In Jeopardy in Georgia, for tifaching (1/2)
Title: In Jeopardy in Georgia
Recipient: Tifaching
Word Count: 17,445
Rating: Teen and up
Warnings: hurt!Dean, some Winchester language, and a bit of gore
Summary: The boys take a case in the Great Smokey Mountains and discover something dangerous- surprise!
Author’s Note: Thank you Tifaching, for the great prompt set. There were so many good choices, I put a few of them through the shredder, patched the bits together with Scotch tape, started typing, and this happened. Have a wonderful Summer Gen summer! Hope you enjoy the story. Set in season 2 in the time-line between “Hollywood Babylon” and “Folsom Prison Blues”. Thank you to my awesome beta gigis89! You are amazing and make me want to be a better writer. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
Part 1
Dean’s not sure how it happened exactly, but here he is. Sam had found them a case- a simple, straight forward hunt and Dean couldn’t have been happier. At least he had been, might still be, if he could rewind the past six or so hours. They had needed a change of scenery, and it had looked to be a run of the mill monster job so he’d said, “ Yeah, sure, Sammy, why not? ” Piece of cake, right?
That had been his first mistake.
Sam isn’t doing too well. He hasn’t said more than a handful of phrases since they left San Francisco. At the last couple of diners he’s either been brooding into his coffee rather than drinking it or staring into space so long it still got cold. He’s spent more time restlessly pushing his rabbit food around his plate with his fork than eating, and he’s slept fitfully or not at all, the past several nights. At first, Dean had thought he might be coming down with something, but then he’d surreptitiously caught a flare of such intense grief on his brother’s face it made Dean ache for him.
He has tried to distract him, has suggested hustling pool or poker, going fishing… pretty much anything he can think of. By the end of the week he’d have volunteered to take up knitting, stamp collecting, or scrap booking, hell, he doesn't care as long as it makes Sammy happy. What he didn’t do, although he would’ve liked to- is suggest they pick up another case right away, but he’s noticed how Sammy is willingly neglecting his phone, how his computer continues to remain abandoned in its’ case shoved deep into the bottom recesses of the Impala’s trunk. When he’d casually mentioned it, Sam had given him a shaggy-haired, dismissive head shake and mumbled something about being tired. Worse yet, his brother hasn’t so much as cracked a book in over a week. Something is off, wayoff.
They’ve had a rough month, there had been the whole “distraught hitchhiking ghosts” thing, a few frustrating leads that had gone nowhere, then the “having to shoot the pretty werewolf” thing, That one had really torn Sammy up. Dean’s been feeling more than a little worn down and frayed around the edges himself. Their impromptu trip to Hollywood hadn’t been the break he’d been hoping for, they’d found someone bent on revenge and keeping a few ghosts on a short leash so- an “idiot” thing. Meeting Tara was awesome, and playing P. A. had been fun while it lasted, but the job had gone sideways pretty quickly, ending difficult and dangerous or as Sam would say, their version of relatively normal.
Dean’s tired. It isn’t easy to stay on top of everything, every minute of the day ornight, when he can’t get his regular five hours. Went without saying, if Sam isn’t sleeping well, neither is he. So when Sam showed the first real glimmer of interest in hunting in weeks, of course he’d gone along with it.
Their lead, thin though it was, had come from a page four, two column wide newspaper article in some obscure southern cousin of the Weekly World News Dean had never heard of, and highly doubted the veracity of, but the chance to see Sam smile and the idea of a nice, long drive on the open road had sounded good, as had the prospect of putting civilization behind them for a couple of days. Now though, he’d give his eyeteeth to be surrounded by a little more civilization, and everything else he has, if Sam would just show up.
Where is he? He couldn’t have been more than a couple hundred yards behind him in the thicket.
“Sam?”
Dean turns his head straining his hearing for any sign that his brother is near. Not a sound, nothing but the damn wind blowing, some clouds spitting a cold, steady rain on him, and an entire freakin’ chorus of crickets.
“Come on, Sammy, I could use a little help here.”
At some point Dean had smacked his head pretty hard, he could feel the sweat stinging in what must be a scrape on his forehead, and the headache he feels building has his pulse echoing harshly in his back molars whenever he moves. He’s keeping as still as possible. A lethargic but persistent throbbing that started behind his eyes is getting steadily more uncomfortable as time passes. Not a concussion, probably... maybe, just a hard bump- but not something that is improving his disposition or his looks either.
He can feel it already swelling, can imagine the shades of florid colors where the blood is pooled beneath his skin. Concussions are something Sam and he are too familiar with. He still remembers his first one, how, in the beginning, Dad had made excuses to keep him out of school to prevent having to explain. On his first few hunts, he’d been selfish- waiting impatiently for the bruises to fade, for his bones to mend, or the deep wounds to heal enough to allow him to go back to school. He hadn’t understood then, that hunting meant his priorities had to change. That had taken a little longer to figure out. What he had learned quickly was that getting hurt is part of hunting and keeping quiet about it helped to save people- not just strangers, but his people, Dad and Sammy.
Bruises and abrasions, cuts, scrapes, and claw marks, long days and nights with fractures, splints and stitches, him- often battered sometimes broken, and Sam likewise battered , and so worried. His brother had been frightened for him, and for himself, Dean knew that. Sam had endured as much as he could- until he couldn’t. Sam was brave, is brave, certainly braver than Dean, he’d fought his way to freedom using the best weapons he had- determination and intelligence.
Dean had tried to protect him, had done his best, but as years passed Sam had slowly become defensive. Then Sam grew quietly resistant, then openly- less quietly much less quietly defiant, until he’d grown into a resolute young man and taken a direction that neither Dad nor Dean, would have predicted- he’d chosen to fight his own battles his own way, and gone to Stanford. Dean didn’t blame Sam though, hadn’t then, didn’t now. He is proud of Sammy, even if being away from him had been damn tough. Gut wrenching
For as long as he can remember, Dad had been desolate, driven, and determined. As difficult as it was in those days, and it was , once he’d understood he had a mission; carrying on the family business, he’d cherished every moment, every one, even to drinking tomato rice soup through a straw wired jaw while Sam read him Crichton, Kerouac, and Vonnegut.
He’d devoted himself to his family and his job, putting his everything into whatever was asked of him. Didn’t matter if it was learning to throw knives, rebuilding an engine, tracking Kitsune, teaching his little brother to ride a bike, or field stripping a weapon. He’d given up everything else willingly. He’d loved and respected his father but Sam... well, he is worth the world.
Where is Sam? “Hey, uh, ... Sammy?”
His head hurts. He can almost hear Sam’s snarky Congratulations, Dude. on his acquisition of another sizable goose egg. He swears his brother keeps a tally of how many times they’ve each been whacked in the head in that gi-normous geek brain of his. Dean lost count a long time ago, in what he’s pretty sure is a rare act of self-preservation. He’s okay with that.
His shoulders are aching like a son of a bitch. He’s pretty sure one of them is dislocated, if the hot, throbbing pulse arcing up his left arm into his fingertips is to be believed. He hasn’t been here long but he doesn’t particularly want to think about how his fingers are beginning to numb from the strain of supporting most of his weight. He’s clinging to the side of a huge chunk of granite with too few hand-holds, and he’s only been able to locate a single toe-hold so far. His legs are trembling but whether from having to bear most of his weight, or something else, he isn’t sure. When he edges his left foot forward- inching along cautiously he meets only open air. There has to be another toehold here somewhere and he needs to find it. Now. His right leg is starting to cramp.
He draws a breath and eases the toe of his boot along until he feels the tread edge catch- if he can wedge his boot into that small chink in the rock he can relieve some of the pressure on his other leg. He tests it carefully, putting a slight amount of weight on his toes, relieved when it holds, he cautiously puts his full weight on it. Slowly, moving inches at a time- he carefully repositioned himself flush against the side of the bald, more evenly redistributing his weight to reduce the pressure on his shoulders as much as possible. He can’t see how to climb up, his Mag-lite had gone over the side with him- falling into the gloom far below. He can’t get to his phone, his lighter, or matches. His climbing ropes, knife, and extra water are all tucked away in the day-pack he’s wearing. Sam had insisted.He isn’t sure how much longer he can hold on, but one thing he knows, if Sam doesn’t find him soon he’s screwed, and not in the sexy way.
“Dean?”
“Sammy!”
He had tried to look down earlier but that hadn’t gone well. It’s too dark to see much, and what he can see isn’t doing much to bolster his enthusiasm, mostly barren rock with a few stalwart growths of tough, stringy vegetation anchored in the crevices where the terse, persistent clumps have found room enough to anchor their shallow roots. Beyond that is a cragged, pock-marked rock-face that juts defiantly away from the body of the mountain. There is a long, steep drop before he spies a brittle- looking, scree-covered ledge probably only wide enough for a pair of mountain goats if they are on intimate terms, then a much, much longer drop down into the eager grasp of oblivion.
When he shifted his weight trying to relieve some of the strain on his hands, a fall of gravel clattered down the mountainside into the chasm beneath him. It had taken a long time for the sounds to come back so he was pretty sure he’d still be completely screwed, even if he survived the fall. And that’s a big if.
Minute vibrations pulse through the thin layer of dirt beneath the tips of his fingers, pulling his attention back. The vibrations gradually intensify- something or someone coming closer. He hears something but the sound is just barely audible- possibly a large animal or a human moving quietly through the woods. Definitely footfalls- spaced wide apart, someone running. Dean strains his ears, seeking a sound he can recognize- anything to tell him if salvation is near. Another gust of wind brings a faint sound as it soughs through the leaves then the sharp splintering of a twig crushed into the dense mass of a deep layer of undergrowth. Please be Sam. Please, please be Sam.
“Sammy?!”
“Dean?”
“Yo!”
“Dean,where the h- oh, crap.”
“Yeah, could use a hand up, little bro.”
“How- ? You know what, never mind, you can tell me once we get you back on solid ground.
“Good idea. I’ve always said you are a genius. Ask anybody, I always say that.”
“Yeah, yeah, hold tight a minute, I’ve got to rig up a rope.”
“Hold tight? So now you’re a comedian? Ha-ha.”
“Well, you know what they say about a captive audience.”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
He can just make out the sounds of his brother rifling through his pack, the slip and shuffle of him sorting the gear into what he’ll need to haul them both back to level ground. Dean’s more than eager to experience Terra firma again real soon.
“It’s not important. Can you find a better foothold? Maybe another hand-hold?”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“I’m hanging off the side of a mountain by my fingernails, in the dark, and you want me to let go to maybe find another usable crack in this overgrown boulder? Look, if you want my Baby and priceless cassette collection of the best music ever that bad, all you have to do is ask, man, there’s no need to... you know, go to extremes.”
“We both know you’d come back to haunt me if I killed you for that car, and besides, I keep telling you, nobody listens to cassettes any more...
There is the distinct, repetitive thunk and clink of a line of carabiners being set in the ground above him before a broad beam of light washes over him. A slender coil of neon yellow nylon slithers down the rock face toward him. The shaggy, shadowed outline of Sam looking down at him appears from above. His brother’s face shifts from obvious consternation to contemplation to full on bitch face in three point two seconds, faster than Dean can follow along. Sam heaves a put upon sigh, his tone, deeply disparaging, in the way only a little brother’s can be- as he says, “And also dude, ... uh, mullet rock.”
“You have no appreciation for the classics, Sam.”
“Absolutely none.” Sam’s smile could’ve rivaled the glow of the moon if not for the clouds that had scudded silently over it as he grinned, winked, and turned his back on his brother.
There is a moment of palpable stillness- watching his brother’s back, seeing ropes knotted, adjustments made, the movement of muscles as they work and shift, then the rapid descent as Sam is pushing off, lowering himself rapidly over the edge, to hurtle downward toward Dean. Loosened momentarily from the hold of gravity, his long limbs swing out, hanging suspended, in the expanse of darkness around them. It only takes a few seconds, but Dean is sure his heart has bottomed out by the time Sam finally brakes, dropping solidly into position beside him, his feet braced apart on the wall of dark rock. He leans out and glances down, completely relaxed, and under control, still smiling like a kid on a roller-coaster next to Dean.
“You ready for a piggyback ride?”
“Sammy, I thought you’d never ask.”
“Alright, I’m gonna loop this under your arms, hold still, let me do all the work. Good, good, this one goes around that way, and this one over and under… let me just check this knot and slip this end through the carabiner here. Okay, that should do it. Throw your arm around my neck, that’s it. Okay, good, now let go with the other hand. Yeah, just like that. Hold on. You settled?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Watch your leg, don’t want to catch it in the line. We’re just gonna take it slow and easy until we get topside. You ready?”
He isn’t, but there aren’t a lot of options, story of his life. “Waitin’ for you.”
“Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”
It takes longer for Sam to make the climb up, saddled with his weight as he is, certainly longer than it had for Dean to fall, and if anyone were ever to ask, he did <>not squeal like a girl when they slid back several feet before the gri-gri caught and locked down.
“Sam!”
“Yeah, I’ve got you, Dean.”
Sam traversed the remaining distance walking smoothly up the side of the bald and over the edge until they were on solid ground before he stopped.
“You going to be able to walk?” He is carefully dismantling the rope harness and climbing rig as he gets nearer the trail blazes that signified they are back near the well-worn path.
“Been doin’ it since I was a year old.”
When he carefully lowers his brother to the ground he keeps a hand on him to steady him while he gets his feet beneath himself and even after he’s unclipped the final carabiner to set Dean free of the few remaining ropes, he doesn’t let go until he gets a nod of affirmation, to anyone else, they might have thought he was simply being cautious, but to Dean the concern is plain on his face.
Dean hates seeing his brother worried, but for the moment he is just so glad to see Sam, he can’t keep from grinning. The only time he’s ever been gladder to feel the ground under his feet had been when he’d had that interminable wait for the landing of the plane with that pretty stewardess- Amanda Walker and a murderous Japanese spirit aboard. It had looked a little touch and go for them at first, but Sam had come through, exorcised it- saving a lot of people, while Dean had screamed himself hoarse, but he’d managed to do his job and not pass out mid-flight, so all things considered, it had been a pretty good ending to a pretty good day.
“You alright?”
“I’m fine Sam.”
He’d said it out of habit, a response as automatic as breathing. It’s a lie. They both know it, but he’s done it so often that he no longer thinks of it as an act of dishonesty. It’s just something he says, and his brother- wise young man that he is, has apparently chosen not to die for his principles today on this particular hill, but still manages a well executed eye roll and a none too subtle shake of his head for Dean’s benefit.
Dean is, if not fine, in one piece more or less, and for them, that’s usually as good as it gets. He’s still taking inventory, but Sam knows the routine. Beneath the weight of his pack he can feel a deep, throbbing ache in his left shoulder that spreads up his neck and down his arm into the tips of his fingers, so yeah, the shoulder is definitely dislocated. Sam has already briefly inspected the lump on his head before Dean managed to untangle himself from the ropes and shake him off. There is a dull, painful ache in the vicinity of his right shin he doesn’t want to think about, and he also has a series of abrasions on both hands from his fall.
“Ready to head back?”
“Yeah, guess so… don’t think that fugly is gonna show itself again tonight, do ya?”
Sam hears something off in Dean’s tone that has his gut knotting. His hunter instincts are nearly as acute as his brother instincts and they’re screeching like a clarion alarm going off. Dean isn’t fine. There’s a distracted lilt to his voice and even by the poor quality of the light from his headlamp he is pretty sure Dean looks pale. Something is wrong.
He’s seen Dean finish a hunt with major injuries, seen him efficiently dispatch ghosts in the midst of battling the flu, has watched him drag himself to Bobby’s door (more than once) so weak from exhaustion he could hardly stand. The sooner they get back to the trail-head, to Baby, to somewhere he can take care of his brother, the better.
“We’ll be back tomorrow night, Dean. You tracked it this far, and I’m guessing you saw it, right?” Dean’s only response came as a distracted grunt Sam decides to take as an affirmation.
“Now that we know what we’re dealing with, all we have to do is find its lair, then we’ll take care of it.”
Dean remains still and silent long enough to unnerve him. Sam can practically see him processing his thoughts. There’s no point asking again, his brother will talk about it when he talks about it, so he waits for Dean’s gaze to meander back to his. There is pain there and something else. He’s pretty sure his brother has a concussion, they are wasting time. He wants to get them back to the motel room and cleaned up so he can take a closer look at Dean’s injuries. As quickly as he can, he unstraps his pack, and stows his climbing gear, all while trying to watch Dean without making it too obvious- staying close but not too close. Dean hates being mother-henned. The fact that he doesn’t seem to notice or care is just another indication that Sam’s worry is valid.
His brother shrugs off his pack, not an easy task with his shoulder damaged as it is. Sam had seen on the rock face how Dean was keeping nearly all the stress of his weight on his trembling right arm and how his left is hyper-extended. Dean had flinched and ground his teeth when Sam slid an arm beneath him and when he’d grasped his left hand with his right to hold on, Sam had felt the pain telegraphed through Dean’s body although he never said a word. Sam is sure the shoulder is swollen and bruised beneath the flannel and it probably hurts like hell. Putting his shoulder back in place isn’t going to be fun for either of them, but Sam has had lots of practice.
“Sam, if you’d do the honors- .”
God, Dean is as white as a sheet. He’s in serious pain. “You ready?”
“Yeah, no. Do it anyway.”
“Okay, just relax, we’re gonna go on three… .” He saw the nod, saw Dean swallow a twitch that traversed his jaw. He can feel his muscles taunt with tension beneath his hands.
“One...”
Telling him to relax is futile, he knows Dean, Sam can feel him tensing the muscles before he’s even begun to count, so he’s lifting and pushing firmly but smoothly, holding the arm parallel to the body the way Dad taught them. The bone is seated in place again before his brother can give more than a sharp, wheezing inhale.
“Oow! Sonofabitch! Wh-what happened to “on three”, Sam?”
“Sometimes one is all it takes, Jerk.”
He flashes his brother a mischievous grin just to dull the sarcasm and to distract him a bit. Fussing over Dean usually just ticks him off. He can’t say he hates seeing his brother in pain, that he’s afraid if he allowed Dean the opportunity, he might lock his muscles albeit unintentionally, or that he could have aggravated the injury if he waited, if the swelling increased. That he really wants his brother safely out of harm’s way. He knows how that would go over.
“Very funny-” Body hunched, and hugging his left arm protectively to his chest, Dean hauls in a shallow breath, “should take your stand up to Vegas, bitch.”
Sam has been accused of “being a girl” a few hundred thousand times by now, but fortunately, because of it, he’d developed a thoroughly healthy immunity to Dean’s sense of humor by the time he’d turned nine. He had also learned early what part of Dean was swagger, bluff, and bravado, and what was real. Sam has always known the difference, if he needs Dean, he is there for him, when no-one else is. He knows his brother would do anything for him. He loves him and never doubts Dean feels the same. He would like to hug him right now but experience has taught him it will be few days before Dean will be able to tolerate being touched anywhere near that shoulder. And they only, usually, hugged if one of them has had a near death experience- but Sam has every intention of changing that now that he and Dean are together again.
“You are not a good person.”
There’s no heat in the words and hardly any volume, Sam almost didn’t hear him over a distant roll of thunder. Dean looks like he might pass out any minute. Sam should suggest he rest, but they need to be a safe distance away, which means clear of the forest. They need to get moving. The sky is already beginning to lighten and they are more likely to meet other hikers on the trail once morning breaks. With Dean hurt, this isn’t going to be a quick sprint to the trail head. Thankfully, the rain has stopped- but not before the fine, misty drizzle has soaked through their clothing. They are both going to be pretty uncomfortable before they finish the back-hike. It’s roughly five miles to where they’ve left the Impala.
“No, I’m much better than good. Come, here, Jerk.”
Sam strips off his wet flannel and tee-shirt and folds the flannel into a makeshift sling, when he eases Dean’s arm in and tightens his arm against his body using strips cut from the tee-shirt, he hears the too familiar gasp and swallow of pain being forced down. Pulling out the only dry clothing he has, two flannels, he choses one and quickly redresses himself. He then settles the other over his brother’s shoulders. Putting dry over wet wasn’t the best solution but it’s temporary. He doesn’t want to aggravate the shoulder further and it’s better than nothing. This close to Dean, it’s easy to see how pale he is, to see that swollen, bleeding gash on his forehead and how he is coddling his left arm, even in the sling. Sam also doesn’t miss the shudder that goes through Dean as he buttons the flannel.
He straps both packs together, slips them on, and tightens them over his shoulders. “Time to head back. I think we should take the trail at a slow, steady pace. If you start feeling light-headed or experiencing blurry vis-”
“Florence Nightingale will you give it a rest? It’s just a bump on the head. S’not like I got a concussion.”
Sam- being a good brother, is resolved not to argue, so he bites his lip and starts walking. No-one he knows is more hard-headed than his brother, hopefully that is a positive in this case. He and Dean walk side by side along the trail, Sam quietly noting the white blazes that mark the trail every seventy feet or so, He shortens his stride a bit and conversationally recites interesting facts on local Appalachian history he Googled on their drive down, occasionally pointing out a familiar constellation in the ever-lightening sky as morning draws nearer, doing anything he can to distract his brother from his pain. Sam surreptitiously guides him onward as rapidly as he can, while Dean plods dutifully along, a shuffling, preternaturally silent apparition of himself beside his brother, for roughly the first mile.
“Sammy… .” If he hadn’t been accustomed to years of hearing his brother say his name in every shade and tone of distress he might have missed the faint note of warning.
Dean suddenly lurches to a stop at Sam’s elbow and then bolts forward into the ragged-looking scrub at the trial's edge to heave up his insides. Sam has enough time to give him a wide berth but still keeps the flashlight on him as he bolts away. Watching Dean double over, vomiting is not fun.
He’s managed to hurl up everything he’s eaten over the past few hours, and probably all of the water Sam had insisted he drink on the way in, and now he’s spitting bile-laced saliva, ass-deep in the woods while his shoulder screams his betrayal every time he moves, and has him wishing he was surrounded by the familiar steel and leather of his Baby. They’ve barely started this hunt and he wishes it was over. He dry heaves this time, and it hurts so much it takes his breath.
“You alright, Dean?”
Sam feels stupid just saying it. Of course his brother isn’t alright, anybody who is concussed, with a recently dislocated shoulder, currently vomiting in the middle of dense forest in the wee hours of the morning, after nearly falling to their death is very likely any number of adjectives other than alright. So whatever smart-assed comment Dean is about to launch his way, he deserves it. Do I look alright? What the hell, Sam? He’d had to say something. But he got nothing back but a frantically flailing hand as Dean waved him off, punctuated with a final, watery-sounding cough, and a bit more spitting before he’d straightened up, scuffed some leaves and loose gravel hastily over the mess, and staggered resolutely back in his sibling’s direction.
Sam hands him a bottle of water as a preemptive act of penance and waits until he’s rinsed out his mouth before suggesting they should maybe consider making Dean a litter. That earns him such a look of flagrant disdain that Sam ducks his head and rummages rapidly through his pack for a peace offering. He withdraws a chocolate peanut butter Power Bar and small bag of peanut M&M’ s which he pushes forward cautiously- offering without comment, while deftly avoiding any need to meet his brother’s gaze. Sam knows better than to go around poking bears.
Dean snarls out a huff, snatches the food away, and stalks down the trail ahead of him muttering about brain damage in a way that has nothing to do with his bump on the head. Sam can practically see the waves of affronted testosterone and offended ego rolling off his brother while he bristles and grouses, tossing a pointedly indignant look over his shoulder at Sam.
“A litter? Seriously? I’m the one with the concussion.”
“I just thought… .” Well, he should conserve energy and avoid finishing that sentence for all the attention Dean is paying him.
He is debating whether or not to give his brother some space when he sees him pause. It’s a good thing his legs are longer than Dean’s, that way he didn’t have to do more than a short sprint to catch up. It doesn’t take long, Dean is standing unmoving on the trail a few hundred feet away. As Sam approaches, he flicks his hand behind him, open palm toward Sam in the universal hand signal for “stop”. There is something there- something that caught Dean’s attention, but from Sam’s vantage point there is only indistinct movement on the trail ahead of them. At another hand signal from his brother, he approaches warily. Coming to stand beside him, Sam can see his intense focus on the ground, now he understands.
“Sam, you see them?”
“The bed of snakes? Yeah, I see them.”
The path ahead is practically writhing. There are more snakes hissing, undulating, and wriggling past than he’s ever seen. Moving so hurriedly they are crawling over one another, in an effort to either retreat from or move toward something. Never has he seen, in all his treks through the woods, this many together. He sees mostly rattlesnakes of various sizes, lengths, and colorations, Eastern Diamondback,Pygmy, Canebreak- but there are also a few others he recognizes- an innocuous pair of black garter snakes, a copperhead, a coral snake, and some very large king snakes. Fortunately, they seem oblivious to, or unconcerned about, an audience witnessing their mass migration.
“That’s good.”
“That’s good, Dean?”
“Well, yeah, that they’re actually there. For a minute, I thought I might’ve really busted my gourd.” Dean gives him a quick side-eye, and tilts his chin toward the path.
“That’s not natural, right?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many in one place. Snakes are typically solitary, that’s a rhumba.”
“Not sure what dancing’s got to do with it.”
“Rhumba- it’s an obscure collective noun- a rhumba of rattlesnakes, most people say a ball, bed, tangle, or knot. Nest, den, slither, or pit are also considered correct. There’s also references to a “generation” of vipers.”
“Like in the Bible?”
“Exactly- conjecture is that it came from a few specific verses in the book of Matthew .”
“Dude, where do you even find this stuff?”
“The Internet is an amazing place, Dean.”
“A rhumba, a slither- those are a thing?”
“Those are a thing. Did you know it’s illegal to kill a snake in most southern states, even venomous ones, and according to state law- you can’t keep an indigenous non-venomous species as a pet but you can keep a venomous one because they’re considered a nuisance species?”
“Have I mentioned lately that people are crazy?”
Sam chuckles, catching sight of a sliver of a smile curving the corner of his brother’s lips and relaxes a fraction knowing his earlier, unintentional slight is forgiven.
When the path clears of the last of the fleeing reptiles, they hike together until finally they reach the terminus of the trail as morning breaks around them blanketed gray with clouds and heavy with cool, clinging humidity.
The lot where they’d parked is deserted but for Baby keeping her solitary sentry. Dean’s energy has been flagging- his pace slower and more circuitous for the last half mile, Sam is sure he hasn’t noticed and he’s been kind enough not to point it out, but watching him break into a jittery jog when the sleek, dark bulk of the Impala comes into view is enough to make Sam smile broadly despite how tired he is. His only competition for his brother’s affection is that part of his heart reserved for his beautiful vehicle.
“Home sweet home- finally.”
Dean is propped against the Impala’s quarter panel digging into his pocket briefly for the keys before he unlocks the passenger side door. He tosses the keys through the air in Sam’s direction and slides across to unlock the driver’s side door before settling in at shotgun. Sam had known Dean isn’t feeling well but his actions are an instant red flag. Dean rarely, willingly allows Sam the privilege of driving. He is sitting with his head resting on the back of the bench seat, eyes closed, looking pale and drawn, and as still as if he’s quietly imploded now that they’ve stopped.
Sam tosses their gear into the trunk, slides behind the wheel, and drives them rapidly through the edge of the forest so preoccupied with his brother’s condition that the beauty passing by goes largely unnoticed. This case needs to be solved, but Dean’s health is his first priority. He’ll get his brother patched up, they’ll take out the monster, and then maybe, they’ll have an opportunity to enjoy the scenery.
“How are you doing?” If you need to-?”
“I’ll live. Pretty sure I’m not gonna hurl again.”
He takes the back roads, some of them little more than badly paved trails, until they arrive at the first motel he’d found, an only slightly tacky tourist trap- somewhat nicer than their usual, that probably has bad wi-fi, is definitely decorated with way too many cutesy-folksy wood carvings of black bears to suit him, but hopefully has soft beds and cable with enough channels to keep Dean occupied for the few days they’ll be here. The breakfast buffet has a pretty decent selection of fresh fruit on it- so that is a plus.
Dean shuffles listlessly into their room behind him, rummages through his dufflebag before stowing it in a closet corner, and disappears into the bathroom for a shower with a tired announcement of “dibs”. Sam watches him go and listens until he hears the telltale screech of metal on metal- as shower-curtain rings are dragged over metal rod twice in rapid succession. He jogs to the car and hurriedly unloads the trunk. He’s gathered the First Aid supplies and sets them out. Once Sam’s assessed his brother’s condition he’ll feel better, knowing what to do to help Dean feel better, too.
His head is splitting and he’s aching all over. The soapy water is sluicing away the layers of grime, blood, and sweat, but removing the pain is going to require a little more time and effort. Dean’s bone-tired and something is niggling at the back of his mind, prodding him beneath the raucous rumblings of his headache. Sam had said something about water, but he’ll be damned if he can remember what, though.
He stays under the water as long as he can stand the heat and pressure on his aching body, but it doesn’t take long for Dean to know he is overdue for a handful of meds and some serious time in the rack. He rinses off the last traces of the hunt, dries with a thin but soft hotel towel, and gets dressed, wincing his way into a pair of sweat pants, socks, and eventually, a t-shirt with the minimum amount of cursing. Sammy will be damned proud of him for that, Ha! Damned proud- sometimes he cracks himself up!
Sam has gotten their First Aid kit, his duffle, computer, and a small brown paper bag Dean doesn’t recognize, from the Impala and has them waiting on the foot of his bed. He is washing his hands in the kitchenette sink when Dean emerges from the bathroom drying his hair carefully with a towel. The scrape on his head has resumed bleeding again and he’s smeared a livid scarlet streak down the formerly white towel. Water and blood...blood and water- the memory is right there, but he can’t quite grasp it… .
“You ready for me to check you over? ”
“Hmm?” Sam’s words pull him free of his reverie, but his brain is still busily tumbling the image he’d seen or at least thought he’d seen, on the mountain around in his mind.
“Sit down Dean, I’m gonna check your injuries.”
He sits on the bed patiently letting Sam poke and prod him, first examining his head, then shoulder, his right shin, and finally, both his hands. Sammy is careful and thorough, as he always is when Dean is hurt, but it still isn’t fun. His shoulder is still painfully swollen- aching hotly all down his arm. His scrapes sting irritatingly, and his headache has ramped up a couple of notches since they made their way back from the trail-head.
“You’re gonna need a few stitches on your forehead and we need to keep an eye on that bump but everything else seems alright. You feel nauseous or lightheaded?”
“No. Just gotta headache.” The bloody towel is folded and laid aside before he continues, “Sam, the lore about this Uktena we’re hunting says they’re pretty rare, right? I thought you said they lived in a body of water, like a lake… .”
Sam has a firm hand on his head, positioning him to get the best light to work by, “Yeah, hold still, this is going to be uncomfortable.”
“Sure, keep me pretty.”
Sam offers Dean a small smile. He’s stitched up his brother more times than any ER doctor, but that doesn’t make it any easier. He glances at Dean who, as expected, takes the cue to continue. “I didn’t see any lakes nearby, isn’t this snake thing a lake dwelling monster? ”
“Some sociologist contend that the indigenous peoples of this region may have originally descended from the Aztecs. One of their major gods- Quetzalcoati was represented as a flying snake and although he supposedly was thought of as a benevolent creator, the god of life- his twin brother Xoloti was not. The Cherokee or Tsalagi as many of them prefer to be called, are thought to be part of their distant ancestry. Many different tribes have legends of serpents. Most are creation myths or hero tales, passed down through generations of oral tradition, so naturally there are minute differences in the lore. Sometimes the Uktena is described as a large horned serpent or more rarely, something resembling a dragon, some of the stories depict it as living on land, high in the mountain passes-others in deep lakes, which makes it-”
“About as reliable as the lore usually is. Are we sure we’re not dealing with a Basilisk?
“Pretty sure.”
“Guess we’re goin’ dragon slaying, huh?”
Sam ties off the last stitch, releasing his grip on Dean’s head after inspecting his handiwork, satisfied with the results, he carefully covers his brother’s wound. The scrapes on Dean’s shin and both hands are superficial- they only needed cleaning and bandages. He clears away the medical supplies, noting what items they need to restock, and re-washes his hands. Something is still bothering Dean, a pensive look Sam recognizes tells him their conversation isn’t over.
“Here, take the aspirin.”
He hands him a glass of water and a pair of small, white tablets, Dean swallows them quickly, while rubbing a hand over the back of his neck- one of his few tells.
“Dean?”
“Didn’t you say something else ‘bout a lake?”
“Not sure whether or not there’s a connection, but there is another legend about this area- somewhere in the Smokey Mountains lies a lake whose violet waters purportedly have the ability to heal, but it’s invisible to man because the animals that guard it were betrayed by a hunter who’d sworn never to hunt there, only to go back on his word a few years later when he’d tried to feed his starving family during a time of terrible famine. Many types of animals supposedly lived there.
“That seems a little harsh, depriving the entire human race of miraculous healing waters because some poor guy was trying to feed his family.”
Dean had done some difficult things to see that Sam had had enough to eat when they were growing up. Sam has seen his brother use his surfeit of skills, considerable charm, and occasionally- the “five finger discount” to make sure they were able to manage until Dad returned from his latest hunt. Many times, Sam had gotten the last bowl of Fruit Loops, the last sad slice of day old pizza, or the final piece of cherry pie Dean had magnanimously offered him. He hadn’t realized until he was older, that his brother had been tasked with making ends meet, not simply keeping him alive, under near impossible circumstances. Never sure when, or if , Dad would reappear, his brother had done things he never talked about and Sam had, out of respect for him, chosen not to ask. Still, he wonders how often Dean had gone hungry so he didn’t have to.
Gaze subconsciously lowered to the floor, his face suddenly shuttered as if Dean is afraid Sam will judge him for past sins, things he’d had no choice but to do- Sam hears the tinge of pain in his brother’s voice. He empathizes with that long ago hunter. Sam doesn’t like resorting to credit card scams and petty theft to get the job done and he tries to get them honest work as often as possible, but hunting things and saving people has never paid the bills. Despite everything they’ve been through, he’s never been critical of Dean for doing his best to take care of their small family. He loves him for it- to see even a hint of shame on his brother’s face makes him hurt for Dean.
Time for a diversion.
“Hey, Dean,” he reaches into the small paper bag and tosses its contents in his brother’s direction. The small stuffed black bear spirals through the air toward him, forcing Dean to catch it more as a reflex than an act of intention. “Thought you might want a souvenir. It’s our first trip to the Smokies.”
Dean looks puzzled, opens then closes his mouth firmly, and lays the toy carefully down on the bed nearest the door, before sitting next to it. “Thanks.”
“Sam, there was something I don’t know... I saw something.- A bright light or reflection seconds before the monster attacked. I was tracking it, same as you, the undergrowth was flattened down like something had wallowed it out, and there was a huge oak tree broken over, but nothing else. Then I heard something. When I turned toward the sound there was this enormous tail. Came out of nowhere and side-swiped me. I know it had claws. And maybe I saw or thought I saw this bright flash- next thing I know, I’m on the ground. Then there is no ground and I’m don’ my Spider-man impersonation on the side of that freakin’ mountain.”
“Some stories say that the Uktena has wings, spits its venom, or drowns its victims, and is covered with red scales. Most versions say it has beautifully colored, spotted or ringed scales, and bites its victims, but all the resources I found corroborate that it has horns or antlers, claws, and a diamond or diamond-like scale in the center of its’ forehead- the Uhunsuti, that gives the man that can claim it supernatural success in all his endeavors. The scale is also said to be used to prophecy the future.”
“I’m sure that would come in handy if I gave a damn about any of that. Tell me how to kill it.”
“The lore says you have to shoot an arrow into its’ heart, which is supposedly located beneath the seventh scale down from the head.”
“Guess, you’d better dust off that compound bow, little brother.”
“Sure, but first things first- shower, food, and rest. Do you need anything before I hit the shower?”
“Nah, m’good.”
“Out in twenty. If you need them, take the pain meds. ”
“Take your time.”
Sam is good to his word but when he emerges from the steamy bathroom, he finds Dean asleep. He spends an hour rereading the lore before he closes the curtains, hangs out the carved, bear-shaped “do not disturb” sign, sets his phone alarm, climbs into bed and is soon asleep, too. Hunting the Uktena will require all his focus and skill as a hunter, and if he is going to survive this hunt, and make sure Dean does, he needs to be well-rested.
He rolls over nearly six hours later to Dean moaning in his sleep. His brother has shifted from his side to lying flat of his back, snoring softly. He had apparently jostled his sore shoulder in the process of changing positions. He hasn’t woken completely but it hurt enough to get a reaction out of him, which is a more honest response than Sam would’ve gotten if he’d asked. His brother probably needs more pain medication, more rest, and they both need breakfast. His stomach rumbles agreeably as he dresses, and he is sure under normal circumstances, it would have been loud enough to wake Dean, if he wasn’t exhausted and medicated.
The breakfast buffet is gone, cleared away now that it is afternoon- but there is still coffee, some bananas, and bagels, so Sam grabs two bagels, a pair of bananas, a few jelly packets, a couple of pats of butter and a cup of coffee for each of them. The coffee is strong and hot, and the butter chilled, so not the worst breakfast. He takes a complimentary issue of the local paper and his other finds back to the room arriving to see his brother sitting bleary-eyed and bed-headed on the side of his bed.
“Good Morning.”
“Ain’t it though.” Dean scrubs a hand over his face and fists an eye sleepy before turning toward
Sam.
“It’s closer to three, thought I’d let you sleep in. I've got food.
Sam can tell Dean is still not feeling well when he winces at the small movements required to hold the plate with his fruit and bagel. He obviously isn’t in the best shape to be hunting, but that has rarely kept him out of one. Unless he’s injured enough to require a hospital stay, and sometimes not even then, Dean does his job. Sam can count on one hand how often injury has ended a hunt, only usually deferring his participation unless Dad had taken care of whatever it was, while his brother was otherwise occupied. Dad or Dean calling in another hunter to help is almost unthinkable.
Sam tries to talk Dean into going back to bed after he’s eaten, it will be hours before they can risk going back to pick up the thing’s trail, but he grouses and growls until Sam resorts to plan B; he hands him his pain meds and a bottle of water and after surreptitiously watching him take them, casually gives him the TV remote and goes for supplies just to give himself a little space and his brother time to do as close to “nothing” as Dean ever willingly does.
When he’d gotten back two hours later, he had bottled water, beer, salad, a couple of salmon fillets, a proper sling for Dean’s arm, and a plan to help them rid the world of the Uktena. Dean is laying on his side, sound asleep, with his hand tucked beneath the pillow. Sam knows that means his fingers are curled loosely over the hilt of his knife- always within easy reach; a habit ingrained in him from childhood, while the stuffed bear helpfully keeps watch beside him on the bed.
Sam puts his purchases away, jots down a quick note for Dean, tucks it beneath the bears’ paw, and returns to the Impala. He gets the bow out of the trunk and examines it thoroughly to make sure it’s in proper working order. It is. Dean is meticulous about keeping all the weapons in excellent condition, he takes better care of them than he does himself.
It has been a while since either of them has used it, Dean prefers his Colt 1911, claiming correctly that a bow, even a folding one, is near impossible to conceal, and too cumbersome to carry. But he’s kept it ready- along with two quivers of silver tipped and iron headed arrows because, well, in their line of work you never know what weaponry might be needed. Dad’s training has served them well, even after he’d left them. Sam really misses him.
He knew Dean thought he’d hated their Dad. That isn’t true, he’d loved him. Loved him so much he couldn’t get past seeing him angry when they got no closer to finding the demon, knowing when they did find it, they risked losing him, or when he’d get frustrated with Dean for something trivial after they had all worked the job for weeks without a break. He’d resented having his freedom, his choices taken from him. Like having to learn to bow hunt when he’d wanted to play Soccer- that hadn’t been productive in his dad’s way of thinking.
He and Dean rarely got more than scant moments to just have fun. Eventually, that had become one more reason to be frustrated with his father; they were forced to be as driven as he was. Yes, he’d known about his mother, he’d known their mission was important, but sometimes he’d just wanted to enjoy his life and his father- his family. When he did, it was most often because of Dean’s efforts or his Uncle Bobby’s understanding.
When his father was around, he had often been preoccupied, appearing distant- both physically and emotionally. Sam hadn’t realized then how worried his father was, or how many, many things there were to worry about. And because Sam was a kid, sometimes bratty, frequently frustrated with being uprooted again, and often angry because Dad, Dean, or both, had come back to where-ever home was, busted up and bleeding- needing him to stitch them together again, he hadn’t cared.
He’d tried, but he wasn’t his father and he couldn’t not question- he’d never be like Dean either. He had really tried, and knew his Dad had made an effort too, but still, they’d come to an impasse. Sam, when he’s honest with himself, knows that- after a while, he hadn’t wanted to continue trying. Dean, attempting to keep the peace, had been caught between them, and Sam had gotten tired, discouraged maybe- or just stopped looking for a solution. He regrets that now.
While he’d been at Stanford, he’d taken Archery as a phys-ed elective- partly to keep his skills sharp and because he figured it to be an easy A. It was, but that had been almost three years ago. He spent the next two hours practicing his aim on a battered cardboard box he’d dragged around the back of the hotel, stopping only long enough to check on Dean and grab a bottle of water. He’d stayed at it until he felt comfortable with his technique again, at least. He isn’t doing too badly but dealing with a moving target is much more difficult than hitting a stationary one, and this moving target has fangs and claws. You only get one grade on a hunt, every single one is either pass or fail. Failure for a hunter is almost always painful, and frequently lethal.
He’s showered, changed clothes, and is prepping the fish for dinner when Dean rouses, groans, and runs a hand haphazardly through his hair, “How long was I out?”
“Not too long- it’s still Thursday.”
“That’s good- real good. We need to get rid of this snake thing quick. That trial's gonna probably be packed with hikers come the weekend.”
Dean has a point, now that spring is here, there’ll be more chances to meet civilians on the trail, and whether they are day-packers or through-hikers, more people around means more distractions, more chances for someone to see them, and more chances for someone to be hurt or killed. They need to prevent that, if possible.
“Yeah, probably. You want to toss the salad? I’ll bet you’re starving.”
“Toss it in the trash-”
“Stop grumbling, I’ve got you a surprise-”
“Another bear?”
“Better even- I got you pie- pecan.”
“Have I told you you’re a good brother today, Sam?” The smile Dean gives his brother is nearly angelic- so sweetly sincere it makes him smile, too.
How Dean can go from irascible to adorable that quickly is one of the great Winchester mysteries of life.
“You’re welcome.”
They’d eaten, packed their weapons in the trunk, and each gone their separate ways to take care of some last minute details. Dean tinkers with Baby- checks her fluids, no doubt whispering sweet nothings as he measures her tire pressure, and does whatever else, while Sam tinkers with his plan almost as carefully. He’s making revisions, plotting until he is satisfied everything is ready. Then he makes a contingency plan, and contingency plans for his contingency plan.
When they’ve completed their final preparations, taking time for one last consultation of their resources, and packed a few extra provisions, they climb into Baby and drive until they reach a thick patch of woods that grows parallel to the trail and hide her in a dense copse of trees- mostly Scarlet Oaks and Longleaf pines, growing just off a neglected dirt road, no wider than a deer path.
Dean, alternately cooing an apology while caressing her paint, and muttering threats at the pine trees that if they “got so much as a drop of tar on his girl he is going to gleefully burn them to the ground”, is undoubtedly the highlight of Sam’s day. As exasperated as he always is when witnessing Dean’s ongoing mechanical love affair, he endures the exchange between his brother and vehicle willingly, glad that some things in their lives are as consistent as ever.
They hike over a mile through non-descript brush, cross a deep ravine to follow a spring that flows into a stream, which meanders along for another mile- they jog most of its’ length until they find a blaze to guide them back to the well marked trail. The hike to where they’d tracked the monster had taken a while. They’d purposely avoided the last few groups of die-hard hikers and a few solitary stragglers that were still around as dusk found the mountain. The park entrances will be closing soon- that will help minimize the danger to anyone else.
The hollow that Dean had found wallowed out is well off the trail in a wooded area to the west, and the forest had been more or less deserted the night they’d scouted the area. Fortunately, there hadn’t been any humans in the area. Sam had seen and heard insects, an owl and a opossum, but not any larger animals in the area, there had been a few tracks, some old scat, but no recent signs of animals- which led him to believe that they had found, if not the Uktena’s lair- at least an area it frequented, possibly part of its’ hunting territory.
“You’re awfully quiet, man- you, okay?”
“Just thinking.”
“About- ?”
“Bobby’s contact-”
“You’re thinking about him-? Why?”
“The guy said he hasn’t heard of one of these things appearing in, like, over a hundred years, so why now?”
“Beats me.”
“There’s got to be a reason.”
“Yeah… food, water, shelter, or my personal favorite…sex .”
“Could be any of them, all of them, there isn’t really much information out there for a creature that’s been around for hundreds of years.”
“History’s like a sieve, Sammy, some things get caught in it- so we have reliable information, some things fall through- get lost, and a few things are retained in part, we get bits and pieces, and if we’re lucky, the lore fills in some of the gaps, but mostly, it’s a crap shoot.”
“I know.”
The trees begin to thin as they get nearer the wallow so Sam slings his climbing gear, a mixed quiver of arrows, and the compact compound bow, over his back and sits his pack in the fork of a tree high enough to deter bears and waits while Dean straps his knife to his ankle, checks the clip in his Colt 1911, and shoulders his climbing gear. After he stows his pack too, he drinks deeply from his canteen and offers it to Sam. He is taking care of Sam, like he always does. He is still favoring his left side a bit but if Sam wasn’t so observant and so familiar with Dean’s injuries, he might not have noticed anything unusual. His brother spent years learning that hiding his hunting injuries is a stupid idea and Sam has spent years trying to take care of his brother. Dean is complicated, and so is taking care of him, but Sam never walks away from a challenge.
By now it is dark, and they haven’t seen or heard much more than a silent scattering of fireflies and a small, startled family of raccoons. They keep walking until they find the wallow’s edge and a few signs of activity but not the creature, nor any signs of immediate danger. A small dark patch of what appears to be dried blood mars an area at the edge of the flattened vegetation, but nothing else has changed.
Dean’s anxious to get this job done, he knows he is running on fumes. The rest he’d gotten at the hotel has only taken the edge off, showing him how truly, deeply exhausted he is. He might not want to admit it, to Sam or anyone else, but he knows he’s not infallible. He usually feels like a walking, talking screw up when doing anything other than hunting, but that doesn’t change anything. The adrenaline thrumming through him is making him twitchy. Hyper-vigilance makes him more acutely aware of all the things that could be out there, all the opportunities for something to get the drop on them, but he knows better than to allow an overgrown twinge of anxiety to make him sloppy. Sloppy hunts ended with major injuries or pyres afire. He’ll be careful. He won’t risk Sammy getting hurt, or worse, because he’s too wired to focus.
They scour the nearby brush, inspect the few trees around the tamped down grass and brambles, but find nothing else. Sam and he walk out to scout the edge of the tree-line in opposite directions while still keeping one another in sight. Sam finds a few trees scarred with claw marks while he retraces the tracks he’d found the night before. He had been roughly six feet from the edge when the Uktena wiped him off level ground.
“You find anything, Sam?”
“Not much-”
Sam walks to the edge to stand beside him, peering down into the gloom. “This is where you went over the side, right?”
“Yeah.” Dean’s gaze follows the beam of his light across the rock face studying the shadows patterned on the mountainside.
“I’m pretty sure these deep fissures here are actually claw marks leading down toward that ledge. It’s hard to tell with the natural striations and the erosion in the rock, but see how there’s a pattern every few feet?”
“You’re thinking our monster’s holed up in a lair on that ledge?”
“The ledge is too narrow, but maybe there’s an entrance to a cave or -.”
“D’ you see that?” A flash catches Dean’s eye and he has an unwelcome moment of deja vu, hanging off the side of the mountain had kept him distracted- he hadn’t seen the monster, but what he had seen was a brief, bright flare of light in the darkness- possibly a reflection from the lightning refracting off the scale on monster snake’s forehead. “I think we found ourselves an Uktena.”
To Part 2...
Recipient: Tifaching
Word Count: 17,445
Rating: Teen and up
Warnings: hurt!Dean, some Winchester language, and a bit of gore
Summary: The boys take a case in the Great Smokey Mountains and discover something dangerous- surprise!
Author’s Note: Thank you Tifaching, for the great prompt set. There were so many good choices, I put a few of them through the shredder, patched the bits together with Scotch tape, started typing, and this happened. Have a wonderful Summer Gen summer! Hope you enjoy the story. Set in season 2 in the time-line between “Hollywood Babylon” and “Folsom Prison Blues”. Thank you to my awesome beta gigis89! You are amazing and make me want to be a better writer. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
Part 1
Dean’s not sure how it happened exactly, but here he is. Sam had found them a case- a simple, straight forward hunt and Dean couldn’t have been happier. At least he had been, might still be, if he could rewind the past six or so hours. They had needed a change of scenery, and it had looked to be a run of the mill monster job so he’d said, “ Yeah, sure, Sammy, why not? ” Piece of cake, right?
That had been his first mistake.
Sam isn’t doing too well. He hasn’t said more than a handful of phrases since they left San Francisco. At the last couple of diners he’s either been brooding into his coffee rather than drinking it or staring into space so long it still got cold. He’s spent more time restlessly pushing his rabbit food around his plate with his fork than eating, and he’s slept fitfully or not at all, the past several nights. At first, Dean had thought he might be coming down with something, but then he’d surreptitiously caught a flare of such intense grief on his brother’s face it made Dean ache for him.
He has tried to distract him, has suggested hustling pool or poker, going fishing… pretty much anything he can think of. By the end of the week he’d have volunteered to take up knitting, stamp collecting, or scrap booking, hell, he doesn't care as long as it makes Sammy happy. What he didn’t do, although he would’ve liked to- is suggest they pick up another case right away, but he’s noticed how Sammy is willingly neglecting his phone, how his computer continues to remain abandoned in its’ case shoved deep into the bottom recesses of the Impala’s trunk. When he’d casually mentioned it, Sam had given him a shaggy-haired, dismissive head shake and mumbled something about being tired. Worse yet, his brother hasn’t so much as cracked a book in over a week. Something is off, wayoff.
They’ve had a rough month, there had been the whole “distraught hitchhiking ghosts” thing, a few frustrating leads that had gone nowhere, then the “having to shoot the pretty werewolf” thing, That one had really torn Sammy up. Dean’s been feeling more than a little worn down and frayed around the edges himself. Their impromptu trip to Hollywood hadn’t been the break he’d been hoping for, they’d found someone bent on revenge and keeping a few ghosts on a short leash so- an “idiot” thing. Meeting Tara was awesome, and playing P. A. had been fun while it lasted, but the job had gone sideways pretty quickly, ending difficult and dangerous or as Sam would say, their version of relatively normal.
Dean’s tired. It isn’t easy to stay on top of everything, every minute of the day ornight, when he can’t get his regular five hours. Went without saying, if Sam isn’t sleeping well, neither is he. So when Sam showed the first real glimmer of interest in hunting in weeks, of course he’d gone along with it.
Their lead, thin though it was, had come from a page four, two column wide newspaper article in some obscure southern cousin of the Weekly World News Dean had never heard of, and highly doubted the veracity of, but the chance to see Sam smile and the idea of a nice, long drive on the open road had sounded good, as had the prospect of putting civilization behind them for a couple of days. Now though, he’d give his eyeteeth to be surrounded by a little more civilization, and everything else he has, if Sam would just show up.
Where is he? He couldn’t have been more than a couple hundred yards behind him in the thicket.
“Sam?”
Dean turns his head straining his hearing for any sign that his brother is near. Not a sound, nothing but the damn wind blowing, some clouds spitting a cold, steady rain on him, and an entire freakin’ chorus of crickets.
“Come on, Sammy, I could use a little help here.”
At some point Dean had smacked his head pretty hard, he could feel the sweat stinging in what must be a scrape on his forehead, and the headache he feels building has his pulse echoing harshly in his back molars whenever he moves. He’s keeping as still as possible. A lethargic but persistent throbbing that started behind his eyes is getting steadily more uncomfortable as time passes. Not a concussion, probably... maybe, just a hard bump- but not something that is improving his disposition or his looks either.
He can feel it already swelling, can imagine the shades of florid colors where the blood is pooled beneath his skin. Concussions are something Sam and he are too familiar with. He still remembers his first one, how, in the beginning, Dad had made excuses to keep him out of school to prevent having to explain. On his first few hunts, he’d been selfish- waiting impatiently for the bruises to fade, for his bones to mend, or the deep wounds to heal enough to allow him to go back to school. He hadn’t understood then, that hunting meant his priorities had to change. That had taken a little longer to figure out. What he had learned quickly was that getting hurt is part of hunting and keeping quiet about it helped to save people- not just strangers, but his people, Dad and Sammy.
Bruises and abrasions, cuts, scrapes, and claw marks, long days and nights with fractures, splints and stitches, him- often battered sometimes broken, and Sam likewise battered , and so worried. His brother had been frightened for him, and for himself, Dean knew that. Sam had endured as much as he could- until he couldn’t. Sam was brave, is brave, certainly braver than Dean, he’d fought his way to freedom using the best weapons he had- determination and intelligence.
Dean had tried to protect him, had done his best, but as years passed Sam had slowly become defensive. Then Sam grew quietly resistant, then openly- less quietly much less quietly defiant, until he’d grown into a resolute young man and taken a direction that neither Dad nor Dean, would have predicted- he’d chosen to fight his own battles his own way, and gone to Stanford. Dean didn’t blame Sam though, hadn’t then, didn’t now. He is proud of Sammy, even if being away from him had been damn tough. Gut wrenching
For as long as he can remember, Dad had been desolate, driven, and determined. As difficult as it was in those days, and it was , once he’d understood he had a mission; carrying on the family business, he’d cherished every moment, every one, even to drinking tomato rice soup through a straw wired jaw while Sam read him Crichton, Kerouac, and Vonnegut.
He’d devoted himself to his family and his job, putting his everything into whatever was asked of him. Didn’t matter if it was learning to throw knives, rebuilding an engine, tracking Kitsune, teaching his little brother to ride a bike, or field stripping a weapon. He’d given up everything else willingly. He’d loved and respected his father but Sam... well, he is worth the world.
Where is Sam? “Hey, uh, ... Sammy?”
His head hurts. He can almost hear Sam’s snarky Congratulations, Dude. on his acquisition of another sizable goose egg. He swears his brother keeps a tally of how many times they’ve each been whacked in the head in that gi-normous geek brain of his. Dean lost count a long time ago, in what he’s pretty sure is a rare act of self-preservation. He’s okay with that.
His shoulders are aching like a son of a bitch. He’s pretty sure one of them is dislocated, if the hot, throbbing pulse arcing up his left arm into his fingertips is to be believed. He hasn’t been here long but he doesn’t particularly want to think about how his fingers are beginning to numb from the strain of supporting most of his weight. He’s clinging to the side of a huge chunk of granite with too few hand-holds, and he’s only been able to locate a single toe-hold so far. His legs are trembling but whether from having to bear most of his weight, or something else, he isn’t sure. When he edges his left foot forward- inching along cautiously he meets only open air. There has to be another toehold here somewhere and he needs to find it. Now. His right leg is starting to cramp.
He draws a breath and eases the toe of his boot along until he feels the tread edge catch- if he can wedge his boot into that small chink in the rock he can relieve some of the pressure on his other leg. He tests it carefully, putting a slight amount of weight on his toes, relieved when it holds, he cautiously puts his full weight on it. Slowly, moving inches at a time- he carefully repositioned himself flush against the side of the bald, more evenly redistributing his weight to reduce the pressure on his shoulders as much as possible. He can’t see how to climb up, his Mag-lite had gone over the side with him- falling into the gloom far below. He can’t get to his phone, his lighter, or matches. His climbing ropes, knife, and extra water are all tucked away in the day-pack he’s wearing. Sam had insisted.He isn’t sure how much longer he can hold on, but one thing he knows, if Sam doesn’t find him soon he’s screwed, and not in the sexy way.
“Dean?”
“Sammy!”
He had tried to look down earlier but that hadn’t gone well. It’s too dark to see much, and what he can see isn’t doing much to bolster his enthusiasm, mostly barren rock with a few stalwart growths of tough, stringy vegetation anchored in the crevices where the terse, persistent clumps have found room enough to anchor their shallow roots. Beyond that is a cragged, pock-marked rock-face that juts defiantly away from the body of the mountain. There is a long, steep drop before he spies a brittle- looking, scree-covered ledge probably only wide enough for a pair of mountain goats if they are on intimate terms, then a much, much longer drop down into the eager grasp of oblivion.
When he shifted his weight trying to relieve some of the strain on his hands, a fall of gravel clattered down the mountainside into the chasm beneath him. It had taken a long time for the sounds to come back so he was pretty sure he’d still be completely screwed, even if he survived the fall. And that’s a big if.
Minute vibrations pulse through the thin layer of dirt beneath the tips of his fingers, pulling his attention back. The vibrations gradually intensify- something or someone coming closer. He hears something but the sound is just barely audible- possibly a large animal or a human moving quietly through the woods. Definitely footfalls- spaced wide apart, someone running. Dean strains his ears, seeking a sound he can recognize- anything to tell him if salvation is near. Another gust of wind brings a faint sound as it soughs through the leaves then the sharp splintering of a twig crushed into the dense mass of a deep layer of undergrowth. Please be Sam. Please, please be Sam.
“Sammy?!”
“Dean?”
“Yo!”
“Dean,where the h- oh, crap.”
“Yeah, could use a hand up, little bro.”
“How- ? You know what, never mind, you can tell me once we get you back on solid ground.
“Good idea. I’ve always said you are a genius. Ask anybody, I always say that.”
“Yeah, yeah, hold tight a minute, I’ve got to rig up a rope.”
“Hold tight? So now you’re a comedian? Ha-ha.”
“Well, you know what they say about a captive audience.”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
He can just make out the sounds of his brother rifling through his pack, the slip and shuffle of him sorting the gear into what he’ll need to haul them both back to level ground. Dean’s more than eager to experience Terra firma again real soon.
“It’s not important. Can you find a better foothold? Maybe another hand-hold?”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“I’m hanging off the side of a mountain by my fingernails, in the dark, and you want me to let go to maybe find another usable crack in this overgrown boulder? Look, if you want my Baby and priceless cassette collection of the best music ever that bad, all you have to do is ask, man, there’s no need to... you know, go to extremes.”
“We both know you’d come back to haunt me if I killed you for that car, and besides, I keep telling you, nobody listens to cassettes any more...
There is the distinct, repetitive thunk and clink of a line of carabiners being set in the ground above him before a broad beam of light washes over him. A slender coil of neon yellow nylon slithers down the rock face toward him. The shaggy, shadowed outline of Sam looking down at him appears from above. His brother’s face shifts from obvious consternation to contemplation to full on bitch face in three point two seconds, faster than Dean can follow along. Sam heaves a put upon sigh, his tone, deeply disparaging, in the way only a little brother’s can be- as he says, “And also dude, ... uh, mullet rock.”
“You have no appreciation for the classics, Sam.”
“Absolutely none.” Sam’s smile could’ve rivaled the glow of the moon if not for the clouds that had scudded silently over it as he grinned, winked, and turned his back on his brother.
There is a moment of palpable stillness- watching his brother’s back, seeing ropes knotted, adjustments made, the movement of muscles as they work and shift, then the rapid descent as Sam is pushing off, lowering himself rapidly over the edge, to hurtle downward toward Dean. Loosened momentarily from the hold of gravity, his long limbs swing out, hanging suspended, in the expanse of darkness around them. It only takes a few seconds, but Dean is sure his heart has bottomed out by the time Sam finally brakes, dropping solidly into position beside him, his feet braced apart on the wall of dark rock. He leans out and glances down, completely relaxed, and under control, still smiling like a kid on a roller-coaster next to Dean.
“You ready for a piggyback ride?”
“Sammy, I thought you’d never ask.”
“Alright, I’m gonna loop this under your arms, hold still, let me do all the work. Good, good, this one goes around that way, and this one over and under… let me just check this knot and slip this end through the carabiner here. Okay, that should do it. Throw your arm around my neck, that’s it. Okay, good, now let go with the other hand. Yeah, just like that. Hold on. You settled?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Watch your leg, don’t want to catch it in the line. We’re just gonna take it slow and easy until we get topside. You ready?”
He isn’t, but there aren’t a lot of options, story of his life. “Waitin’ for you.”
“Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”
It takes longer for Sam to make the climb up, saddled with his weight as he is, certainly longer than it had for Dean to fall, and if anyone were ever to ask, he did <>not squeal like a girl when they slid back several feet before the gri-gri caught and locked down.
“Sam!”
“Yeah, I’ve got you, Dean.”
Sam traversed the remaining distance walking smoothly up the side of the bald and over the edge until they were on solid ground before he stopped.
“You going to be able to walk?” He is carefully dismantling the rope harness and climbing rig as he gets nearer the trail blazes that signified they are back near the well-worn path.
“Been doin’ it since I was a year old.”
When he carefully lowers his brother to the ground he keeps a hand on him to steady him while he gets his feet beneath himself and even after he’s unclipped the final carabiner to set Dean free of the few remaining ropes, he doesn’t let go until he gets a nod of affirmation, to anyone else, they might have thought he was simply being cautious, but to Dean the concern is plain on his face.
Dean hates seeing his brother worried, but for the moment he is just so glad to see Sam, he can’t keep from grinning. The only time he’s ever been gladder to feel the ground under his feet had been when he’d had that interminable wait for the landing of the plane with that pretty stewardess- Amanda Walker and a murderous Japanese spirit aboard. It had looked a little touch and go for them at first, but Sam had come through, exorcised it- saving a lot of people, while Dean had screamed himself hoarse, but he’d managed to do his job and not pass out mid-flight, so all things considered, it had been a pretty good ending to a pretty good day.
“You alright?”
“I’m fine Sam.”
He’d said it out of habit, a response as automatic as breathing. It’s a lie. They both know it, but he’s done it so often that he no longer thinks of it as an act of dishonesty. It’s just something he says, and his brother- wise young man that he is, has apparently chosen not to die for his principles today on this particular hill, but still manages a well executed eye roll and a none too subtle shake of his head for Dean’s benefit.
Dean is, if not fine, in one piece more or less, and for them, that’s usually as good as it gets. He’s still taking inventory, but Sam knows the routine. Beneath the weight of his pack he can feel a deep, throbbing ache in his left shoulder that spreads up his neck and down his arm into the tips of his fingers, so yeah, the shoulder is definitely dislocated. Sam has already briefly inspected the lump on his head before Dean managed to untangle himself from the ropes and shake him off. There is a dull, painful ache in the vicinity of his right shin he doesn’t want to think about, and he also has a series of abrasions on both hands from his fall.
“Ready to head back?”
“Yeah, guess so… don’t think that fugly is gonna show itself again tonight, do ya?”
Sam hears something off in Dean’s tone that has his gut knotting. His hunter instincts are nearly as acute as his brother instincts and they’re screeching like a clarion alarm going off. Dean isn’t fine. There’s a distracted lilt to his voice and even by the poor quality of the light from his headlamp he is pretty sure Dean looks pale. Something is wrong.
He’s seen Dean finish a hunt with major injuries, seen him efficiently dispatch ghosts in the midst of battling the flu, has watched him drag himself to Bobby’s door (more than once) so weak from exhaustion he could hardly stand. The sooner they get back to the trail-head, to Baby, to somewhere he can take care of his brother, the better.
“We’ll be back tomorrow night, Dean. You tracked it this far, and I’m guessing you saw it, right?” Dean’s only response came as a distracted grunt Sam decides to take as an affirmation.
“Now that we know what we’re dealing with, all we have to do is find its lair, then we’ll take care of it.”
Dean remains still and silent long enough to unnerve him. Sam can practically see him processing his thoughts. There’s no point asking again, his brother will talk about it when he talks about it, so he waits for Dean’s gaze to meander back to his. There is pain there and something else. He’s pretty sure his brother has a concussion, they are wasting time. He wants to get them back to the motel room and cleaned up so he can take a closer look at Dean’s injuries. As quickly as he can, he unstraps his pack, and stows his climbing gear, all while trying to watch Dean without making it too obvious- staying close but not too close. Dean hates being mother-henned. The fact that he doesn’t seem to notice or care is just another indication that Sam’s worry is valid.
His brother shrugs off his pack, not an easy task with his shoulder damaged as it is. Sam had seen on the rock face how Dean was keeping nearly all the stress of his weight on his trembling right arm and how his left is hyper-extended. Dean had flinched and ground his teeth when Sam slid an arm beneath him and when he’d grasped his left hand with his right to hold on, Sam had felt the pain telegraphed through Dean’s body although he never said a word. Sam is sure the shoulder is swollen and bruised beneath the flannel and it probably hurts like hell. Putting his shoulder back in place isn’t going to be fun for either of them, but Sam has had lots of practice.
“Sam, if you’d do the honors- .”
God, Dean is as white as a sheet. He’s in serious pain. “You ready?”
“Yeah, no. Do it anyway.”
“Okay, just relax, we’re gonna go on three… .” He saw the nod, saw Dean swallow a twitch that traversed his jaw. He can feel his muscles taunt with tension beneath his hands.
“One...”
Telling him to relax is futile, he knows Dean, Sam can feel him tensing the muscles before he’s even begun to count, so he’s lifting and pushing firmly but smoothly, holding the arm parallel to the body the way Dad taught them. The bone is seated in place again before his brother can give more than a sharp, wheezing inhale.
“Oow! Sonofabitch! Wh-what happened to “on three”, Sam?”
“Sometimes one is all it takes, Jerk.”
He flashes his brother a mischievous grin just to dull the sarcasm and to distract him a bit. Fussing over Dean usually just ticks him off. He can’t say he hates seeing his brother in pain, that he’s afraid if he allowed Dean the opportunity, he might lock his muscles albeit unintentionally, or that he could have aggravated the injury if he waited, if the swelling increased. That he really wants his brother safely out of harm’s way. He knows how that would go over.
“Very funny-” Body hunched, and hugging his left arm protectively to his chest, Dean hauls in a shallow breath, “should take your stand up to Vegas, bitch.”
Sam has been accused of “being a girl” a few hundred thousand times by now, but fortunately, because of it, he’d developed a thoroughly healthy immunity to Dean’s sense of humor by the time he’d turned nine. He had also learned early what part of Dean was swagger, bluff, and bravado, and what was real. Sam has always known the difference, if he needs Dean, he is there for him, when no-one else is. He knows his brother would do anything for him. He loves him and never doubts Dean feels the same. He would like to hug him right now but experience has taught him it will be few days before Dean will be able to tolerate being touched anywhere near that shoulder. And they only, usually, hugged if one of them has had a near death experience- but Sam has every intention of changing that now that he and Dean are together again.
“You are not a good person.”
There’s no heat in the words and hardly any volume, Sam almost didn’t hear him over a distant roll of thunder. Dean looks like he might pass out any minute. Sam should suggest he rest, but they need to be a safe distance away, which means clear of the forest. They need to get moving. The sky is already beginning to lighten and they are more likely to meet other hikers on the trail once morning breaks. With Dean hurt, this isn’t going to be a quick sprint to the trail head. Thankfully, the rain has stopped- but not before the fine, misty drizzle has soaked through their clothing. They are both going to be pretty uncomfortable before they finish the back-hike. It’s roughly five miles to where they’ve left the Impala.
“No, I’m much better than good. Come, here, Jerk.”
Sam strips off his wet flannel and tee-shirt and folds the flannel into a makeshift sling, when he eases Dean’s arm in and tightens his arm against his body using strips cut from the tee-shirt, he hears the too familiar gasp and swallow of pain being forced down. Pulling out the only dry clothing he has, two flannels, he choses one and quickly redresses himself. He then settles the other over his brother’s shoulders. Putting dry over wet wasn’t the best solution but it’s temporary. He doesn’t want to aggravate the shoulder further and it’s better than nothing. This close to Dean, it’s easy to see how pale he is, to see that swollen, bleeding gash on his forehead and how he is coddling his left arm, even in the sling. Sam also doesn’t miss the shudder that goes through Dean as he buttons the flannel.
He straps both packs together, slips them on, and tightens them over his shoulders. “Time to head back. I think we should take the trail at a slow, steady pace. If you start feeling light-headed or experiencing blurry vis-”
“Florence Nightingale will you give it a rest? It’s just a bump on the head. S’not like I got a concussion.”
Sam- being a good brother, is resolved not to argue, so he bites his lip and starts walking. No-one he knows is more hard-headed than his brother, hopefully that is a positive in this case. He and Dean walk side by side along the trail, Sam quietly noting the white blazes that mark the trail every seventy feet or so, He shortens his stride a bit and conversationally recites interesting facts on local Appalachian history he Googled on their drive down, occasionally pointing out a familiar constellation in the ever-lightening sky as morning draws nearer, doing anything he can to distract his brother from his pain. Sam surreptitiously guides him onward as rapidly as he can, while Dean plods dutifully along, a shuffling, preternaturally silent apparition of himself beside his brother, for roughly the first mile.
“Sammy… .” If he hadn’t been accustomed to years of hearing his brother say his name in every shade and tone of distress he might have missed the faint note of warning.
Dean suddenly lurches to a stop at Sam’s elbow and then bolts forward into the ragged-looking scrub at the trial's edge to heave up his insides. Sam has enough time to give him a wide berth but still keeps the flashlight on him as he bolts away. Watching Dean double over, vomiting is not fun.
He’s managed to hurl up everything he’s eaten over the past few hours, and probably all of the water Sam had insisted he drink on the way in, and now he’s spitting bile-laced saliva, ass-deep in the woods while his shoulder screams his betrayal every time he moves, and has him wishing he was surrounded by the familiar steel and leather of his Baby. They’ve barely started this hunt and he wishes it was over. He dry heaves this time, and it hurts so much it takes his breath.
“You alright, Dean?”
Sam feels stupid just saying it. Of course his brother isn’t alright, anybody who is concussed, with a recently dislocated shoulder, currently vomiting in the middle of dense forest in the wee hours of the morning, after nearly falling to their death is very likely any number of adjectives other than alright. So whatever smart-assed comment Dean is about to launch his way, he deserves it. Do I look alright? What the hell, Sam? He’d had to say something. But he got nothing back but a frantically flailing hand as Dean waved him off, punctuated with a final, watery-sounding cough, and a bit more spitting before he’d straightened up, scuffed some leaves and loose gravel hastily over the mess, and staggered resolutely back in his sibling’s direction.
Sam hands him a bottle of water as a preemptive act of penance and waits until he’s rinsed out his mouth before suggesting they should maybe consider making Dean a litter. That earns him such a look of flagrant disdain that Sam ducks his head and rummages rapidly through his pack for a peace offering. He withdraws a chocolate peanut butter Power Bar and small bag of peanut M&M’ s which he pushes forward cautiously- offering without comment, while deftly avoiding any need to meet his brother’s gaze. Sam knows better than to go around poking bears.
Dean snarls out a huff, snatches the food away, and stalks down the trail ahead of him muttering about brain damage in a way that has nothing to do with his bump on the head. Sam can practically see the waves of affronted testosterone and offended ego rolling off his brother while he bristles and grouses, tossing a pointedly indignant look over his shoulder at Sam.
“A litter? Seriously? I’m the one with the concussion.”
“I just thought… .” Well, he should conserve energy and avoid finishing that sentence for all the attention Dean is paying him.
He is debating whether or not to give his brother some space when he sees him pause. It’s a good thing his legs are longer than Dean’s, that way he didn’t have to do more than a short sprint to catch up. It doesn’t take long, Dean is standing unmoving on the trail a few hundred feet away. As Sam approaches, he flicks his hand behind him, open palm toward Sam in the universal hand signal for “stop”. There is something there- something that caught Dean’s attention, but from Sam’s vantage point there is only indistinct movement on the trail ahead of them. At another hand signal from his brother, he approaches warily. Coming to stand beside him, Sam can see his intense focus on the ground, now he understands.
“Sam, you see them?”
“The bed of snakes? Yeah, I see them.”
The path ahead is practically writhing. There are more snakes hissing, undulating, and wriggling past than he’s ever seen. Moving so hurriedly they are crawling over one another, in an effort to either retreat from or move toward something. Never has he seen, in all his treks through the woods, this many together. He sees mostly rattlesnakes of various sizes, lengths, and colorations, Eastern Diamondback,Pygmy, Canebreak- but there are also a few others he recognizes- an innocuous pair of black garter snakes, a copperhead, a coral snake, and some very large king snakes. Fortunately, they seem oblivious to, or unconcerned about, an audience witnessing their mass migration.
“That’s good.”
“That’s good, Dean?”
“Well, yeah, that they’re actually there. For a minute, I thought I might’ve really busted my gourd.” Dean gives him a quick side-eye, and tilts his chin toward the path.
“That’s not natural, right?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many in one place. Snakes are typically solitary, that’s a rhumba.”
“Not sure what dancing’s got to do with it.”
“Rhumba- it’s an obscure collective noun- a rhumba of rattlesnakes, most people say a ball, bed, tangle, or knot. Nest, den, slither, or pit are also considered correct. There’s also references to a “generation” of vipers.”
“Like in the Bible?”
“Exactly- conjecture is that it came from a few specific verses in the book of Matthew .”
“Dude, where do you even find this stuff?”
“The Internet is an amazing place, Dean.”
“A rhumba, a slither- those are a thing?”
“Those are a thing. Did you know it’s illegal to kill a snake in most southern states, even venomous ones, and according to state law- you can’t keep an indigenous non-venomous species as a pet but you can keep a venomous one because they’re considered a nuisance species?”
“Have I mentioned lately that people are crazy?”
Sam chuckles, catching sight of a sliver of a smile curving the corner of his brother’s lips and relaxes a fraction knowing his earlier, unintentional slight is forgiven.
When the path clears of the last of the fleeing reptiles, they hike together until finally they reach the terminus of the trail as morning breaks around them blanketed gray with clouds and heavy with cool, clinging humidity.
The lot where they’d parked is deserted but for Baby keeping her solitary sentry. Dean’s energy has been flagging- his pace slower and more circuitous for the last half mile, Sam is sure he hasn’t noticed and he’s been kind enough not to point it out, but watching him break into a jittery jog when the sleek, dark bulk of the Impala comes into view is enough to make Sam smile broadly despite how tired he is. His only competition for his brother’s affection is that part of his heart reserved for his beautiful vehicle.
“Home sweet home- finally.”
Dean is propped against the Impala’s quarter panel digging into his pocket briefly for the keys before he unlocks the passenger side door. He tosses the keys through the air in Sam’s direction and slides across to unlock the driver’s side door before settling in at shotgun. Sam had known Dean isn’t feeling well but his actions are an instant red flag. Dean rarely, willingly allows Sam the privilege of driving. He is sitting with his head resting on the back of the bench seat, eyes closed, looking pale and drawn, and as still as if he’s quietly imploded now that they’ve stopped.
Sam tosses their gear into the trunk, slides behind the wheel, and drives them rapidly through the edge of the forest so preoccupied with his brother’s condition that the beauty passing by goes largely unnoticed. This case needs to be solved, but Dean’s health is his first priority. He’ll get his brother patched up, they’ll take out the monster, and then maybe, they’ll have an opportunity to enjoy the scenery.
“How are you doing?” If you need to-?”
“I’ll live. Pretty sure I’m not gonna hurl again.”
He takes the back roads, some of them little more than badly paved trails, until they arrive at the first motel he’d found, an only slightly tacky tourist trap- somewhat nicer than their usual, that probably has bad wi-fi, is definitely decorated with way too many cutesy-folksy wood carvings of black bears to suit him, but hopefully has soft beds and cable with enough channels to keep Dean occupied for the few days they’ll be here. The breakfast buffet has a pretty decent selection of fresh fruit on it- so that is a plus.
Dean shuffles listlessly into their room behind him, rummages through his dufflebag before stowing it in a closet corner, and disappears into the bathroom for a shower with a tired announcement of “dibs”. Sam watches him go and listens until he hears the telltale screech of metal on metal- as shower-curtain rings are dragged over metal rod twice in rapid succession. He jogs to the car and hurriedly unloads the trunk. He’s gathered the First Aid supplies and sets them out. Once Sam’s assessed his brother’s condition he’ll feel better, knowing what to do to help Dean feel better, too.
His head is splitting and he’s aching all over. The soapy water is sluicing away the layers of grime, blood, and sweat, but removing the pain is going to require a little more time and effort. Dean’s bone-tired and something is niggling at the back of his mind, prodding him beneath the raucous rumblings of his headache. Sam had said something about water, but he’ll be damned if he can remember what, though.
He stays under the water as long as he can stand the heat and pressure on his aching body, but it doesn’t take long for Dean to know he is overdue for a handful of meds and some serious time in the rack. He rinses off the last traces of the hunt, dries with a thin but soft hotel towel, and gets dressed, wincing his way into a pair of sweat pants, socks, and eventually, a t-shirt with the minimum amount of cursing. Sammy will be damned proud of him for that, Ha! Damned proud- sometimes he cracks himself up!
Sam has gotten their First Aid kit, his duffle, computer, and a small brown paper bag Dean doesn’t recognize, from the Impala and has them waiting on the foot of his bed. He is washing his hands in the kitchenette sink when Dean emerges from the bathroom drying his hair carefully with a towel. The scrape on his head has resumed bleeding again and he’s smeared a livid scarlet streak down the formerly white towel. Water and blood...blood and water- the memory is right there, but he can’t quite grasp it… .
“You ready for me to check you over? ”
“Hmm?” Sam’s words pull him free of his reverie, but his brain is still busily tumbling the image he’d seen or at least thought he’d seen, on the mountain around in his mind.
“Sit down Dean, I’m gonna check your injuries.”
He sits on the bed patiently letting Sam poke and prod him, first examining his head, then shoulder, his right shin, and finally, both his hands. Sammy is careful and thorough, as he always is when Dean is hurt, but it still isn’t fun. His shoulder is still painfully swollen- aching hotly all down his arm. His scrapes sting irritatingly, and his headache has ramped up a couple of notches since they made their way back from the trail-head.
“You’re gonna need a few stitches on your forehead and we need to keep an eye on that bump but everything else seems alright. You feel nauseous or lightheaded?”
“No. Just gotta headache.” The bloody towel is folded and laid aside before he continues, “Sam, the lore about this Uktena we’re hunting says they’re pretty rare, right? I thought you said they lived in a body of water, like a lake… .”
Sam has a firm hand on his head, positioning him to get the best light to work by, “Yeah, hold still, this is going to be uncomfortable.”
“Sure, keep me pretty.”
Sam offers Dean a small smile. He’s stitched up his brother more times than any ER doctor, but that doesn’t make it any easier. He glances at Dean who, as expected, takes the cue to continue. “I didn’t see any lakes nearby, isn’t this snake thing a lake dwelling monster? ”
“Some sociologist contend that the indigenous peoples of this region may have originally descended from the Aztecs. One of their major gods- Quetzalcoati was represented as a flying snake and although he supposedly was thought of as a benevolent creator, the god of life- his twin brother Xoloti was not. The Cherokee or Tsalagi as many of them prefer to be called, are thought to be part of their distant ancestry. Many different tribes have legends of serpents. Most are creation myths or hero tales, passed down through generations of oral tradition, so naturally there are minute differences in the lore. Sometimes the Uktena is described as a large horned serpent or more rarely, something resembling a dragon, some of the stories depict it as living on land, high in the mountain passes-others in deep lakes, which makes it-”
“About as reliable as the lore usually is. Are we sure we’re not dealing with a Basilisk?
“Pretty sure.”
“Guess we’re goin’ dragon slaying, huh?”
Sam ties off the last stitch, releasing his grip on Dean’s head after inspecting his handiwork, satisfied with the results, he carefully covers his brother’s wound. The scrapes on Dean’s shin and both hands are superficial- they only needed cleaning and bandages. He clears away the medical supplies, noting what items they need to restock, and re-washes his hands. Something is still bothering Dean, a pensive look Sam recognizes tells him their conversation isn’t over.
“Here, take the aspirin.”
He hands him a glass of water and a pair of small, white tablets, Dean swallows them quickly, while rubbing a hand over the back of his neck- one of his few tells.
“Dean?”
“Didn’t you say something else ‘bout a lake?”
“Not sure whether or not there’s a connection, but there is another legend about this area- somewhere in the Smokey Mountains lies a lake whose violet waters purportedly have the ability to heal, but it’s invisible to man because the animals that guard it were betrayed by a hunter who’d sworn never to hunt there, only to go back on his word a few years later when he’d tried to feed his starving family during a time of terrible famine. Many types of animals supposedly lived there.
“That seems a little harsh, depriving the entire human race of miraculous healing waters because some poor guy was trying to feed his family.”
Dean had done some difficult things to see that Sam had had enough to eat when they were growing up. Sam has seen his brother use his surfeit of skills, considerable charm, and occasionally- the “five finger discount” to make sure they were able to manage until Dad returned from his latest hunt. Many times, Sam had gotten the last bowl of Fruit Loops, the last sad slice of day old pizza, or the final piece of cherry pie Dean had magnanimously offered him. He hadn’t realized until he was older, that his brother had been tasked with making ends meet, not simply keeping him alive, under near impossible circumstances. Never sure when, or if , Dad would reappear, his brother had done things he never talked about and Sam had, out of respect for him, chosen not to ask. Still, he wonders how often Dean had gone hungry so he didn’t have to.
Gaze subconsciously lowered to the floor, his face suddenly shuttered as if Dean is afraid Sam will judge him for past sins, things he’d had no choice but to do- Sam hears the tinge of pain in his brother’s voice. He empathizes with that long ago hunter. Sam doesn’t like resorting to credit card scams and petty theft to get the job done and he tries to get them honest work as often as possible, but hunting things and saving people has never paid the bills. Despite everything they’ve been through, he’s never been critical of Dean for doing his best to take care of their small family. He loves him for it- to see even a hint of shame on his brother’s face makes him hurt for Dean.
Time for a diversion.
“Hey, Dean,” he reaches into the small paper bag and tosses its contents in his brother’s direction. The small stuffed black bear spirals through the air toward him, forcing Dean to catch it more as a reflex than an act of intention. “Thought you might want a souvenir. It’s our first trip to the Smokies.”
Dean looks puzzled, opens then closes his mouth firmly, and lays the toy carefully down on the bed nearest the door, before sitting next to it. “Thanks.”
“Sam, there was something I don’t know... I saw something.- A bright light or reflection seconds before the monster attacked. I was tracking it, same as you, the undergrowth was flattened down like something had wallowed it out, and there was a huge oak tree broken over, but nothing else. Then I heard something. When I turned toward the sound there was this enormous tail. Came out of nowhere and side-swiped me. I know it had claws. And maybe I saw or thought I saw this bright flash- next thing I know, I’m on the ground. Then there is no ground and I’m don’ my Spider-man impersonation on the side of that freakin’ mountain.”
“Some stories say that the Uktena has wings, spits its venom, or drowns its victims, and is covered with red scales. Most versions say it has beautifully colored, spotted or ringed scales, and bites its victims, but all the resources I found corroborate that it has horns or antlers, claws, and a diamond or diamond-like scale in the center of its’ forehead- the Uhunsuti, that gives the man that can claim it supernatural success in all his endeavors. The scale is also said to be used to prophecy the future.”
“I’m sure that would come in handy if I gave a damn about any of that. Tell me how to kill it.”
“The lore says you have to shoot an arrow into its’ heart, which is supposedly located beneath the seventh scale down from the head.”
“Guess, you’d better dust off that compound bow, little brother.”
“Sure, but first things first- shower, food, and rest. Do you need anything before I hit the shower?”
“Nah, m’good.”
“Out in twenty. If you need them, take the pain meds. ”
“Take your time.”
Sam is good to his word but when he emerges from the steamy bathroom, he finds Dean asleep. He spends an hour rereading the lore before he closes the curtains, hangs out the carved, bear-shaped “do not disturb” sign, sets his phone alarm, climbs into bed and is soon asleep, too. Hunting the Uktena will require all his focus and skill as a hunter, and if he is going to survive this hunt, and make sure Dean does, he needs to be well-rested.
He rolls over nearly six hours later to Dean moaning in his sleep. His brother has shifted from his side to lying flat of his back, snoring softly. He had apparently jostled his sore shoulder in the process of changing positions. He hasn’t woken completely but it hurt enough to get a reaction out of him, which is a more honest response than Sam would’ve gotten if he’d asked. His brother probably needs more pain medication, more rest, and they both need breakfast. His stomach rumbles agreeably as he dresses, and he is sure under normal circumstances, it would have been loud enough to wake Dean, if he wasn’t exhausted and medicated.
The breakfast buffet is gone, cleared away now that it is afternoon- but there is still coffee, some bananas, and bagels, so Sam grabs two bagels, a pair of bananas, a few jelly packets, a couple of pats of butter and a cup of coffee for each of them. The coffee is strong and hot, and the butter chilled, so not the worst breakfast. He takes a complimentary issue of the local paper and his other finds back to the room arriving to see his brother sitting bleary-eyed and bed-headed on the side of his bed.
“Good Morning.”
“Ain’t it though.” Dean scrubs a hand over his face and fists an eye sleepy before turning toward
Sam.
“It’s closer to three, thought I’d let you sleep in. I've got food.
Sam can tell Dean is still not feeling well when he winces at the small movements required to hold the plate with his fruit and bagel. He obviously isn’t in the best shape to be hunting, but that has rarely kept him out of one. Unless he’s injured enough to require a hospital stay, and sometimes not even then, Dean does his job. Sam can count on one hand how often injury has ended a hunt, only usually deferring his participation unless Dad had taken care of whatever it was, while his brother was otherwise occupied. Dad or Dean calling in another hunter to help is almost unthinkable.
Sam tries to talk Dean into going back to bed after he’s eaten, it will be hours before they can risk going back to pick up the thing’s trail, but he grouses and growls until Sam resorts to plan B; he hands him his pain meds and a bottle of water and after surreptitiously watching him take them, casually gives him the TV remote and goes for supplies just to give himself a little space and his brother time to do as close to “nothing” as Dean ever willingly does.
When he’d gotten back two hours later, he had bottled water, beer, salad, a couple of salmon fillets, a proper sling for Dean’s arm, and a plan to help them rid the world of the Uktena. Dean is laying on his side, sound asleep, with his hand tucked beneath the pillow. Sam knows that means his fingers are curled loosely over the hilt of his knife- always within easy reach; a habit ingrained in him from childhood, while the stuffed bear helpfully keeps watch beside him on the bed.
Sam puts his purchases away, jots down a quick note for Dean, tucks it beneath the bears’ paw, and returns to the Impala. He gets the bow out of the trunk and examines it thoroughly to make sure it’s in proper working order. It is. Dean is meticulous about keeping all the weapons in excellent condition, he takes better care of them than he does himself.
It has been a while since either of them has used it, Dean prefers his Colt 1911, claiming correctly that a bow, even a folding one, is near impossible to conceal, and too cumbersome to carry. But he’s kept it ready- along with two quivers of silver tipped and iron headed arrows because, well, in their line of work you never know what weaponry might be needed. Dad’s training has served them well, even after he’d left them. Sam really misses him.
He knew Dean thought he’d hated their Dad. That isn’t true, he’d loved him. Loved him so much he couldn’t get past seeing him angry when they got no closer to finding the demon, knowing when they did find it, they risked losing him, or when he’d get frustrated with Dean for something trivial after they had all worked the job for weeks without a break. He’d resented having his freedom, his choices taken from him. Like having to learn to bow hunt when he’d wanted to play Soccer- that hadn’t been productive in his dad’s way of thinking.
He and Dean rarely got more than scant moments to just have fun. Eventually, that had become one more reason to be frustrated with his father; they were forced to be as driven as he was. Yes, he’d known about his mother, he’d known their mission was important, but sometimes he’d just wanted to enjoy his life and his father- his family. When he did, it was most often because of Dean’s efforts or his Uncle Bobby’s understanding.
When his father was around, he had often been preoccupied, appearing distant- both physically and emotionally. Sam hadn’t realized then how worried his father was, or how many, many things there were to worry about. And because Sam was a kid, sometimes bratty, frequently frustrated with being uprooted again, and often angry because Dad, Dean, or both, had come back to where-ever home was, busted up and bleeding- needing him to stitch them together again, he hadn’t cared.
He’d tried, but he wasn’t his father and he couldn’t not question- he’d never be like Dean either. He had really tried, and knew his Dad had made an effort too, but still, they’d come to an impasse. Sam, when he’s honest with himself, knows that- after a while, he hadn’t wanted to continue trying. Dean, attempting to keep the peace, had been caught between them, and Sam had gotten tired, discouraged maybe- or just stopped looking for a solution. He regrets that now.
While he’d been at Stanford, he’d taken Archery as a phys-ed elective- partly to keep his skills sharp and because he figured it to be an easy A. It was, but that had been almost three years ago. He spent the next two hours practicing his aim on a battered cardboard box he’d dragged around the back of the hotel, stopping only long enough to check on Dean and grab a bottle of water. He’d stayed at it until he felt comfortable with his technique again, at least. He isn’t doing too badly but dealing with a moving target is much more difficult than hitting a stationary one, and this moving target has fangs and claws. You only get one grade on a hunt, every single one is either pass or fail. Failure for a hunter is almost always painful, and frequently lethal.
He’s showered, changed clothes, and is prepping the fish for dinner when Dean rouses, groans, and runs a hand haphazardly through his hair, “How long was I out?”
“Not too long- it’s still Thursday.”
“That’s good- real good. We need to get rid of this snake thing quick. That trial's gonna probably be packed with hikers come the weekend.”
Dean has a point, now that spring is here, there’ll be more chances to meet civilians on the trail, and whether they are day-packers or through-hikers, more people around means more distractions, more chances for someone to see them, and more chances for someone to be hurt or killed. They need to prevent that, if possible.
“Yeah, probably. You want to toss the salad? I’ll bet you’re starving.”
“Toss it in the trash-”
“Stop grumbling, I’ve got you a surprise-”
“Another bear?”
“Better even- I got you pie- pecan.”
“Have I told you you’re a good brother today, Sam?” The smile Dean gives his brother is nearly angelic- so sweetly sincere it makes him smile, too.
How Dean can go from irascible to adorable that quickly is one of the great Winchester mysteries of life.
“You’re welcome.”
They’d eaten, packed their weapons in the trunk, and each gone their separate ways to take care of some last minute details. Dean tinkers with Baby- checks her fluids, no doubt whispering sweet nothings as he measures her tire pressure, and does whatever else, while Sam tinkers with his plan almost as carefully. He’s making revisions, plotting until he is satisfied everything is ready. Then he makes a contingency plan, and contingency plans for his contingency plan.
When they’ve completed their final preparations, taking time for one last consultation of their resources, and packed a few extra provisions, they climb into Baby and drive until they reach a thick patch of woods that grows parallel to the trail and hide her in a dense copse of trees- mostly Scarlet Oaks and Longleaf pines, growing just off a neglected dirt road, no wider than a deer path.
Dean, alternately cooing an apology while caressing her paint, and muttering threats at the pine trees that if they “got so much as a drop of tar on his girl he is going to gleefully burn them to the ground”, is undoubtedly the highlight of Sam’s day. As exasperated as he always is when witnessing Dean’s ongoing mechanical love affair, he endures the exchange between his brother and vehicle willingly, glad that some things in their lives are as consistent as ever.
They hike over a mile through non-descript brush, cross a deep ravine to follow a spring that flows into a stream, which meanders along for another mile- they jog most of its’ length until they find a blaze to guide them back to the well marked trail. The hike to where they’d tracked the monster had taken a while. They’d purposely avoided the last few groups of die-hard hikers and a few solitary stragglers that were still around as dusk found the mountain. The park entrances will be closing soon- that will help minimize the danger to anyone else.
The hollow that Dean had found wallowed out is well off the trail in a wooded area to the west, and the forest had been more or less deserted the night they’d scouted the area. Fortunately, there hadn’t been any humans in the area. Sam had seen and heard insects, an owl and a opossum, but not any larger animals in the area, there had been a few tracks, some old scat, but no recent signs of animals- which led him to believe that they had found, if not the Uktena’s lair- at least an area it frequented, possibly part of its’ hunting territory.
“You’re awfully quiet, man- you, okay?”
“Just thinking.”
“About- ?”
“Bobby’s contact-”
“You’re thinking about him-? Why?”
“The guy said he hasn’t heard of one of these things appearing in, like, over a hundred years, so why now?”
“Beats me.”
“There’s got to be a reason.”
“Yeah… food, water, shelter, or my personal favorite…sex .”
“Could be any of them, all of them, there isn’t really much information out there for a creature that’s been around for hundreds of years.”
“History’s like a sieve, Sammy, some things get caught in it- so we have reliable information, some things fall through- get lost, and a few things are retained in part, we get bits and pieces, and if we’re lucky, the lore fills in some of the gaps, but mostly, it’s a crap shoot.”
“I know.”
The trees begin to thin as they get nearer the wallow so Sam slings his climbing gear, a mixed quiver of arrows, and the compact compound bow, over his back and sits his pack in the fork of a tree high enough to deter bears and waits while Dean straps his knife to his ankle, checks the clip in his Colt 1911, and shoulders his climbing gear. After he stows his pack too, he drinks deeply from his canteen and offers it to Sam. He is taking care of Sam, like he always does. He is still favoring his left side a bit but if Sam wasn’t so observant and so familiar with Dean’s injuries, he might not have noticed anything unusual. His brother spent years learning that hiding his hunting injuries is a stupid idea and Sam has spent years trying to take care of his brother. Dean is complicated, and so is taking care of him, but Sam never walks away from a challenge.
By now it is dark, and they haven’t seen or heard much more than a silent scattering of fireflies and a small, startled family of raccoons. They keep walking until they find the wallow’s edge and a few signs of activity but not the creature, nor any signs of immediate danger. A small dark patch of what appears to be dried blood mars an area at the edge of the flattened vegetation, but nothing else has changed.
Dean’s anxious to get this job done, he knows he is running on fumes. The rest he’d gotten at the hotel has only taken the edge off, showing him how truly, deeply exhausted he is. He might not want to admit it, to Sam or anyone else, but he knows he’s not infallible. He usually feels like a walking, talking screw up when doing anything other than hunting, but that doesn’t change anything. The adrenaline thrumming through him is making him twitchy. Hyper-vigilance makes him more acutely aware of all the things that could be out there, all the opportunities for something to get the drop on them, but he knows better than to allow an overgrown twinge of anxiety to make him sloppy. Sloppy hunts ended with major injuries or pyres afire. He’ll be careful. He won’t risk Sammy getting hurt, or worse, because he’s too wired to focus.
They scour the nearby brush, inspect the few trees around the tamped down grass and brambles, but find nothing else. Sam and he walk out to scout the edge of the tree-line in opposite directions while still keeping one another in sight. Sam finds a few trees scarred with claw marks while he retraces the tracks he’d found the night before. He had been roughly six feet from the edge when the Uktena wiped him off level ground.
“You find anything, Sam?”
“Not much-”
Sam walks to the edge to stand beside him, peering down into the gloom. “This is where you went over the side, right?”
“Yeah.” Dean’s gaze follows the beam of his light across the rock face studying the shadows patterned on the mountainside.
“I’m pretty sure these deep fissures here are actually claw marks leading down toward that ledge. It’s hard to tell with the natural striations and the erosion in the rock, but see how there’s a pattern every few feet?”
“You’re thinking our monster’s holed up in a lair on that ledge?”
“The ledge is too narrow, but maybe there’s an entrance to a cave or -.”
“D’ you see that?” A flash catches Dean’s eye and he has an unwelcome moment of deja vu, hanging off the side of the mountain had kept him distracted- he hadn’t seen the monster, but what he had seen was a brief, bright flare of light in the darkness- possibly a reflection from the lightning refracting off the scale on monster snake’s forehead. “I think we found ourselves an Uktena.”
To Part 2...