latch onto it before Sam realized Dean was having vision problems. He helped Dean’s fingers find the rope before he gave it a soft tug. He pulled it effortlessly out of Dean’s grip. Well that’s never going to work, he thought. Sam glanced around the dry well looking for a solution when he spotted Dean’s discarded coat and an idea came to him.

It was nearly thirty minutes later before Sam had a strong, looped harness tied around Dean’s backside and legs. He then fastened Dean’s coat around Dean and the rope, diagonally over one shoulder and under the other in an odd type of sash. It was not a great solution, but it would keep Dean’s upper body from dangling too far away from the rope and causing him to either smack into the wall or fall out of the harness.

“Dean?” Sam asked, trying to engage his brother in any meaningful way. Dean had been less responsive as time dragged on. Dean’s eyes moved to Sam, but Sam could not honestly tell if Dean truly comprehended what he said. “I need to climb up the rope and that’s going to jerk you around quite a bit.” He hated the thought of causing Dean more pain, but he obviously could not trust Dean to secure himself in the harness after Sam climbed out.

Dean muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, ‘bitch,’ and Sam cast him a puzzled look.

Sam tapped Dean on the shoulder and said, “Okay, I’m headed up now.” He waited for a minute for some sign from Dean that he understood, but received none. Sam took a firm hold of the rope and started the arduous process of climbing hand over hand out of the well. The burns on his hands and the cut on his arm throbbed in syncopated rhythm, but Sam ignored them, his eyes set only on the goal of reaching the top.

Forced to dig his hands into the rough ground to continue to maintain his hold on the rope, Sam had more difficulty managing the final four pulls, but he was finally out far enough to swing his legs over the edge and back onto solid ground. Spinning around to look down at Dean, Sam paused to catch his breath and flexed his rope-burned fingers in anticipation of pulling Dean to safety.

Slowly, inexorably, Sam began to pull Dean to the surface. His arm muscles sang and his bruised ribs ached from the effort and as a silent reminder of his own injuries. Once Dean was in reach, Sam grabbed his collar and hefted him onto solid ground. Dean’s eyes were closed and his head flopped to the side. Sam grasped Dean under the arms and dragged him bodily across the uneven ground to the sun dappled shade of the nearest large tree. “And you talk about me needing to cut back,” Sam muttered, panting from exertion.

He untied Dean’s coat from around the rope, folded it neatly and placed it under Dean’s head. Sam untied Dean’s boots and slid one off. The other grabbed at Dean’s heel and Sam bent down to examine it further. Dean’s ankle was swollen. Sam winced in sympathy, as he firmly pulled on the boot until it released the captive foot. Socks came off next, followed closely by both of Dean’s shirts. Sam succeeded in getting Dean to drink a few sips of water while he had him in a sitting position. He lowered Dean carefully back to the ground and untied the harness.

He coiled the rope as he reeled it in and finished by untying it from the tree before stuffing it back in the duffel bag. Sam raised his hand and stared at his enemy: the sun. He estimated they had approximately two hours left of daylight. That was a good thing because as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon it would start to cool off quickly. However, it was also a bad thing as Dean would not be able to negotiate the difficult terrain and they would be stuck out here another night. In fact, Sam doubted Dean would be leaving here under his own steam any time soon. That left only one option in Sam’s mind. He would have to build a travois and drag Dean back to the Impala.

Turning his attention back to Dean, Sam knelt on the dry, wild grasses next to his brother. Dean’s skin was still red and hot. He toyed with the idea of using water from the canteen to cool Dean, but until they were able to get back to town this was all the water they had and it needed to be reserved for drinking. He examined Dean’s chest and arms, but other than scratches and minor bruising he did not see any significant injuries. He bent Dean’s left knee, placed a hand on his shoulder, rolled Dean towards him and shifted him into the recovery position.

He sat back on his haunches at the sight of Dean’s back. Angry red blotches littered his back, his hair was crusted with dried blood and a large, spongy, purple bruise covered nearly his entire lower back. Using the peroxide from the medkit, Sam cleaned the wound on Dean’s head. It was not terribly deep, but it was long and the bump on his head looked as if a golf ball lay housed just below the surface of his skin. Throughout his ministrations Dean did not move nor utter a sound. He began speaking to Dean in the hopes of eliciting a response.

“You managed to bang yourself up pretty well, Dean,” Sam stated, cleaning one of the deeper scratches on his back. “But you seem to be losing your touch. I don’t think that ankle is broken.” Dean still did not move or emit a noise.

Sam squinted in the fading light at the ankle in question. “Although, who knows? You are getting older and I’m sure your bones are more fragile. I’m just glad you didn’t break a hip,” Sam quipped, using tweezers to remove small rocks from an abrasion on Dean’s elbow. “And I see you’ve taken up rock collecting.” Nothing, no response.

“I’m getting a little worried, Dean,” Sam admitted, putting away the supplies in favor of securing the impromptu campsite. “I wish you’d wake up and say something.”

“Don’t be scared, Sammy,” Dean mumbled, his words barely intelligible. “Dad’ll be back soon.”

“Dean?”

Dean’s eyes opened to half mast and Dean winced. “Sam? Head hurts.”

“You’ve got a big knot on the back of it, that’s why,” Sam replied, a smile cracking his face.

Dean looked at him hazily. “Where are we?”

“We’re still in the woods and there’s still one more werewolf out there,” Sam replied honestly. “Hey, it’s going to be dark soon. I need to gather some wood and build a fire. It won’t deter a werewolf, but it might keep the animals away.”

Dean blinked at Sam as if trying to figure out something important. “Hand me a gun,” he stated finally.

“What?” Sam asked incredulously. “Dean, you can’t use a weapon right now.”

“Can too,” Dean replied petulantly, still struggling to keep open his heavily-lidded eyes.

“Can not,” Sam stated with a tone of finality. He held up two fingers only a foot from Dean’s face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

The heavy pause was broken by Dean’s huff of annoyance. “Fine. No gun.”

Amazed he had won that round, Sam stood up. “I’ll stay in sight. Don’t try to do anything.”

Dean waved a hand at him and closed his eyes. Before Sam had picked up his first stick of wood, he heard light snoring. It took only minutes to find plenty of kindling for a fire, but the next problem was the dry grass. He could not start a fire in the open or it would burn the whole forest down. He deposited his pile of wood neatly on the ground, picked up a nearby rock and dug into the ground. It took nearly a half an hour to dig a hole wide enough and deep enough to contain a fire. He decided to line the circle with rocks for added protection.

A cool breeze blew through the trees as the sun kissed the horizon. He would only have enough light left to quickly gather a few rocks and get the fire started. Burdened with an armful of rocks, Sam kicked over one last stone for the fire pit and startled when the distinctive rattle of an angry snake reached his ears.

Sam stood completely still as his eyes searched the long shadows for the snake. Finally, he saw it coiled near the overturned stone, its rattling tail held high. He weighed his options. Knowing it could only strike half its body length, his distance from the reptile was nearly enough to be safe. He could attempt to simply back away slowly and hope it would not attack. Sam edged his way backwards, but his retreat was impeded by the armful of rocks and he moved clumsily, shifting his arms to maintain a grip on the stones. A chunk of granite broke free from the group and hit the ground in a puff of dust and a dull thud.

The viper uncoiled and struck with reptilian speed causing Sam to jump and two more rocks to dislodge from the pile and fall to the ground. Apparently tired of the harassment from above, the snake slithered quickly into the long grass and Sam swore under his breath. The rattlesnake’s fangs had sunk into his leg even through the denim. Not wanting to have to pick up all the stones again, Sam decided to carry them back to camp before checking the bite. The cut on his arm burned and his muscles vibrated as he began carefully walking back to Dean, keeping a close lookout for more snakes. They would be on the move now that the night had cooled and Sam did not relish the thought of another encounter.

He deposited the rocks inside the fire-pit. They clinked off each other as they hit and the sound caused Dean to sit bolt upright with a small gasp. He sat blinking, as his mind whirred to catch up to his body. Sam wiped his hands off on his jeans and walked over to his brother. “Dean?” Sam asked. He stooped low and brushed small pieces of dry ground debris, dirt and stray ants off Dean’s already abused back.

Dean grabbed Sam’s other arm, his grip almost painful in its urgency. “You’re okay?”

Sam frowned. Dean seemed to be fixated more than usual on his safety and also seemed to have trouble recalling recent events. He hoped it was not the head injury. “Yeah, I’m fine, remember? You fell into an old, dried up well?” There was no reason to bring up the snake bite. Not until he knew for sure how bad it was. Adult rattlesnakes could control their venom release and there was a chance it was a dry bite, especially because he was not experiencing any symptoms yet.

Dean’s mint melt-away eyes searched Sam’s face to verify the truthfulness of his statement. His expression expressed his disbelief that Sam was telling the entire truth, but he did not openly question it. “So, Lassie came and rescued me from the well?” Dean quipped.

“I think Lassie knocked you into the well,” Sam replied with a slowly widening smile, he had seen the cuts on Dean’s chest and put together a reasonable scenario. Dean still held a death grip on his arm, but if he was reverting to form, Dean was feeling a little better. The hold on his forearm actually increased in intensity and Sam resisted the urge to wince. If he called Dean’s attention to it, Dean would be embarrassed and shut down. He hoped Dean realized it soon as his fingers were actually tingling.

“Did I get it?” Dean asked, abruptly releasing his hold on Sam’s arm.

“You did get one, but I don’t think you got that one. I didn’t see a body anywhere nearby,” Sam stated. He shifted towards the fire pit, but did not turn away from Dean. “I’m going to start a fire.”

Dean reached for him again, but seemed to change his mind. He dropped his hand and lowered his gaze. “I wasn’t in that hole alone,” Dean recalled.

“I didn’t see anyone else,” Sam replied. The look on Dean’s face was enough to convince Sam that Dean believed what he said, but Sam had not found any indication of anyone else in the well. He scooted closer to the fire-pit and started lining it with rocks to give Dean some physical space.

“There was a rancher and his name was William…Gibbs I think,” Dean replied.

“Dean, no one else was down there,” Sam insisted.

“No, I mean I know, when I woke up this morning he was gone,” Dean explained.

“Maybe he got out and went for help?” Sam suggested, looking over his shoulder at Dean.

“I don’t think he could,” Dean replied, shaking his head. “It looked like his leg was broken.”

“Are you suggesting the werewolf came back for him?” Sam asked, stacking the rocks around the dirt hole. It felt like he had more than enough rocks while he had been carrying them, but in truth there were barely enough to circle the fire-pit.

“I don’t know what I’m suggesting,” Dean admitted, holding his head in his hands and rubbing his temples.

Sam stood up, walked over to the duffel bag and came back to sit next to Dean. He offered the opened canteen to Dean. “You need to drink some water,” he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. He shoved two ibuprofens in Dean’s hand. “Take these too.”

Dean swallowed the pills carefully and drank the water slowly. When he finished, he sat with the canteen in his lap, but did not make an effort to screw back on the lid. Finally, Sam realized Dean was still having trouble with his vision and couldn’t close the canteen. “Hey, if you’re finished with that, I’ll take a drink,” Sam said, holding out his hand.

Dean handed him the canteen, but Sam could tell he was still focused on something else. He took a small swig of water and set the canteen next to Dean. Deciding Dean needed some time before he would talk again; Sam started filling the pit with wood and dry grass. Within moments a small fire crackled brightly making shadows dance around them. He surreptitiously pulled up his pant leg and examined the snake bite. It was not swelling and only throbbed a little. It looked as if he was lucky this time. The law of averages dictated it had to happen eventually.

Sam walked over and reached into the duffel bag once more and this time came out with the emergency blanket. He spread it out next to Dean. “Why don’t you move over here?” Sam asked. “Maybe the bugs will leave you alone.” There were numerous crawling insects on the ground and several had found their way to the brothers already. Dean did not reply, but he did scoot over until he was on the blanket. “Do you think you could eat something now?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Dean replied.

Sam was not at all sure Dean could eat. He appeared nauseated, as if he was concentrating a great deal on not to throwing up the water he had just consumed. He pulled a power bar out of the duffel and the wrapper crinkled as he opened it. He broke it in half and handed one half to Dean. “Go slow,” Sam cautioned.

Dean took a bite and chewed carefully before swallowing. “Tonight is the last night to catch that werewolf this lunar cycle,” he said. “We need to be out there hunting it.”

“Dean, you’re hurt,” Sam reminded him needlessly. “We can’t hunt tonight.”

“Sam, we can’t let it get away. We need to finish this,” Dean insisted.

Sam could tell he was not going to get anywhere with declarations, so he switched tracks. “Okay, what do you suggest?” he asked.

“We track it, the same as before,” Dean replied.

“Your ankle is twice its normal size. You can’t walk around in the wood searching for it,” Sam noted. He shoved the empty wrapper into his jeans pocket and continued, “Before you suggest it, I’m not leaving you here alone while I search for it either. You can’t defend yourself if you can’t see well enough to fire a weapon and quite frankly, you’ve been disoriented every time you wake up. If I leave to hunt, are you going to remember that I’m out hunting when you wake up?”

Dean’s face crinkled in disapproval. “We can’t leave it out there,” he repeated. “It will start a new pack and more people will be hurt.”

Sam sighed in frustration. Commands had not worked and the voice of reason had failed too. That left only compromise or appealing to Dean’s protective big brother side. He toyed briefly with playing up the legitimate snake bite angle, but that could backfire on him quickly. Compromise it was. “How about we wait until midnight? That’s only a couple of hours from now,” Sam suggested.

“You’re saying we should do nothing?” Dean asked incredulously.

“I’m only suggesting we rest for a couple of hours and then if we’re both up to it, we take it from there,” Sam replied.

“Sam, we finish the hunt. No exceptions,” Dean announced firmly.

“There are plenty of exceptions,” Sam disagreed. He understood Dean’s motivation to finish every hunt and to not leave any opportunity for evil to escape. The shtriga had been a life-altering event for his brother. He could not help but think, however, if he was the one who was injured that Dean would not leave him here alone while he finished the hunt. “It’s just the rules are arbitrary and stacked in favor of the house.”

Dean’s glare turned to an expression of relief. Sam twisted to gaze in the direction Dean was looking. Nestled into the grove of trees on the far side of the clearing was a two story house. Two young children, no older than five, were standing at the large picture window upstairs. “How’d I miss an entire house?” Sam muttered. He had been solely concentrating on Dean until he started hunting for firewood and by then the sun had been almost gone. Still, a house was a hard thing to miss. “I missed a house?” Sam asked sheepishly.

Dean awarded him a lop-sided grin. “Guess you’re slipping, little brother,” he teased.

Sam turned back to the house and realized at once that something was wrong. The children were pounding on the window now and both of them appeared to be afraid. “Dean, something’s wrong,” he observed.

Dean’s grin faded away and he moved to stand, but he was beaten by Sam. The weapon he had wanted, but been denied earlier, was thrust into his hand. “Stay here,” Sam commanded as he took off running for the house.

“That’s not gonna happen,” Dean muttered. He then realized he had another problem to solve to solve first. “Where the hell are my shoes?” he wondered aloud.

Sam ran as fast as he could for the house. He could now see through the window where flames were licking the walls and the ceiling in the children’s room. The acrid smell of smoke filled Sam’s nose, spurning him into high gear. Soon, the entire house was in flames. The window upstairs smashed and the sound of children crying could be heard over the roar of the fire. The children’s tear-streaked faces turned to absolute terror when the fire burned ever higher and the little girl’s dress started to burn.

The entire house was in flames and there was no way Sam was going to reach them in time. The thought of two more people burning alive before his very eyes was intolerable and panic fluttered in his chest. He reached for the doorknob and a pocket of hot air pushed him down onto his backside when the fire flared. The heat of the flames caressed his face and he raised his arms to shield his eyes. Silence and then the sound of crickets filled the air, replacing the roar of the fire.

Sam propped himself up on his elbows and blinked into the dark woods, his eyes readjusting to the darkness after the bright flames. The house was gone. There were three young trees standing where the house had been and there was not a sign of the house or the fire anywhere.

“Sam?!” Dean called from behind him, but not far enough behind him. Dean obviously had not listened to him.

Sam jumped to his feet, whirled around and headed back for Dean. Dean had not made it far. He had his boots on and one was tied, the other held fast by the swollen ankle. “I thought I told you to stay there,” Sam snapped. Dean’s pig-headed insistence was going to get him hurt. Well, even more hurt.

“You say a lot of things. It’s kind of hard to keep track,” Dean replied with a grimace of pain as his ribs screamed in agony. Apparently, lying absolutely still was the only thing he was capable of at the moment. “What happened?”

Sam grabbed Dean’s elbow and steered him the ten feet back to camp. “The house disappeared,” Sam explained. “It didn’t burn down, it disappeared. There’s no sign of a fire and there are trees growing where the house was standing.”

“How is that possible?” Dean asked, shaking his head. The sunburn on his arms and face caused the nerve endings in his skin to sing loudly as skin stretched tight. Even the cool breeze that chased the leaves in the trees felt like tiny pin-pricks on the sensitive skin.

“I don’t know,” Sam replied honestly. He did not meet Dean’s gaze. He did not want to know what he would find there. “But that was a real fire. I could smell it and hear it as well as see it. There really was a house burning over there.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Dean reassured him.

Sam caught the weary tone and took a good look at Dean. It was plainly evident Dean was in a great deal of pain. He was holding himself carefully and every movement was stiff and forced. Exhaustion oozed out of every pore and he was swaying slightly. “You need to sit down,” Sam insisted, gently helping an unresisting Dean to the blanket. “Why don’t you catch a couple hours of rest? I’ll watch for the werewolf and try to figure out what just happened.”

“Wake me if anything happens,” Dean replied with a stifled yawn. He eased himself back to the ground, ignoring the pain in his back. “I mean it.”

“I will,” Sam agreed. “Or in two hours whichever is sooner.”

Dean closed his eyes and fell asleep immediately. Sam stared into the small campfire and racked his brain to figure out what could have happened on the far side of the clearing. He realized he had dozed off when something woke him. The fire did not appear to have burned down at all from when he last looked so he could not have been out long. He peered into the dark forest and strained his ears searching for what pulled him back to awareness.

The distant sound of yelling echoed off the trees and Sam turned his head back and forth trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. “Dean,” he whispered. Dean did not respond, but Sam did not want to shake him. He knew Dean’s back and head must be hurting and he did not want to add to it. “Dean,” he said in a hushed but urgent whisper. He tapped Dean lightly on the shoulder and Dean’s eyes snapped open and focused on Sam.

“What?” he asked, his emerald green eyes sparking to awareness. Sam was pleased to see Dean did not appear confused, but it was apparent he was not moving any more than he had to.

“Listen,” Sam replied. The two men sat listening to an owl hoot, crickets chirp and an occasional bat screech for nearly five minutes.

“What am I supposed to be hearing?” Dean asked finally, propping himself up on one elbow. His face looked pinched and Sam instantly regretted waking his brother for nothing.

“I thought I heard yelling,” Sam answered abashed. He glanced at his watch. Dean had only been sleeping for an hour. “Why don’t you drink some water?” Sam suggested. He reached for the canteen and opened it before handing it to Dean.

“How long?” Dean asked succinctly before raising the canteen to his lips. He took several swallows before handing it back to Sam.

“An hour, sorry,” Sam apologized. “Same deal?” he offered.

Dean nodded, lay back and closed his eyes. The sound of yelling started again almost immediately, Dean’s eyes popped back open and he supported himself on his elbows. He glanced over at Sam who nodded in affirmation. The sound seemed to be getting closer and Dean struggled to understand what was being said. “Can you understand what they are saying?” he asked reluctantly, not wanting to admit he was not comprehending the words to Sam.

“No,” Sam replied in a hushed voice. “I think it’s Chinese.”

“Thank God,” Dean sighed with exaggerated relief. He caught the raised eyebrow and look of disbelief from Sam. “Well, thank someone anyway,” he amended.

The voice grew louder and more urgent. It was closer now and it was definitely speaking in Chinese. Sam handed Dean the gun and grabbed his rifle from its place beside the duffel bag. “Stay here, this time,” he whispered harshly as he stood up and slowly moved towards the sound.

Dean’s emotions flared in angry annoyance. He was not going to lie around while something or someone put his little brother in danger. He levered himself to his feet and tried to gain his bearings. Sam was already nearing the first line of trees when a figure emerged from the woods between him and Sam. “Sam!” Dean called out in warning.

Sam spun around quickly, but so did the intruder. The man was Asian and he was carrying two daggers. The long handles sported dragon heads that poked out from behind the man’s palms. Dean raised the gun with a shaking arm. He did not remember it being so heavy before. “Stop,” Dean commanded, his voice stronger than his body at the moment.

The man did not stop. He did not even hesitate, but instead came at Dean waving the daggers wickedly. Dean solidified his shooting stance and shouted, “I said, stop!” The dark and his still somewhat blurry vision were making it difficult to aim the gun properly, but Dean figured his lousy shot would still be better than most others. The man did not appear to be fazed by Dean or the gun, but continued to yell and stab into the air with the daggers.

When Sam moved in behind the smaller man, he whirled around to face Sam. The daggers swiped dangerously close to Sam, but he easily warded off the shorter man. “Hey!” Dean shouted trying to distract the man from his brother. The man did not pay attention to Dean, but continued to focus on Sam.

The man’s shouting and fighting seemed to be gaining in volume and momentum. Desperate to draw his attention away from Sam, Dean turned his gun outwards, butt first and hit the man on the back of the head with as much strength as he could muster.

“Damn it, Dean!” Sam shouted at him. Not that it mattered, for the man was not fazed in any way. The man continued shouting and the next time he raised one of the daggers, he landed a glancing blow across Sam’s shoulder.

Dean raised his gun. He was not going to stand by and watch this man kill Sam. The man turned again so that he was facing the woods, Sam and Dean on either side of him. With a look of wide-eyed shock, the man staggered backwards, holding his stomach with both hands. He fell to the ground and disappeared. Sam and Dean exchanged looks of confusion.

“Sam, what the hell is going on here?” Dean asked.

Moonlight shone between the trees and glittered off the seven circles of stones layered around and through the grove of trees. At the center of the smallest circle, the concrete monument spoke of a past life and at the four corners the four statues sparkled in reply. Silvery, vapor wisps filtered up through the pine-needle covered floor and began to solidify. The distant howl of a lone wolf filled the air.