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

Sam glanced over at Dean to verify that he was still sleeping. He used this opportunity to check the snake bite again now that he had a little more time. He pulled up his jeans and examined his crusty sock. The blood had dried it fast to his leg and he peeled it slowly off the wound. He cleaned and dressed it quickly, looking at Dean every so often to ensure he would not get caught. He was going to have enough trouble getting Dean to rest and take it slow without him knowing about this. Sam neatly re-packed the first aid kit and moved to Dean when he stirred restlessly.

He felt Dean’s forehead and frowned at the warm temperature. Dean moaned softly in his sleep, but showed no outward signs of waking. Sam reached for his rifle and placed it beside him. He rested his hand on the weapon, keeping it ready in case the werewolf appeared. Despite what Dean thought, it was time for him to let Sam look out for him once in awhile and Sam knew he was not just thinking about their current predicament. He immediately pushed those crippling thoughts aside. Right now his primary concern had to be getting Dean out of here.

In a few minutes it would be the end of the two hour deadline he and Dean had agreed upon. Whatever had been going on had stopped at midnight and had not happened again. Sam could not be certain what exactly had transpired, but he was certain it did not have anything to do with the remaining werewolf. Sam considered letting Dean sleep, but he knew that Dean would be righteously angry at what he considered to be Sam’s coddling. Dean also had a point and the werewolf needed to be stopped tonight. Sam just wasn’t quite sure how to accomplish that feat without aggravating Dean’s injuries.

Dean moaned again and Sam decided now was as good a time as any to wake him. “Dean,” Sam said, giving Dean’s shoulder a light shake. “Hey, wake up.”

“G’way, Sammy,” Dean mumbled, blindly slapping at Sam’s hand. “Tired.”

“Dean, it’s been two hours,” Sam insisted. “Wake up and look at me.”

Dean opened his eyes and turned to glare at Sam. The urge to vomit hit strong and he barely had enough time to wave Sam to the side before retching acidic bile in a long yellow line. The heaving wracked his ribs and his back burned hot. His lower back throbbed insistently and the rhythm was matched by the beat in his head. Sam’s concerned hazel eyes swam into focus and Dean tried to talk, but his tongue felt thick and the words came out garbled. “Time izzit?” he asked.

Sam looked at him as if he had grown three heads. “I didn’t catch that,” Sam admitted. “Why don’t you have a drink of water and try again?”

Dean noticed Sam undid the cap for him and did not release his hold on the canteen even after Dean wrapped his fingers around it. His arms shook when he lifted the canteen and he knew the only reason he managed to get any water into his mouth was due to Sam’s guiding hand. He swallowed several gulps of water and tried again. “What time is it?”

“A little after one,” Sam replied, still giving him the puppy dog eyes.

“Sam, I’m fine,” Dean stated. He sat up slowly to give his back time to get used to the idea and braced himself for another bout of vomiting when nausea flared. Breathing deeply he fought back the urge to heave and caught the look on Sam’s face. “I’m not going to break,” he said with what he hoped was a reassuring grin. Sam did not smile.

“Dean, I think you’re right and we should hunt for the werewolf…” Sam started, his face serious.

“I always knew you were a smart boy,” Dean joked. He could hear the tiredness in his voice despite the fact he’d been aiming for the right blend of sarcasm and sincerity.

“On the way to the car,” Sam finished. Sam crossed his arms, looking more like a stern librarian than his twenty-four-year-old brother.

“Whatever, Sammy,” Dean replied, making a valiant effort at achieving a vertical position before falling back to his bottom.

“Why don’t you wait for me to pack up the duffel first?” Sam suggested.

“Because I have to piss,” Dean forced out through tight lips. He took a small amount of amusement at the red creeping up Sam’s face.

Sam stood, grasped Dean under his shoulder and helped him to his feet. “Do you, uh, do you need help?” he asked, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam and shook his head. “Not unless your name is Lindsay Lohan.”

Sam smiled in relief. “Be careful,” he cautioned.

“I’m always careful,” Dean quipped, waving a hand at Sam as he started slowly, limping for the tree line.

“It’s funny how trouble seems to find you so often,” Sam muttered under his breath.

Dean stopped at the edge of the clearing and aimed for the underbrush. He was surprised he had to go at all considering he had not had much to drink in a day and had thrown up twice. The pain that followed shocked him and he held on to the nearby tree for support as he finished. Dean zipped up his pants and decided to keep this one a secret. Sam did not have to know everything.

He stood against the tree, catching his breath for a couple of minutes before turning to head back to Sam. Though it was dark, he thought he could see two men striding towards each other in the area behind Sam. “Sam!” He shouted hoarsely. “Look out!”

Sam looked up at Dean and then over his shoulder at the two men. Both men drew pistols and fired at each other. The man wearing the long overcoat was apparently the one slower on the draw and he clutched at his chest before collapsing to his knees and finally to the ground. The other man, sporting a wide-brimmed hat approached the first man cautiously, his pistol still smoking. Abruptly, he looked up at Sam and shouted, “You!” And as the first man winked out of existence, the second man’s head snapped back. He fell backwards with unseeing, wide eyes and disappeared before he hit the ground.

Dean was panting by the time he made it back to Sam. His ankle had felt stiff and sore before he jogged in an odd, uneven gait the twenty feet to his brother. Now it seemed to have a heartbeat of its own as he stood with his weight mostly on the right foot to protect the swollen appendage. “Sam? Are you okay?” he wheezed.

Sam turned around, apparently surprised to see Dean standing there. “Dean, take it easy, I’m fine.”

“What happened?” Dean asked, still puffing. He bent over and placed his hands on his knees to steady himself.

“I’m still not sure,” Sam replied. “But they seem solid enough. I could feel the heat from the fire in that house and the dagger that swiped my shoulder left a cut.”

“It did?” Dean asked, genuinely surprised. He straightened and tried to get a look at Sam’s shoulder.

Sam brushed his hand away. “It’s okay,” Sam stated and started to turn to pick up the duffel.

Dean grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled him upright, ignoring the protest of his ribs and lower back. “Let me look,” he insisted.

“Dean,” Sam said, but it sounded more like an annoyed sigh. “I am fine. You’re the one who took a trip down the rabbit hole. I should be getting another look at your back and head before we leave, especially since you threw up again.”

Dean saw the determined look in Sam’s eyes and opted for compromise before he lost all ground. “If I can look at your shoulder first,” he responded.

Sam rolled his eyes, but offered no further argument. He pulled back the collar of his shirt and let Dean peer at the cut in the dim light. Dean blinked several times and when the cut did not come into focus, he realized his vision was still blurry, at least when he tried to focus on details close up. “See?” Sam retorted, pulling his shirt back into place.

Dean did not see, but he was not going to admit that. Sam was hovering enough as it was. A young woman in a bed materialized over Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, look,” Dean said, pointing to the woman. She could not be more than twenty to twenty-two years old and she was obviously in the throws of labor.

Sam turned to face the woman, who screamed in agony. He stood watching for only a moment before stooping to pick up the duffel and grasping Dean by the elbow. “Let’s get out of here,” Sam whispered. “We can’t do anything for her.”

Dean nodded and allowed Sam to pull him along towards the grove of trees where the burning house had stood earlier this evening. They were almost to the woods when Dean felt something heavy hit his back and despite Sam’s tight grip on his arm, he fell to his knees. “Son of bitch,” he moaned. He felt Sam’s hand leave his arm and he knew instinctively that his little brother was throwing himself in the line of fire. He rolled off his hands and knees and onto his back to look in the direction Sam had gone.

Sam was standing not more than five feet from him between Dean and a wild looking mountain man. “Git off my property!” the mountain man yelled. “Git!” He yelled again, raising a rifle – a Winchester rifle. Dean shook his head at the irony. He staggered to his feet and shuffled awkwardly towards Sam.

“Stay back,” Sam hissed at him, apparently suddenly endowed with either superhuman hearing or eyes in the back of his head.

“Not going to happen,” Dean shot back weakly.

“Git off my property!” the mountain man shouted once more, his hand coming up to protect his head against an invisible blow. The man crumpled to the ground and his eyes flickered shut, but he did not disappear. Blood trickled from a wound on his head and Dean realized it had taken this man, maybe hours, to bleed to death. Death. That was the common denominator.

“These are full on replay hauntings,” Dean remarked quietly. “But there’s no way all these people died here. There’s not a town around for miles.”

“They’re enhanced somehow,” Sam observed, turning to face Dean. “They’re solid and able to…” Sam was cut short when yet another man appeared. “Let’s go,” he said, repeating his sentiment from earlier. “Now.”

They walked as quickly through the woods as they could with Dean’s ankle, circling around to skirt the edge of the clearing, but still heading towards to the Impala. The forest had gone silent again and Sam hoped they had moved away from the influence of whatever was causing the remarkably corporeal apparitions to relive their deaths. These weren’t the typical, wispy gray-white ghosts of normal hauntings. These spirits were solid, colorful, loud, very vivid instant replays.

He held Dean’s arm tightly and slowed his pace. Getting away from the spirits and to the car would be moot if he drove his big brother into the ground in the process. Dean’s head drooped and he stumbled every few steps when his feet caught in the underbrush. It was time to rest. Dean was at the end of his endurance.

Sam spotted a log only a few feet in front of them and urged Dean forward. “Come on, Dean, we’re almost there,” Sam encouraged him.

“Good,” Dean replied. At least that is what it sounded like to Sam. He could not really be sure because Dean slurred the word. Sam lowered Dean carefully to the ground and eased him gently against the log. Dean hissed when his injured back made contact with the rough wood.

Sam helped Dean scoot forward and slid in behind him resting his back against the log. He pulled Dean to his chest and his brother’s head fell back against his shoulder. He was a pliable rag doll which told Sam how severe his injuries were and how much he was hurting. Dean would not accept this much help if he was in any condition to turn it down. Sam rubbed a hand through his hair in frustration. They were still miles from the car with unexplainably substantial spirits and one, no doubt irate, werewolf out here in the forest with them. To make matters worse, Dean was essentially down for the count, at least for now.

Sam’s mind churned through the facts in rapid succession, mulling over different scenarios and possible solutions, but not one materialized into a valid, workable plan to escape and get Dean to safety. His eyes filled with the tears of hopelessness he would never voice.

“This doesn’t count as hugging,” Dean whispered softly, his words clearer now that he was resting.

Sam huffed in a choked sob. “Course not,” he agreed.

Dean tossed him a lop-sided grin, closed his eyes and fell asleep almost immediately. Sam reached behind him, pulled the duffel off his back and quietly untied his rifle from the bag. He sat against the log, Dean resting on his shoulder, hand on his weapon, keeping watch. He rested his chin on Dean’s head and pulled him just a little tighter, sneaking a hug from his brother when he could not protest.

Dean’s shallow breathing and still too warm skin worried Sam. A twenty foot fall down to the bottom of an old well could have caused injuries that Sam was not even aware of yet. Sometimes internal injuries took awhile to make themselves known and the dark bruising on Dean’s lower back was especially troublesome. What would he do if Dean proved to be more hurt than he could handle out here in the middle of nowhere? Even if he carried Dean all the way to the car, it would take too long if something was seriously wrong.

Defenses down due to fatigue and stress, Sam fought to maintain control of his emotions, but his thoughts drifted to the one weighing most heavily on his mind at all times, terrifying him and coloring all of his actions. One year. He had one year to figure out how to save Dean, literally, from hell. Dean would not even discuss it after his initial confession. He joked it off, changed the subject, or angrily told Sam to leave it alone. There was still something about the deal that his big brother was keeping from him and Sam knew it was the reason he avoided the subject of finding a way out of it. Sam theorized Dean had not only sold his soul for him, but had screwed himself in the process, giving too much to the demon and it was something he did not want to have to confess to Sam. Sam banged his fist on the log in frustration. He knew full well that meant Dean was protecting him from something – as usual.

He tried to be angry with Dean for doing it. For burdening him with a shit-load of guilt on top of the guilt he already felt for their mother’s and Jessica’s deaths. But he couldn’t. He would give his life for Dean without hesitation. How could he be angry with his big brother for doing it for him? Sam shifted on the hard ground trying to get more comfortable, jostling Dean. He did not stir which ratcheted up Sam’s concern level to orange. Dean always sparked to awareness when they were hunting and Sam moved, or was in pain, or even breathed wrong.

Dean moaned softly in his sleep and Sam shifted again until Dean’s head was resting on his arm instead of his shoulder. More of his weight rested on Sam’s leg and arm, making him more difficult to hold, but he would be more comfortable in this position. Dean’s breath hitched, but steadied back to the shallow rhythm. Sam pulled his thoughts from the dire to the most pressing issue. He needed to get his brother out of here and to a doctor soon. He could not lose Dean, especially not now. Not when he hadn’t had enough time to figure out how to prevent the unthinkable.

Sam’s own breathing hitched and his chest heaved as he tried to prevent the sobs welling in his chest from escaping through his throat. “K, Sammy?” Dean murmured in his sleep.

“Yeah,” Sam whispered in quiet reassurance, giving Dean’s arm a quick squeeze. He was surprised how steady his voice sounded. “Go back to sleep.”

“K,” Dean responded, his muscles visibly relaxing into deeper sleep.

Sam held his breath until Dean succumbed completely to sleep before he let out a single, muffled sob and allowed silent tears to slide down his face. As time wore on, his eyes grew heavier until he drifted off into a light, fitful doze.

Sam felt movement in front of him and flexed his muscles imperceptibly, pulling Dean closer. His hand tightened on his weapon as Sam opened his eyes. A young girl, by all appearances no older than eight, stood in front of them in bare feet heedless of the rough ground. Her white dressing gown was wet and plastered to her body. Strings of wet hair dripped water onto Sam’s boots. When she opened her mouth to speak, water poured out and ran down the front of her gown. Sam pulled Dean even closer and he groaned in protest. The girl’s eyes turned glassy and rolled into the back of her head before she disappeared.

He breathed deeply in relief and looked around him in search of any danger. Spotting large stones, sparkling to his near left, Sam slid slowly out from behind Dean. Upon standing he stretched his stiff legs and walked ten paces to the first glittering stone. He took care not to trip into the large dip near the stone and noticed grooves on the smooth surface. He knelt down low and ran his fingers over the etching as he read:

Harriet Baker

Native of England

1811 – 1859

The implication of his discovery dawned and Sam lifted his head to quickly scan the area. Numerous tombstones could be seen scattered throughout the large tree grove. They were resting in a pioneer graveyard.

He hurried back to Dean and shook him gently, trying to roust him. “Dean, time to go,” Sam said emphatically. He wanted to get Dean back out into the clearing where they could see what they were up against. Sam was sure they would continue to run into the spirits, but at least they would see them coming. Sam hoped that if he could get them back to the spot in the forest where they were hunting last night, they would only have the werewolf to contend with.

“K,” Dean mumbled, but he made no attempt to move or open his eyes.

“Come on, Dean, just to the clearing. It’s only about thirty feet,” Sam insisted. He was prepared to carry Dean the short distance, but he thought it would be too much stress on his ribs. He tugged lightly on Dean’s elbow. Dean lifted his head and nodded to indicate he was ready.

He levered Dean up and stood beside him, holding him steady. Sam bent to pick up the duffel and slung it over his free shoulder. Picking up the rifle, his grip firm on Dean’s arm, he began to steer him towards the edge of the clearing.

Sam adjusted his grip on Dean’s elbow when Dean sagged. His foot slipped into the dip of a sunken grave and Dean’s weight shifted to follow. Sam was still struggling to regain his footing when it happened.

“Dean!” his own voice came calling through the trees and over the concrete tombstones. The absolute relief and joy he had felt at seeing his brother alive, clearly evident in the tone. “Dean!” it came again and he felt Dean’s weight lift from his grip as Dean righted himself and turned to the Sam who was staggering wearily towards them.

“Sam!” Dean called loudly beside him, startling him out of his reverie at witnessing this moment. Dean ran to the other Sam heedless of his injuries and apparently blind to everything, but the tragic event unfolding again in front of him.

Illuminated clearly by the moonlight he saw the other Sam arch backwards, pain and shock visible on his face before he crumpled to his knees, sagging as Dean reached him. Sam remained motionless to the scene in front of him; he regretted this moment with every fiber of his being. This was the moment he had let his guard down, so relieved to see Dean that he had forgotten everything else. This was the moment that had cost him his life and ultimately the life of his older brother. Unable to tear himself away as Dean broke down in front of him, he watched as his doppelganger’s head lolled and his body went limp; he listened as Dean offered false reassurances to his counterpart. When the other Sam disappeared, Dean shouted his name, spurring Sam into action.

He ran for Dean who lay crumpled on the ground. Sam could hear his brother’s sobs and see that he was trembling. Sam knelt down on the soft forest floor and placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Dean?” he asked gently. Dean did not lift his head. “Dean?” Sam asked again, more firmly this time.

Dean looked up at Sam with tear-filled eyes and enveloped his little brother in a fierce embrace. Unlike the cabin he had awoken in, Sam returned this hug with equal fervor no longer deterred by painful, healing injuries. “It’ll be okay, Dean,” he whispered into Dean’s hair, rocking his brother slightly. “It’ll be okay,” Sam repeated his own eyes filling with salty water, as Dean clung desperately to him, clutching at his coat. “I’ll take care of this, I promise.”

Sam did not know how he was going to keep that promise, but he would.

Dean’s back throbbed. His head pounded. His ribs ached and his ankle was sore. Hell, even his hair hurt. He did not want to open his eyes, but he was afraid he’d fall asleep again. He’d had that dream again - the one where he relived Sam’s death, his Sammy, his little brother, dying in his arms. Not that it was unusual for him to have that particular remembrance dream, but it always left him feeling so lost and empty.

He would normally startle awake, unsure if he had dreamed the death, or dreamed his deal with the crossroads demon, or if Sammy was actually gone and he was alone after all. Somehow the dream had been different this time, but Dean could not quite place his finger on how. That was until he remembered the end when Sam had come back and told him it would be okay. That was not how the dream normally unfolded.

Deciding he had lain around long enough, Dean took a mental inventory of the sounds around him, trying to remember where he’d fallen asleep. He did not hear Sam and that caused the familiar flutter of panic upon waking that he typically experienced these days. There was no sound of Sam’s rhythmic breathing signaling that he slept or tossing restlessly in the next bed. Dean could not hear Sam typing at the keyboard or moving about the room packing up his stuff or rifling through books. There was no cascading water from the shower and he started to worry that the part of the dream that was true was that Sam was truly gone.

Recent memories drifted through Dean’s mind, colliding, coalescing, touching the corners of haziness and sweeping away some of his confusion. He could not be absolutely certain which events were memory and which were dreams, but Farmer Gibbs and his dire news regarding Sam sent his stomach churning and he sat bolt upright, eyes shooting open, his brother’s name on his lips.

“I’m right here,” Sam reassured him appearing from behind the thick underbrush. He zigzagged back to Dean, carrying several long sticks in both hands. At least Dean thought Sam weaved as he went, but he was feeling light-headed and knew it could be a trick of his mind. The beam from Sam’s flashlight bobbed along the ground in an erratic pattern causing Dean’s stomach to flip.

“Why are you walking around like you’re drunk?” Dean asked, wincing at the volume of his voice cutting through his brain. “You holding out on me, Sammy?”

Sam cast him a guilty look. “No,” he replied with a weak smile. “Just trying to avoid the holes.” Sam kept his gaze averted. He crouched low and focused instead on Dean’s swollen and discolored ankle. “It’s looking pretty bad. We need to keep you off of it somehow.”

Dean frowned when Sam’s fingers lightly probed the edematous limb. “How do you suggest we do that?” he asked. He had a nagging suspicion he was not going to like the answer.

“I’m going to build a travois,” Sam replied, still not looking up at Dean. “It’ll take a little while to construct and the ride will suck, but I’m not sure there’s another choice here.”

“Just hand me one of those sticks and I’ll walk back to the car,” Dean insisted.

“Dean…” Sam started, worry causing a slight waver in his voice.

“Sam, no! You’re not pulling me in some kind of makeshift sled. I can walk out of here,” Dean announced and promptly attempted to lever himself to an upright position. He only made it half-way before slipping down again, his back scraping against the decaying log. Hissing in pain, Dean stopped struggling to stand and concentrated instead on lowering himself carefully to the ground. “You know, on second thought, I kind of like it right here. The ground’s nice and soft,” Dean stated.

Sam resisted an eye roll. “Let me take a look at your back,” he commanded, sitting down on the log behind Dean. “Lean forward a little.” Sam pulled on the hem of his brother’s shirt, trying to get a better look at his injuries.

“Sam, knock it off,” Dean protested, trying to bat Sam’s hands away, but he could not twist far enough to push Sam away without his back muscles cramping.

Sam lifted Dean’s shirt and shined his flashlight on the bruises on his brother’s back. The bruises had deepened and darkened. Smaller bruises appeared where once there was none and the large, purple bruise on Dean’s lower back had grown impossibly dark, almost black in the dim light. He lowered the shirt and moved on to the back of Dean’s head.

His long fingers parted the short hair on the back of his brother’s head and searched for the large lump he had discovered only a few short hours earlier. “Ow,” Dean groaned, lifting his hand to his head.

“There’s still a huge lump. I’m sure it hurts,” Sam empathized, noting the wound was not bleeding, but still glowed an angry red.

“It does when you poke it,” Dean countered, this time successfully brushing Sam’s hand away from the offending lump.

“Sorry,” Sam murmured. “It doesn’t look any worse,” he stated. He continued at the look of ‘I told you so’ on Dean’s face, “It doesn’t look any better either.” Dean frowned.

Sam chuckled under his breath at the petulant look on Dean’s face. He stood up and walked over to the bundle of long sticks he had gathered earlier. Pulling the sticks closer to Dean and searching through the discarded duffel bag for the rope, Sam pulled out a length of it, coiling it around his hand as he went. The rope stretched taut over the forgotten burns on his palms and he winced imperceptibly.

Almost imperceptibly.

“Sam, are you hurt?” Dean asked, leaning forward and grabbing Sam’s hands. He pulled them close to his eyes and squinted.

“I’m fine,” Sam snapped, roughly jerking his hands away from Dean’s inspection.

“Sam…”

“I told you Dean, It’s my turn to take care of you,” Sam replied sternly.

“That’s not the way this works, Sammy,” Dean said with a smirk. He was aiming for humor to diffuse the situation, but it clearly backfired with his serious little brother.

“I promised I’d take care of this and I will,” Sam replied softly.

Dean’s mind whirled and the final pieces of memory clicked together. He recalled in vivid detail seeing what he thought was Sam dying in front of him, but was not. The real Sam, his Sammy, held him and told him it would be okay and that he would take care of it. Now it was Dean who resolutely refused to make eye contact with his brother.

He wanted to ask what had happened. What had caused the replay of his brother’s, well, the incident with Sam? It had happened over a thousand miles east of here. How was it possible to have a replay haunting of an event that not only occurred so far away, but also had the ghost in question actually alive and well and sitting only feet in front of him? He wanted to know, but he could not bring himself to ask Sam and acknowledge his own fears. Now, here was his little brother, trying to usurp his place. Sure, he knew Sam had his back, but it was his job to keep his brother safe, not the other way around.

He had spent nearly his entire life watching out for his little brother. It wasn’t just what he did; it was an integral piece of who he was. When he finally lifted his gaze, he met Sam’s intense hazel scrutiny. “Sam, I don’t know how to be the person you’re asking me to be,” he admitted softly.

“We’ll figure it out,” Sam reassured him, his gaze resting softly on Dean for a moment before turning back to the rope. Once he had the desired length, he cut the rope and picked up several of the sticks in succession, examining them for suitability and discarding most. He needed to hurry. The knock to Dean’s head seemed to be disagreeing with him more than usual.

It occurred to Sam that he had not offered Dean any water yet and when he looked up Dean was drifting off to sleep again already. Sam picked up the canteen and sat down on the ground next to him.

“Think you could drink a little for me before crashing again?” Sam asked, holding the open canteen out for Dean.

“Yeah,” Dean replied sleepily. He took a long drink of water, allowing the tepid water to soothe his irritated throat. Sam took the canteen from his hand and exchanged it for half a power bar. Dean eyed it warily.

“Still feeling nauseated?” Sam asked, his hazel eyes glinting with concern.

“A little,” Dean replied honestly, still eying the food bar as if it were a rabid squirrel. “I just really don’t want to puke again.”

Sam chuckled lightly. “I think we can put that at the top of both of our lists of things to avoid,” he agreed. He took a small sip out of the canteen, screwed on the lid and left it next to Dean before returning to his stick pile.

Dean did not take a bite of the food bar, but instead turned his attention back to his brother. “I don’t like this new plan of yours,” he blurted. Sam pushed dark bangs out of his eyes, looked up at Dean and noted the pouting expression on his face, but there was something else as well. The corners of his brother’s face pinched in pain.

“Ribs or back?” Sam asked bluntly.

Dean turned his face away. Sam really was too good at this. He did not answer for quite some time and when he turned back to look at his little brother, Sam simply returned his gaze, waiting for an answer. “I can walk,” Dean said, although he suspected the arm-crossing did not help his case any judging by the raised eyebrow response he received. “I can,” he repeated.

Several emotions scrolled across Sam’s face: annoyance, frustration, concern, fear, but settled on a carefully neutral look. “I suppose this one would work as a walking stick of sorts,” Sam said, holding out a strong, gnarled branch.

“Let’s get moving then,” Dean stated, pushing himself up from the ground, using the log and his new walking stick as leverage. “We’re running out of time before dawn.”

The progress was slow, too slow. Sam walked carefully, avoiding any graves on their route out of the woods. Stepping in the grave earlier did not explain the replay of his death, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He also did not care to see if Dean’s two near death experiences would qualify in this place, causing them to relive those moments. Dean was leaning heavily against him, throwing him off center, making it all the more difficult to keep an eye out for old graves or the remaining werewolf. Added to that, the potential travois frame sticks he had tied to the duffel knocked him on the back of the head any time they stumbled.

One particularly spectacular misstep and tumble sent Sam to the ground, smashed between the lumpy duffel and Dean. “Dean, are you okay?” Sam wheezed, trying to maneuver himself out from under Dean without hurting him.

“Yeah,” Dean answered tightly.

Sam stood and pulled Dean to his feet, forcing a groan of pain from his brother. “Sorry,” Sam mumbled. “There’re only a few more feet to go until we get to the clearing. We can rest there.”

Dean nodded and allowed himself to be led blindly. He knew he had to keep up or Sam would insist on that damnable travois. “I’m good,” he said. He meant for it to sound reassuring, but even to his own ears it sounded flat and tired.

Sam gripped Dean’s arm tighter and pushed on towards the clearing. He held the rifle tightly in his free hand, his eyes continuously scanning the nearby area for activity. Sam could tell Dean was nearing the end of his endurance level and he needed to get him back to the car and medical attention. Dean stumbled again and Sam compensated for the weight shift. Just a few more steps and they’d be on the far side of the clearing. Precious little progress for the last hour’s worth of work.

“Sam?” Dean whispered, stopping before they stepped into the clearing.

“Yeah?”

“Werewolf,” Dean stated urgently, nodding towards Sam’s right.

Sam followed the line of sight to the wooded area on his right. He squinted into the dark, tree-lined expanse, but he didn’t see the werewolf. How had his temporarily myopic brother seen a werewolf at this distance, in the dark? It was then he noticed the stillness in the area and moments later the distinctive odor of wet dog coupled with decaying meat reached his nose. He realized Dean had not seen the werewolf after all, he had smelled him. Sam had barely a moment to revel in his brother’s hunting prowess before an unearthly howl rent the air.

Sam hesitated for a moment, unsure of Dean’s ability to hold his own, until he was shoved by his brother. “Go,” Dean instructed.

He shrugged off the duffel, cast a concerned look in Dean’s direction and took off in the direction of the lycanthrope’s howl. The thick underbrush impeded his progress and Sam nearly tripped twice when his feet became ensnarled in vine ground cover foliage. He ducked under a patch of manzanita branches and glimpsed the brown fur of the werewolf through the thick brush. The lupine could not possible be unaware of his approach and yet it seemed to make no move to take cover. It became readily apparent to Sam that it was waiting for him.

The underbrush stood between Sam and a clean shot at the werewolf. He would have to move in closer to guarantee a kill shot and risk the wolf taking off too quickly or turning to rush him. Sam scrambled up a steep incline, the branch of a thorny blackberry bush tangling in his clothes and hair. Come on, come on, come on, he thought, pulling frantically on the branch, the thorns catching on his scalp. If I have to tell Dean I missed our chance at this thing because of my hair, he’ll never let me live it down. Probably shave my head while I’m sleeping.

Finally free, he emerged on the other side of the tangle relatively unscathed only to come face to face with an angry werewolf. Sam ducked quickly and narrowly avoided the swipe of long claws along his face. He scrambled further uphill, his feet slipping on loose shale as he clumsily maneuvered out of the path of another attack of the werewolf’s huge paws.

The bite on his ankle burned hot when he turned swiftly to the right and led the werewolf back towards the underbrush. He hoped it would give him a slight advantage with his smaller size and greater agility. He could not rely on strength to fight the werewolf, he would need to be cunning and outsmart it. Sam skidded to a stop before he reached the brush. If he was able to lure it further into the thorny bushes, the werewolf would lose speed, possibly giving Sam the time he needed to fire at it.

Ducking low under manzanita branches, Sam swerved sharply running further into the bushes. He abruptly spun to face the lycanthrope and raised his weapon high. With a ferocious growl it hit Sam full on the chest, knocking him backwards. Sam stumbled, trying to regain his footing when his heels hit the steep decline and he fell into the underbrush. Luck was with him and he missed the blackberry bush, but sharp branches cut into his back and his hand slipped off his weapon. It slid further downhill out of arm’s reach and Sam twisted, sliding on his stomach to reach for it.

Momentum carried him downhill and he ducked his head to avoid snagging the thorny bushes. The rifle stopped, caught in the vines and Sam stretched out his arm to grab it. He could hear crashing in the underbrush behind him as fingers made contact with the weapon. The crashing behind him stopped and he flipped over onto his back, rifle in hand and fired. A deafening shot from downhill simultaneously rang through the air and Sam looked over his shoulder in the direction of the noise. His brother, his stupid, injured, concussed brother was standing at the foot of the hill, braced against a tree, Sam’s Beretta held by shaking arms.

Sam turned his head back around in time to see the werewolf fall into the prickly blackberry bushes less than a foot behind him, the shock in the all-too-human face captured perfectly. He scrambled to his feet, not pausing to examine the werewolf on his mad flight down the hill to the tree Dean was leaning against. “Dean!” he called as he drew near. Dean nodded in acknowledgement then slid down the tree, his bruised back sliding the entire length on rough bark.

Sam set down his rifle and caught Dean by the collar before he hit bottom. He lowered his brother slowly to the ground and crouched down next to him. Dean winced and Sam could see him shivering. “Dean, you with me, man?”

“Cold,” Dean replied. The shaking worsened and his teeth began chattering.

Sam pulled his flashlight out of his pocket and shone it over Dean. His face was beet red even in the meager artificial lighting and Sam could feel the heat off his skin. “I think it’s from the sunburn.” Or shock. He placed a hand on Dean’s forehead and it was promptly batted away.

“Stop it, Sam,” he said. “I’m fine, just cold.”

“You’re not just cold,” Sam argued, furrowing his brow. “And now that the only time sensitive issue has been resolved, we can go slower, figure out the best way to get out of here.” He had not seen any more replay hauntings after three a.m. and he hoped that meant they were done for the night. He noticed the look that crossed Dean’s face and added unnecessarily, “You got it, Dean.”

“You doubted me?” Dean asked with mock offense.

“You? Never,” Sam replied sincerely. “Your aim when you can’t see straight?” He stopped at the momentary hurt look that crossed Dean’s face. “Not for a minute.”

“You always were a bad liar, Sam,” Dean replied, his voice deceptively strong.

“Only to you,” Sam defended. “I can obfuscate with the best of them.”

“Whatever,” Dean said, the shivering renewed. He tried to keep his eyes open, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to do so.

“You’re not going to be sick again, are you?” Sam asked. He kept his tone light even though he grew increasingly concerned for Dean.

“Not unless you’re planning on another caring and sharing moment,” Dean quipped, not opening his eyes.

“I think we’ve both had enough of those for awhile,” Sam stated.

He would keep his thoughts to himself, his concern buried if that is what Dean wanted, but every passing second that ticked by beat through his veins with a pulse of its own. No matter what he had told Dean, he could not help but want to hurry. To have a doctor confirm that Dean only had a concussion, bruised ribs and one hell of a sunburn. It would put his fears of internal bleeding or a severe head injury to rest and selfishly release him from sole responsibility for Dean’s physical well-being and into the hands of a professional.

Sam sat down next to Dean, close enough that their shoulders touched to formulate a plan. He felt, before he heard, someone approaching from behind. His hand reached for the rifle that rested only inches from his fingertips and slowly pulled it towards him. His brother did not stir and Sam thought for a minute he had imagined the feeling. That was until a booming voice behind them announced, “You boys shouldn’t be here,” and the distinctive sound of a weapon being primed.

“Don’t even think about firing that rifle, son,” the voice warned. “I’m may not be as fast as you two, but I’m deadly accurate, so don’t try anything funny.”

Sam released his hold on the weapon, his only thought keeping Dean safe from this new, as yet unseen, threat. “I’m not trying anything. My brother and I were hiking and we didn’t get out of the woods before dark,” Sam stated, attempting to put the man behind him at ease. He wanted to turn to get a look at him, but Sam knew it was better not to make any sudden movements that might be misconstrued as, ‘trying something.’

“Bullshit,” the man stated hotly, stepping into view. “You’re hunters, the both of you. Can’t even tell which one of ya got that last werewolf, both were kill shots. Tried to bring down that pack myself, but nothing worked. What’d you use?”

Sam swallowed his first impulse to deny any knowledge of what the large, wild-looking man in scruffy clothes was referring to. He had a feeling any further attempts at subterfuge would be met with open hostility. The man still had his gun trained on Dean and Sam was not about to risk his brother’s safety. Dean remained motionless and that was more disconcerting than the mountain man’s gun. Dean and motionless rarely belonged together in the same sentence. “Silver bullets,” Sam replied finally.

The man smiled, his missing teeth visible even in the dim light. “So, that’s not a myth?” The man lowered his weapon and held out his hand. He smelled as if it had been at least a week since his last shower. “The name’s Mike.”

As Sam reached out to shake Mountain Mike’s hand, he was hit by a waft of sage, alfalfa and cigar smoke. “Sam. This is my brother Dean,” Sam said. He quickly weighed the benefits and risks to pulling Mike into the equation. “I need to get my brother back to our car and to the nearest doctor. I don’t suppose you know the quickest…”

Before Sam could finish his question, Mike had a grip on Dean’s arm. “Don’t just sit there, kid,” he said. “Grab an arm and let’s get him out of here.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Sam asked, grabbing the sleeve of Mike shirt.

“I’m going to help you,” Mike replied. “I live out here and I walk these hills every day. I can get you back faster.”

“I’ve got it. Just point me in the direction of the quickest route,” Sam stated firmly, pulling Dean out of Mike’s grasp.

“Look kid, I understand not wanting to accept help from a stranger in the middle of nowhere, but you boys look like you’ve been beat to hell. You can use the help. He can use the help,” Mike insisted.

“Okay,” Sam agreed reluctantly after deliberating the options. He stood slowly and shouldered the duffel bag. He picked up the rifle in one hand and helped Mike lift Dean with the other.

Dean groaned as he was lifted bodily from the forest floor. “Easy on the Dean, Grizzly Adams,” Dean sniped, cracking open one eye and getting a look at Mike. Sam cast him a concerned sidelong glance at his lack of resistance to the extra help.

“The Dean? You’re talking about yourself in the third person now?” Sam joked, pointedly ignoring the fact that his brother could not stand on his own. ‘The Dean’ would be appreciative of his selective observation skills.

“Hey, I’m too much Dean to be contained,” Dean replied with a weak grin.

“Well, that’s true,” Sam agreed with a slight head nod. He tightened his grip on Dean’s arm as they traversed the uneven ground. He limped slightly as he favored the leg with the throbbing snake bite. “Though, I’m not sure in the way you’re suggesting.”

Dean attempted a glare at his brother and Mike chuckled. “You two really are brothers,” Mike observed. Sam stumbled when his boot caught in the long vines of a blooming flower cluster. “Careful there…swee’pea,” Mike cautioned, nodding in Sam’s direction.

Sam furrowed his brow and threw Mike a cautious look out of the corner of his eye. “What?” he asked.

“Swee’pea,” Mike said gesturing to the multitude of blooming shrub growth in the area, now visible in the growing light. “The stuff grows everywhere and the vines run low to the ground. Easy to miss seeing, hard to avoid stepping in.”

Sam nodded and then had to reposition his grip on Dean as his brother’s knees gave out. “Whoa, Dean, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Dean replied, voicing his oft spoken lie. Sam noticed he was barely putting any weight on the injured ankle and he winced every time they hit a low spot that jarred him.

“We’re parked on Waldo road, a few miles that way,” Sam stated to Mike with a head nod, trying to steer Dean and Mike further to the left.

“That’s your Impala?” Mike replied with a note of appreciation in his voice. “Very nice. Caught sight of it yesterday when I was out hunting a rogue cat.” He resisted Sam’s attempt at changing their direction. “My place is just over that ridge,” he said, waving his free hand uphill. “You boys can rest there and I’ll bring the car around. It’s about five miles southwest of my place, but I can drive it to within a mile. That’ll allow your brother here to take it easy for a bit and save you some time.”

“No one but me drives that car,” Dean insisted although his voice sounded weak to Sam’s ears.

“Come on, Dean,” Sam said, stopping briefly to turn towards Dean and look him in the face. There was no way Sam was leaving Dean with Mike and walking back for the car and retrieving the car was by far the best course of action. “Humor me, it’s been a long night.” Sam took in Dean’s unwavering expression and altered his argument slightly. “I’m tired. I’d really like to take a break.”

Dean focused pain-glazed eyes on his little brother. He took in the dried blood that started at Sam’s hair-line, continued down his face and disappeared under his coat collar. Sam really did look tired, but Dean knew it was a cover story. “Sam…” Dean protested.

“Dean,” Sam interrupted firmly, holding out his hand. “Keys.”

Dean hesitated only a moment longer before handing the keys over to Sam. He turned his attention to Mike and said, “You better be careful with her.”

“Groovy ride like that? You bet I will be,” Mike replied. “You’re a smart man; you’d never catch me driving a car newer than a 1981.”

“Why’s that?” Dean forced out as they started moving again.

“Any car newer than that’s got one of those computer chips in ‘em so the government can disable all the cars in the U.S.,” Mike replied matter-of-factly. “You know, in case of disaster to keep the roads from getting gridlocked or to contain the losses during viral outbreaks.”

Sam caught the look Dean shot him and shrugged his shoulders. He could hear Dean’s unspoken message clearly, ‘Demons I get. People are crazy.’ As they topped the ridge, Sam shaded his eyes, scanning the area for Mike’s house. “How far did you say it was?” Sam asked, concerned for Dean’s ability to continue on.

“Right there,” Mike answered, pointing down into a thicket of trees. Sam squinted into the wooded area and finally spotted it. Mike’s place was literally a stick house. It appeared to be no more than a twelve by twelve, ramshackle abode constructed of cedar and evergreen branches. As they approached, Sam realized it was only about five feet high.

When Mike lifted the canvas-flap covering over the doorway and gestured them inside, Sam asked, “How long until you’ll be back?” He already regretted convincing Dean to let Mike drive the car. He could easily strand them here and it would be days before they could make it the ten remaining miles down Waldo road and back to the highway. His glance strayed involuntarily to his semi-conscious brother.

“About an hour and a half,” Mike replied. “Go ahead and take him inside. There’s a bedroll he can lay on and there’s fresh water for drinking and to clean him up.”

Sam paused a moment longer, hesitant to give Mike the upper hand by allowing him to enter last. Finally, he pushed away doubt and stumbled into the makeshift house all but carrying his big brother. He blinked, giving his eyes time to adjust to the dim interior.

Shafts of light filtered through the spaces between the branches on the east side of the hut softly illuminating one side of the dark room. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling, a small cooking area rested in the southeast corner and the bedroll lay directly in front of them. Sam gently lowered Dean to the bed of crumpled blankets on the ground. Dean threw one arm over his head and closed his eyes.

“I’ve got some aloe salve for that sunburn,” Mike stated, walking back to where Sam knelt next to Dean. He set several hand-dipped candles out on the ground near Dean. “It’ll help take the sting out.”

A small, undecorated clay container appeared in front of Sam’s face. “Thanks,” he replied, setting the jar down. He carefully removed Dean’s coat and started pulling up the shirt when he met with resistance. “Come on, Dean, I need to see.”

“G’way, Sam,” Dean protested tiredly, swatting blindly at Sam’s hands.

“Nope,” Sam replied firmly. “Now stop it.” He helped Dean to a sitting position and this time he managed to get the shirt off without Dean hampering his efforts. Sam saw Mike lean in for a closer look before he lowered Dean back to the blankets. When he began tugging off the first shoe Dean pulled his foot away and gasped.

“Ow,” Dean reminded him sarcastically. “Could you try not pulling my foot off with the boot?”

“Sorry, your entire foot is swollen,” Sam apologized. He gave it a final tug and Dean’s foot popped out of the boot. Dean sighed softly in relief and propped himself up on his elbows.

“Mind if I ask how this happened?” Mike asked, leaning in again this time for a closer look at Dean’s ankle. “Looks like you took a nasty tumble.”

“More like a fall off a two-story building,” Sam responded. Mike’s head was blocking the meager light and Sam shouldered him out of the way. “He was stuck in an old, dried up well for nearly an entire day.”

“He is perfectly capable of speaking for himself,” Dean protested.

“True enough,” Mike agreed, turning his attention back to Dean. “That how you hurt your ankle too?”

“Trying to climb out,” Dean replied surly after a long pause. “Didn’t make it, fell back into the well.” He winced when Sam pushed his folded coat under the swollen foot.

“I saw those bruises on your back when Sam took off your shirt,” Mike stated. “You be honest with me, sonny. Does it hurt when you take a leak?” Mike’s question was met with a look of surprise from Sam and a guilty flush from Dean. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Mike replied.

“What?” Sam asked. He caught the death glare Dean was shooting Mike. Sam was certain it was because he was upset at Mike calling Dean on the pain in front of him, not the question itself. “Why didn’t you say something?” he asked sternly. “God, Dean, you insisted we finish hunting that werewolf and you knew something was wrong? We should’ve left right away.”

“That would be why,” Dean replied. “I didn’t want you to overreact.”

“Overreact?” Sam asked incredulously. He huffed in frustration. “Overreact?” He turned to Mike. “Do you think it’s his kidneys?”

“Yep,” Mike replied succinctly. “Guess I should’ve told you, I was a field medic in Vietnam.” The look of relief on Sam’s face caused Mike to chuckle, despite the circumstances. “Long time ago now, best I can do is help patch him up and give you a guess as to what we’re facing.”

“Whatever you can do…thanks,” Sam replied with a smile of gratitude.

“Do I have a say in this?” Dean asked, with his best attempt at a look of disdain for the idea.

“No,” Mike and Sam replied together.

Dean shot his brother a glare that served as a warning shot off the bow. “Sam…”

“Dean, just let him look, okay?” Sam asked. “I won’t run down the laundry list of the reasons why you should, or try to manipulate you into doing it, I’m just asking you straight up.” Dean continued to glare petulantly, but Sam could see he was tossing the idea about.

Mike nodded to Dean. “Fact is, you’re hurt and it could be something we need to watch. To make it fair, I’ll check out your brother too before I leave for the car.”

“What? No.” Sam contradicted. “I’m fine. There’s no reason to waste time when Dean needs a doctor.”

“Hmm, that so?” Mike asked, with a knowing look. He focused on Dean. “Can you roll onto your side and let me take a look?”

“What’s wrong with Sam?” Dean asked predictably, making no attempt to roll and trying to sit up instead. How had he missed something wrong with Sam? His Sammy sense must need recalibrating.

Sam frowned making no effort to hide his displeasure at Mike’s attempt at manipulation. “Eh, probably nothing,” Mike replied, realizing too late his mistake. He rested a hand on Dean’s struggling shoulder and that small pressure was enough to keep him from being able to sit up. “See? That there is why you need to let me have a look,” Mike sighed at Dean’s continued efforts. “Sam’s just got some bleeding on his head. Nothing to worry about.”

Sam nodded the affirmative at the questioning look Dean shot him. It was not a lie. It was a misleading half truth and Sam and Mike both knew it, but it was not a lie. “Come on, Dean, let’s get this over with. Every minute we delay is another minute the Impala languishes in exile on an old, dusty logging road,” Sam teased, tongue in cheek.

“Can’t have my baby thinking I left her,” Dean cracked with a half-wattage, lop-sided grin. He grudgingly lay back and turned on his side. In this new position, Dean’s breath hitched and he wheezed in shallow gasps.

Sam winced at the appearance of Dean’s back. It was worse than yesterday. Much worse. It was difficult to determine where one bruise or cut ended and the next began. A few were now turning a lighter shade of red, most were dark red; some were so dark they were purple. The large, spongy bruise on Dean’s lower back was nearly black.

Mike applied pressure along his ribs and stopped at a sharp intake of breath from Dean. He prodded for a moment longer then stated, “I don’t think anything is broken, which is nearly unbelievable. Probably cracked or bruised, but I don’t feel any protruding bones. Doesn’t mean there aren’t any, it’s just a good sign.”

Dean grunted in response and Mike continued his examination. His fingers had barely made contact with the large bruise when Dean arched away from him with a groan uttered through closed lips. Mike followed and pushed on the bruise in several places. This time the groan escaped in a puff of explosive air.

Sam grabbed Mike’s wrist and pulled his hand forcibly away from Dean. “I think that’s enough. It’s obvious he’s hurt,” he snarled.

Mike tugged against the grip on his wrist and when it was obvious Sam was not going to let go he said, “Sam, I was trying to figure out how deep the bruising is.”

“Deep enough,” Sam hissed, his voice dangerously low.

Mike eyed Sam with a new appreciation. It was not that he had underestimated the man. He had seen first-hand his hunting ability. There was something about Sam though, that seemed so open and genuine that it was easy to forget he was not harmless. Especially, it appeared, when he was guard-dogging his brother. He held up his wrist with Sam’s hand attached and gave it a light shake. Sam released his grip, but did not sit back.

“Dean, it looks as though your kidneys do have some amount of damage, but I’d say based on your activity level and how long it’s been that it’s simply bruising. Course, we need a doctor to say for sure,” Mike stated, moving away from Dean and allowing Sam to take the spot next to his brother.

Sam helped Dean ease onto his back and turned his head to glare at Mike when he lifted Dean’s foot to look at the swelling. “You don’t have to do that. He’s not going anywhere,” Sam stated.

“True enough,” Mike replied, setting Dean’s foot back on the folded coat. “Anything else I should look at?”

“His head,” Sam replied reluctantly after a pause. He rummaged through the duffle bag and produced the flashlight for Mike. “There’s no sign of anything other than a concussion, but it would be good to get a second opinion.”

“Will do,” Mike said. He stood up and crouch-walked back around Sam to Dean’s head. “Dean, have you had any headaches, nausea, dizziness or vision problems?”

“Yeah,” Dean replied, squeezing his eyes closed when a light was shone in his eyes.

“I’d say you’re right there,” Mike replied, taking note of Dean’s unequal pupils. “A concussion and a pretty good one at that.”

Sam breathed a small sigh of relief that it was what he expected and not something even more serious. “Here are the keys,” Sam hinted, handing the Impala keys to Mike. “But for both our sakes, drive carefully.”

Mike laughed. “Sure enough will.”

Sam turned his attention back to Dean. He could hear Mike in the background, rummaging through supplies, but he did not shift his focus from his brother. Dean’s shallow breathing and pained expression catapulted Sam back into action. He opened the duffel bag and pulled ibuprofen out of the medkit. He thought better of it when he remembered it could interfere with the blood’s ability to clot. He sat back on his feet temporarily stumped as to what to do to ease Dean’s pain.

“Good call on the ibuprofen,” Mike commented, materializing behind Sam’s shoulder. Sam detected the acrid scent of smoke behind him and turned to look at Mike. He was puffing on a hand-rolled cigarette and puffing in the boys’ general direction. “You don’t mind do you?” he asked, holding out the cigarette.

“Uh, no,” Sam replied. He did not feel he could protest Mike smoking in his own house, but he was not happy about it.

“Here’s some ointment for the cuts on his back,” Mike said, handing Sam another clay jar. “It’ll work on all cuts and help fight infection.” Mike nodded to Sam’s arm and gave him a conspiratorial wink. Mike turned to Dean. “You know, I could make you some herbal tea for the pain.”

“No tea,” Dean replied emphatically. He’d lost any taste for tea he had after the incident with the Necromancer.

“Okay, no tea,” Mike chuckled. “I’m gonna go get your car now.”

“You drive her slow over those potholes,” Dean admonished, shaking his finger at Mike. Mike nodded.

“We’ll be ready to head out when you get back,” Sam said by way of good-bye.

“Good enough,” Mike replied.

He started to leave when Dean asked, “Mike, have you seen anything unusual out in the woods?”

“You mean besides the werewolves?” Mike asked with a smirk.

“Yeah, more like spirits? Ghosts?” Dean asked, propping himself on his elbows again.

“Dean?” Sam questioned, wrinkling his brow.

Mike crouched back down next to Sam. The cigarette dangled loosely in his lips and Sam was amazed it did not start his wiry, gray beard on fire. “Son, Waldo is one of the lost ghost towns of Oregon,” Mike supplied. He blew a puff of smoke directly towards Dean.

“It was a town?” Sam asked with a cough. The morning breeze had died and the smoke was filling the small, stick shack with a green haze.

“Yep, back in the 1850’s there were 30,000 people living in Waldo. It was a gold mining town like a lot of those in southern Oregon. That’s why there’s a Protestant, a Catholic and a Chinese cemetery in these woods. A gold mine brought a lot of diversity in those days. There’s even a few Native American graves around here somewhere,” Mike explained.

“What happened?” Sam asked, waving a hand discreetly in front of his face.

“Same thing that happened to a lot of towns out here,” Mike said. “Mine dried up, the railway and the new highway both bypassed Waldo and pretty soon there was nothing left, but the Gibbs general store and post office. The United States Core of Engineers tore down the remaining building in 1931 when the government was more concerned about keeping unemployed men working than preserving history.” There was a disapproving note in Mike’s tone at the final statement.

“Gibbs?” Dean asked, blinking smoke-reddened eyes. “As in William Gibbs?”

“That’d be the one,” Mike said, surprised. “How’d you know?”

“I think I saw him,” Dean admitted. “Well, his spirit anyway down in that well.”

“Huh,” Mike replied, puffing harder on his disappearing cigarette. “He founded Waldo, named it after his son. When his son was killed during a raid, he went a little crazy. Secluded himself from everyone, built some kind of crazy shrine around his son’s grave and disappeared without a trace.”

Dean smirked at the irony of Mike’s statement and caught Sam’s look. Sam was obviously trying not to laugh at Mike; the corners of his mouth twitched and he huffed once and looked away. “I don’t think he got far,” Dean stated lying back with a thud. He was feeling light-headed again, but he didn’t feel bad. In fact, he was not hurting much at all.

“Sounds like it,” Mike replied, nonplussed. “Okay boys, I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He crushed out his cigarette and left without as much as a backwards glance.

Dean lay there for a moment alternating between smirking and suppressed laughter. When he was relatively sure Mike was out of earshot, he cut loose with a belly laugh. “Dean? Are you okay?” Sam asked, concerned.

Dean looked up at Sam and burst out laughing at the look on Sam’s face. “It’s okay, Swee’pea,” he joked. “It’s all good.”

“Shut up,” Sam replied hotly. His glare turned to a dimpled grin before he started chuckling. “God, it stinks in here.”

“Don’t be such a wuss, Sammy,” Dean chided, the sting of his response softened by giggling. “Dude, you stink,” he added wrinkling his nose.

“So do you,” Sam protested. “Hey, do you think that shrine has something to do with the replay hauntings?”

Dean appeared to be seriously contemplating the notion for a minute before dismissing it with a wave of his hand and observing, “I think Mike is a crazy old coot.”

“That can happen when you seclude yourself from society and live out in the woods,” Sam replied sagely. He chuckled and pointed at Dean. “He’s you, in thirty years.”

“That is so…true,” Dean conceded with a laugh. “That is so true.” His laugh slowly fizzled to a halt as he grew contemplative. “Sam?”

“Hmm?” Sam hummed through his nose.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, running a hand over his face.

“For what?” Sam asked, scrunching his face in confusion.

“For not getting there in time,” Dean said, his green eyes searching Sam’s face. “For distracting you.”

Sam’s demeanor shifted from carefree to serious in the space of a heartbeat. “In spite of what you think, you aren’t responsible for everything that happens to me,” Sam replied softly. “You aren’t responsible for half the things you feel you are.”

“Yeah, I am,” Dean shot back. “You’re my little brother.”

Sam looked away and did not reply to Dean’s sentiment. There were so many things he could say, had said in the past, but it did not really matter. They’d had this particular argument many times and he never won. He realized the four years Dean had on him made him a kid when Dean was a teenager, a teenager when Dean was an adult, and by the time he’d caught up to his big brother, he’d left for Stanford. They’d really only had two years to get used to hunting together as equal contributors. He would readily admit Dean was the better hunter, but he was the reining champion of research and it evened things out between them. Life had proven to Sam over and over again that even though Dean considered him a hunter in his own right now, he was always going to be the little brother.

“And you’re my big brother,” Sam replied at last, turning his gaze back to Dean.

“I’m not sorry for making that deal,” Dean admitted, focusing his intense jade green eyes on his brother’s hazel. “I know you don’t want to hear that, but I’m not. I can’t be.”

“I told you Dean, I’ll take care of it,” Sam stated firmly. “I’ll get you out of it, I swear.”

“Don’t swear,” Dean said. “You know I can’t help you. I won’t risk it.”

“I know,” Sam replied softly, breaking eye contact with Dean.

Silence weighed heavy in the stick hut, nearly as thick and as pervasive as the green smoke still drifting in the air. Dean threw his arm back over his face. Sam allowed his mind to wander as the haze shifted and formed shapes around them, before he snorted. “Now who needs the buzz-kill beaten out of them?” he asked with a giggle.

Dean did not move his arm to look at Sam, but the trademark smirk appeared on his face. “You do still owe me one,” he reminisced with a chuckle.

“I’m sure I owe you more than one,” Sam replied, keeping his tone light and his statement deliberately vague. “I can think of five right off the top of my head.”

“Dream on, Sammy,” Dean responded, removing his arm to look at Sam again. “I’m not giving you five freebies. You’ll have to work for those.” He blew a raspberry and added, “Good luck.”

Sam made a face at Dean. The brothers sat in silence again, but this time it was a comfortable silence broken by periods of chuckling. Sam wiped tears of laughter from his eyes and wrinkled his nose. The lingering smell of smoke was vaguely reminiscent. Unable to place the scent, he shrugged his shoulders. Dean shot him a questioning look and Sam noticed, as if for the first time, how red Dean’s face and arms were.

He picked up the first clay jar and held it out to Dean. “You want to put the aloe on yourself and I’ll get the cuts on your back?”

“Don’t bother,” Dean replied with a small puff of air. “I don’t think I need it. I’m feeling pretty good actually.”

Sam narrowed his eyes and racked his brain. He knew he recognized the odor and it was driving him crazy. Finally it came to him. At Stanford Jess had a friend that smelled like the cigarette Mike had been smoking: Chas - the stoner - Townsend. “Dean,” Sam said in a hushed whisper. “I think Mike was smoking pot.”

“Really?” Dean replied with raised eyebrows. “Huh.” He closed his eyes, lacking the ambition for any further response. The smell in here was getting overpowering. After a bit, Sam started laughing again. “What’s so funny?” Dean asked, cracking one eye open again.

“Stoned Mountain Mike is driving your car,” Sam laughed.

Dean closed his eye and groaned, “Well hell.”