Chapter Text
Without the dim glow of the candles, darkness consumed the forest, wrapping everything in a suffocating, black silence. The air was thick with the foul stench of wet, decaying leaves. Dean wrinkled his nose, his breath quickening. He reached for the flashlight clipped to his belt, flicking it on. The narrow beam of light cut through the fog that had settled like a shroud. He moved cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest, straining to catch any sign of life.
"Deaaannn... oh God, somebody help me please!"
The voice, broken and desperate, sent a chill down Dean’s spine. That was Sam. His Sam. Dean's legs instinctively broke into a jog, his footsteps heavy against the mushy ground. The light flickered over the overgrown path, casting fleeting shadows that danced with the mist, but there was nothing—no sign of his brother.
"Sam?!" Dean’s voice was a hoarse whisper, echoing back at him.
There was no response. Only the whisper of the wind through the trees. And then, a sound, barely perceptible—a whimper. The kind of raw, broken sob that claws at his soul. Dean’s stomach twisted.
Sam was crying.
Without hesitation, Dean ran, the beam of the flashlight bouncing erratically across the terrain. The whimpering grew louder, closer, but the trees were thick, and the fog clung to the ground like a curse, concealing everything.
"Sam!" Dean called again, louder now, panic threading through his voice. He was so close to finding him, probably not in the best shape judging by the pain in his voice but he would cross that bridge when he comes to. Finding Sam, no matter the state, was crucial. But the forest closed in around him, and Sam’s pitiful cries suddenly fell silent. The eerie quiet was suffocating. Dean’s chest tightened.
No, no, no... don’t think like that. Sam’s alive. He has to be.
"Dean?" The voice was weak, hoarse. "Dean!"
Relief flooded him, and Dean let out a shaky laugh. "Sam! Where are you?"
"Dean! Help me!"
The voice was near, so near, but no matter how hard Dean searched, there was nothing. The flashlight cut through the fog, sweeping over trees and rocks, but Sam wasn’t there.
"I’m coming! Just tell me where you are!" Dean's frustration surged as he whirled around, searching desperately for any sign of his brother.
"I’m here," Sam’s voice came again, so close it felt like he was right behind him. Dean spun around, the light slicing through the dark, but still, no Sam.
"Where?!" Dean’s voice cracked with urgency.
"Dean, please... hurry..." A rustle to his right caught his attention. He turned the flashlight, his heart in his throat. He bolted toward the sound, his legs pumping harder as the ground grew slick beneath his feet.
Ahead, a large boulder loomed, shrouded in shadow. It seemed like the perfect place for Sam to take cover. Dean surged forward, his pulse racing. But just as he reached the boulder, a sharp crack pierced the air—a gunshot, followed by a scream so blood-curdling, so raw, it froze Dean in place.
It was Sarah. The scream tore through the quiet, filling the night with dread. And then, before Dean could process it, another scream followed—Aria’s. High-pitched, terrified, and final.
Dean’s breath caught in his throat. His instincts screamed at him to run toward the boulder, to find Sam, but something was horribly wrong. Something had gone terribly wrong back at the cabin.
"Damn it," Dean hissed under his breath, spinning on his heel. "Hold on, Sam. Just hold on." He sprinted back toward the house, his heart slamming against his ribs. He’d been gone too long. He never should’ve left the girls with that old woman.
When the cabin came into view, his worst fears were confirmed. The front door hung wide open, creaking in the wind. Dean’s gut twisted as he raced up the steps, taking them two at a time. His gun was out, ready, John’s voice in his head reminding him—shoot first, ask questions later
The sight that greeted him made his blood run cold. Aria and Sarah lay sprawled on the filthy floor, their lifeless eyes staring up at nothing. Blood pooled beneath their bodies, dark and sticky against the wood. The old woman was nowhere to be seen.
"Shit," Dean muttered, taking a shaky step forward. He scanned the room, his flashlight casting eerie shadows. He couldn’t comprehend it—how had things gone so wrong, so fast?
Suddenly, a sharp, crushing pain exploded at the back of his skull. Dean staggered, his vision swimming, and the room tilted violently. His body hit the ground with a sickening thud, the world around him spinning into darkness.
The last thing he heard before the darkness swallowed him whole was the faint, echoing voice of his brother, calling his name one final time.
He had failed them all.
Someone was dragging something, something heavy. No, someone was dragging him, feet first, hands following behind. His jacket and shirt had ridden up, the soft, wet ground smearing dirt across his back. Small stones and pebbles cut into skin.
The world around Dean spun violently, his mind struggling to hold onto any thread of consciousness. Every bump, every jagged rock and root that his body was dragged over sent fresh waves of pain shooting through him. His fingers, desperately trying to grasp at anything that might anchor him, found nothing but damp earth and decaying leaves that slipped uselessly through his grip. The cold seeped into his bones.
He tried to focus. Breathe, just breathe. But the disorientation was overwhelming, and the blow to his head still throbbed like a drumbeat, pounding at his temples. He forced his eyes open for just a second, but the sight of the night sky—a black void broken only by the faint silhouettes of towering trees—made his stomach lurch. Dean shut his eyes again, biting back the bile that rose in his throat.
Think happy thoughts. Strippers and candies.
That helped settle down the bile.
Soon after, images flickered in his mind, sharp and disjointed—Sarah’s scream, Aria’s terrified eyes, the old woman’s cackle as she warned them against Jason. And Sam... Sam. His brother’s voice echoed in his ears, the fear in it more chilling than anything else that had happened tonight. Sam needed him, and here he was, being dragged off like some kind of prey.
Get it together, Dean.
The world started to fade again, the darkness pulling at him, but then—pain. His skull collided with something hard—a rock. The shock of it jolted him awake, if only for a moment, but it was enough to send his thoughts spiraling back into focus. The dizzying blackness swallowed him once more, but not before one final, fleeting thought pierced through the haze:
I can't lose Sam.
The sharp smell of mildew and rot invaded Dean’s nostrils as he stirred to consciousness. The damp air clung to his skin, thick and heavy, and the ground beneath him, while firmer than the marshlands outside, felt gritty and cold. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the harsh light of a dim, flickering bulb that cast long, eerie shadows across the cavernous space.
Dean groaned, the pounding in his head intensifying. His body was stiff, held tightly against a wooden post with ropes that bit into his wrists and torso. The ropes were coarse, cutting into his skin with every twitch. He was immobilized, legs sprawled in front of him, but his instincts were still sharp—enough to take in the grim scene around him.
Freaking Four Seasons of psychopaths!
It looked like he’d been dragged into some kind of underground lair. The walls were rough earth, with dried roots poking through the dirt like skeletal fingers. The far side of the space was littered with debris, a graveyard of discarded personal belongings—backpacks, shoes, broken sunglasses, and water bottles—all coated in layers of grime. Everything reeked of decay, a foul stench that filled the air, mixing with the unmistakable coppery tang of old blood. It looked like a place where things, and people, came to die.
This was Jason's lair! Damn, his Winchester luck!
His heart raced as his eyes caught a flash of pink—a pink lock of hair, stained in crimson. Oh no, Aria. Her body was twisted unnaturally, her lifeless form crumpled like a broken doll. Nearby, Sarah’s blonde hair peeked out from behind her, matted with dried blood.
The memories of the screams and gunshots rushed back to him in vivid detail. Dean swallowed hard, guilt gnawing at him like a ravenous beast. He’d failed them. But Sam—where was Sam?
Dean’s heart skipped a beat. Could Sam have escaped? Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t here. Maybe Jason hadn’t found him.
Dean wasn't a believer of God or the whole marketing campaign 'He works in mysterious ways' but maybe, just maybe, some higher power, something that his little brother prayed to had spared him.
The air shifted around him, colder, heavier, and Dean's body went rigid. That familiar chill, the one that set every instinct ablaze, crawled up his spine like ice. He held his breath as the sound of something being dragged filled the room—a wet, sickening shuffle of limbs and fabric scraping against the dirt floor. The sound was unmistakable. Someone was being dragged, and the soft, broken whimpers that followed sent a jolt of fear through Dean’s veins.
A shadow moved in the dim light, and Dean craned his neck to see, his heart lurching in his chest. He could hear it clearly now—a soft, pained whimper. He knew that sound. He’d heard it a thousand times before.
Sam.
Dean’s breath hitched in his throat as his eyes landed on the source of the noise. Jason’s hulking figure emerged from the darkness, dragging something heavy behind him. It was Sam. His brother’s limp body was being hauled across the dirt floor like a discarded piece of meat, his face pale and streaked with blood. But it was Sam's leg that drew Dean’s attention, and it made his stomach twist in horror.
Sam's ankle was mangled, the skin torn and shredded down to the bone. Blood seeped from the wound in thick, sluggish rivulets, staining the ground beneath him as Jason dragged him closer. Dean didn't have to guess what caused this gruesome wound as the clang of the bloodthirsty bear trap in Jason's other hand was a dead give away. The jagged teeth of the trap had torn Sam's flesh, right into the soft tissues. The wound was grotesque, a nightmarish mess of shredded muscle and broken bone, with flesh hanging loosely around the bloody jeans.
Dean’s chest tightened as he watched Jason carelessly drop Sam's body to the ground with a dull thud. Sam groaned weakly, his face contorted in agony, but his eyes were half-closed, fluttering with the effort to stay conscious.
"You son of bitch!" Dean spat at Jason. "I'll kill you"
He pulled at the ropes that bound him, his muscles screaming in protest. The rage bubbled up inside him, fierce and uncontrollable, as he struggled against his restraints. The scratchy rope bit deeper into his wrists, but the pain was nothing compared to the sight of his brother lying there, broken and helpless.
"Sam!" Dean’s voice came out a hoarse whisper, filled with desperation. His throat burned with the effort, but Sam didn’t respond. His brother was fading fast, his breaths shallow and labored, his body trembling from shock.
Jason stood there, silent and still, his mask catching the dim light as he looked down at his newest victim. Then, without a word, he turned and lumbered off into the shadows, leaving Dean and Sam alone in the suffocating darkness.
Dean’s breath hitched in his throat, the sight of Sam's mangled leg searing into his mind like a brand. He’d seen Sam hurt before—God, they’d both been through enough battles, each one leaving their scars. But this… this was different. This wasn’t just a cut or a bullet wound. This was savage.
Blood oozed out, staining the floor in thick pools. The leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, the bone jutting out, exposed to the cold air. Sam’s face was ghostly pale, lips cracked, his breathing shallow and erratic as he lay limp on the floor.
“Sammy...” Dean’s voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, thick with anguish. He pulled at the ropes binding him again, harder this time, not caring as the coarse fibers bit into his wrists. The pain was sharp, but it was nothing compared to what Sam was going through. Nothing compared to the guilt tearing through him.
Sam groaned, a low, guttural sound of agony, his head lolling to the side. His eyes were half-open, glazed with pain, blinking sluggishly as if trying to focus on something, anything. Dean could see the tremors wracking his brother’s body, the shock settling in, making Sam’s limbs twitch involuntarily.
“Sammy, hang on. Please, just hang on,” Dean pleaded, his heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum. Every second he spent tied up felt like an eternity, the panic rising in his chest, choking him. He had to get to Sam. He had to help him.
But Sam wasn’t responding. His breaths were shallow, shaky, as if every inhalation was a fight against the overwhelming pain. His face was slick with sweat, his skin was ashen, his brow furrowed in agony as his body betrayed him, too weak to fight against the damage the trap had done.
Dean could hear it now, the rasping breaths, each one sounding like it was dragged from the depths of Sam’s soul. Sam let out another groan, his mouth moving as if he was trying to say something, but no words came. Only more pain.
"Please, Sam, don’t… don’t give up on me,” Dean choked out, his voice breaking. The sight of his brother, usually so strong, so unbreakable, now reduced to this—to a shattered, bleeding mess—was too much. The bile that had been rising in Dean’s throat finally spilled over, his stomach twisting in knots. But he swallowed it back down. He had to stay focused. For Sam.
Dean's hands burned as he fought against the ropes, his fingers slick with blood. He was tearing his wrists apart, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered but getting to his brother. He was supposed to protect him. That was his job. And now, Sam was lying there, dying—because Dean had failed, again.
Sam's body jerked suddenly, a broken cry tearing from his throat as a fresh wave of pain hit him. His fingers twitched, curling weakly into fists, his whole body trembling. Dean’s heart clenched, his throat tightening as he watched Sam’s chest rise and fall unevenly. His brother was trying so hard to hold on, but Dean could see it in his eyes—Sam was losing the battle.
“Goddammit, Sam!” Dean shouted, his voice echoing off the walls of the cave. “Don’t you dare leave me, you hear me? I’m not losing you. Not like this!”
Tears welled in Dean’s eyes, blurring his vision as he yanked harder at the ropes, his wrists raw and bleeding. The helplessness was suffocating, wrapping around him like a vice. He could hear every labored breath Sam took, every pitiful groan as his brother struggled to stay conscious.
The bear trap had done a number on him. Dean couldn’t stop staring at the wound—couldn’t stop imagining the pain Sam must be feeling. It wasn’t just the blood, though there was so much of it.
The skin was swollen and purple, the leg itself bent, the bones inside had shattered under the force of the trap’s grip.
Dean could almost feel it himself, the unbearable pain that must be radiating from that wound, shooting up through Sam's leg, making every movement torture. Every breath Sam took seemed to come with a wince, his face contorted in a mask of agony, his lips trembling as he bit down on the scream that threatened to escape.
Dean’s chest ached. The pain he felt wasn’t physical, but it cut just as deep. Sam was in agony, and there was nothing he could do to help him. Nothing but watch as his brother writhed in pain, his life slipping away inch by inch.
Sam’s eyes fluttered open again, and for a brief moment, they met Dean’s. There was a flicker of recognition there, but it was drowned out by the overwhelming pain. His lips moved, and Dean strained to hear him, leaning forward as much as the ropes allowed.
“De...ean,” Sam rasped, barely audible, his voice broken, desperate.
"I’m here, Sammy. I’m right here.” Dean’s voice trembled, his throat tight. He wanted to reach out, to touch him, to reassure him, but he was trapped—useless.
Sam’s eyes squeezed shut, another tremor running through his body as the pain became too much to bear. He let out a strangled sob, his hand weakly clawing at the ground, searching for something to hold on to, something to ground him through the agony.
“I’m so sorry, Sam,” Dean whispered, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I’m so damn sorry.”
Sam’s breaths were coming in ragged gasps now, each one sounding more labored than the last. The blood was still seeping from his leg, staining the dirt around him a dark crimson. Dean could see the life draining out of his brother, and it was killing him—ripping him apart piece by piece.
He should have been there. He should have protected him.
“Stay with me, Sammy. Please.” Dean’s voice cracked, barely holding back the sob that threatened to escape. His wrists were on fire, but he didn’t care. He’d tear himself apart if it meant getting to Sam.
But with every second that passed, the weight of the situation bore down on him harder. Sam wasn’t going to make it unless Dean got free—and fast. The light was fading from Sam’s eyes, and the sound of his breaths was growing weaker, more ragged.
Dean gritted his teeth, pulling harder at the ropes until his skin tore, the blood mingling with the dirt. He had to get free. He had to save Sam. But every second that passed felt like an eternity, and with every shallow breath Sam took, Dean knew they were running out of time.
Jason would be back. And when he did, Dean knew this nightmare was far from over.