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).

“Hey, Sam,” Dean remarked with a smirk. “Looks like we found Waldo.”

Sam rolled his eyes at his ever-the-smart-ass brother. “There aren’t any bones to salt and burn. That means we need to disrupt the symbols and hope it’s enough,” Sam explained, hurriedly. As he spoke the spirits moved closer, but stopped, hovering just outside the rings of stone.

“No problem, Sam,” Dean replied, his tone deceptively sincere. “Any suggestions on how we keep the Gibbs family from tearing us apart in the meantime?”

“I thought distraction was your specialty,” Sam countered, flashing Dean a grin.

“It’s about time you appreciated some of my finer talents,” Dean replied with a smirk. He slapped Sam on the chest. “Get to it.”

“You sure?” Sam asked. “Once I start disrupting the circles there’s a good chance things are going to get hairy.”

“Go!” Dean insisted. As Sam walked towards the outermost ring of stones, the spirit of William glided towards him, moving so quickly he seemed to disappear from his original spot and reappear in front of Sam in the space of a heartbeat.

“Hey!” Dean shouted, fishing a gun out of the duffel. “Did Lassie pull you out of the well or is that dog-faced thing your wife?” William took no notice of Dean, but reached out a hand towards Sam.

Sam, for his part, was not paying any attention to the spirits. He trusted Dean to keep an eye out for him while he broke the hold this place had on the dead. Seven stones out of each of the seven circles would equal the forty-nine days of mourning and prayer required for Chinese funerals: based on the significant use of numerology in the shrine that number seemed logical.

He had no sooner pushed the shovel into the soft ground than a cold hand pressed into his shoulder. Sam looked up into the face of William Gibbs and jumped backwards in surprise when a shot rang out seconds later and William disappeared. “Huh, the iron rounds seem to work,” Dean observed matter-of-factly.

Sam turned to look back at Dean before nodding his head fractionally in understanding. Returning his attention to the task at hand he dug up the first seven rocks in rapid succession. In response Waldo began shouting again. Moving on to the second set of stones he stumbled as he moved quickly to avoid the knife point thrust in his face. Another blast from Dean’s weapon signaled the disappearance of Waldo. “You might want to hurry this along a little, Sam,” Dean suggested tongue in cheek from behind him.

“I’m working on it.” Sam worked quickly, digging up the stones of the next three rings in rapid succession. He did not even look up when the third shot from Dean’s weapon rent the air, but continued on to the three remaining rings of stone.

He stood shoulder to shoulder with his brother as he unearthed the final stone. His arms ached from all the digging he had done in the last few hours and he stood, leaning on the short-handled shovel for several seconds, catching his breath. “All that’s left is the statues,” Sam stated, turning to look at Dean. Dean stood at the ready, his green eyes sharp; his body tensed and prepared to take action. “I hope,” Sam added.

Dean flicked his eyes in Sam’s direction, before scanning the horizon again. “Any particular order we need to do this?”

“I don’t think so,” Sam replied. “If we’re lucky the age of the monuments will make them easier to break.”

“I’ve got the two over here,” Dean said as he limped away before Sam could protest.

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother’s stubbornness and ran for the nearest statue on his left. The wind that previously blew high enough to only tickle the tops of the trees, now rushed through the glade. Pine needles and dry leaves chased each other across the ground and the temperature dropped. Sam shivered as his still damp shirt and boxers chilled his skin.

Skidding to a stop at the first statue, his hands had scarcely touched the stone when he once again felt cold fingers on his shoulder. He spun on his heels and lifted his head to look at the spirit of Waldo. He did not have time to react before Waldo’s grip tightened and he was flung up and backwards through the air. The hard landing knocked the air from his lungs and he gulped in air trying to catch his breath.

Sam searched frantically for the spirit, but Waldo had disappeared. Pushing himself to his feet, he was relieved to see Dean limping towards the nearby statue, unharmed. “Dean!” he called in warning. An unscheduled flight would do more than leave his brother out of breath. “Watch out for the spirits!”

The wind whipped his words away and he doubted Dean had heard his warning. He headed towards his brother when Dean inexplicably turned his head towards him and shouted over the wind, “Sam, look alive!” He raised his weapon and fired at something just over Sam’s left shoulder.

Sam waved a thank you at his brother, shook his head and headed back for the statues on his side wondering why he had ever doubted Dean would still be on high alert. Grasping the statue for a second time, Sam swung it like a bat and hit it against an ancient pine tree. Fissures and cracks appeared in the miniature Golden Fishes sculpture. He swung again and the weather-worn stone crumbled upon impact with the tree.

A vibrant green dragonfly with iridescent wings flittered past Sam, flapping desperately against the wind flying towards the river. He frowned at the impossible sight before turning his attention back to the second statue.

Dean turned away from Sam and shot a cursory glance at the first sculpture on his side. It vaguely resembled the legendary Gordian Knot and he wondered briefly if it held the same significance. Dismissing the wandering thought, he picked up the statue and grunted. It was far heavier than its appearance would suggest.

He struggled to carry the weighty knot of rock intending to smash it against the tree as he had seen Sam do. The rough granite cut into his fingers and the square base knocked into his chest as he walked. Hurry up, Sammy, he thought. If I have to smash both of these, it’s going to kill me.

Shouting in front of him tore Dean’s attention back to the task at hand. Waldo stood in front of him, waving a knife in the air. The spirit shouted angrily at him and jabbed it several times in his direction. Dean’s fingers itched for the weapon tucked into the waistband of his boxers. He had been pleasantly surprised to find the elastic strong enough to hold the heavy handgun, leaving him with both hands free to carry the sculpture. Now he would gladly trade a free hand for an armed one without a moment’s hesitation.

Determined to finish the hauntings so they could finally leave the woods and enjoy the relative calm of the open road, Dean held the woven stone sculpture above his head and shouted back at Waldo. “What’s the matter?” he taunted. “Don’t like others playing with your toys?”

Waldo lunged for the sculpture, but Dean reacted quicker. He spun in a circle three times, gaining momentum on each turn and released the statue. He watched Waldo track the flight of the Eternity Knot with his eyes until it crash-landed against the side of a sturdy madrone.

The stone crumbled into pebbles and small pieces of granite hit the ground in a wave, rolled and scattered. Waldo seemed to be watching a small bird or large winged insect fly past and Dean took advantage of the distraction to race to the second statue, the heavy boot thumping loudly on the ground.

The wind grew in intensity and the sting of pine needles burned his bare skin. He lifted an arm to protect his eyes from the small projectiles and blindly stumbled the remaining feet to the sculpture. His fingers had no sooner touched the rough stone than Waldo shouted with renewed fervor and this time when he rushed Dean, Dean could not move quickly enough.

The force of impact caused Dean to fall sideways to the ground, air whooshing from his lungs as his damaged ribs sang in harmony. Cold, icy fingers wrapped around his throat before he could recover his breath. “Sam!” Dean choked out before the wind whisked it away. “Sam!”

Dean feebly batted at Waldo’s hands, but his weak, uncoordinated movements had no effect on the death grip Waldo had on his neck. His eyes widened in unadulterated panic as his oxygen supply dwindled dangerously low. His ears popped and his arms lost all strength. He knew the horrible wheezing sounds were coming from him, but it no longer seemed to matter. He was surprised he had enough air to make any sound and in a way the whistling gasp was reassuring.

He kicked wildly with his legs in a last ditch effort to throw the spirit off of him and make an escape. The heavy, still water-logged boot rendered his right leg worthless and he could not generate enough action to have any effect. I’m sorry, Sammy, he thought. You’re going to be on your own sooner than I hoped. Dean’s vision grayed and narrowed until it went out.

As Sam’s second statue crumbled, he turned back towards Dean. His brother’s prone form lay straddled by the spirit of Waldo. In the dark and from this distance Sam could not see exactly what was happening, but Dean did not appear to be conscious.

“Dean!” Sam shouted as he ran for his brother. When Waldo glared at Sam, he realized he did not have any way of getting Dean away from the spirit. His best chance lay in destroying the remaining statue. He abruptly changed directions and skirted around Dean and Waldo. The wind picked up force and slowed his progress, tossing branches at him and sending stinging dry dirt into his eyes.

Wiping watering eyes with the back of his hand, Sam grabbed the stone sculpture and threw it into a nearby tree. It exploded into many pieces, the shrapnel bouncing off the tree and back into Sam’s face. The howling wind died immediately, the trees stilled and dancing leaves dropped to the ground. Sam’s ears rang from the deafening silence until the crickets started chirping once more.

Whirling about, Sam ran towards his brother. Waldo had disappeared, but Dean lay absolutely still on the ground. Skidding to a stop, Sam dropped to his knees by his brother. “Dean!” Sam shouted too loudly, shaking his brother vigorously. Dean remained unresponsive. Sam lowered his ear to his brother’s mouth and placed a hand on his chest. Dean was not breathing.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Sam repeated in endless litany, sitting back on his heels. His father’s voice boomed in his head. Secure the site, Sam. He reacted instinctively, glancing around, searching the grounds for the forgotten duffel and spotted it sitting by the sputtering fire.

Scrambling for the bag, he left small clouds of dust in his wake. He grabbed the duffel and made it back to Dean in record time. Depositing the bag, he pulled out the salt tin and laid a sloppy circle of salt around his brother, leaving enough room for him to squeeze inside as well.

Task completed, Sam crouched down and tilted Dean’s head back hoping he had simply missed the shallow exhales of air. When it became obvious that was not the case, he placed trembling fingers gently on Dean’s neck and felt the slow, sluggish beats of life before delivering two life-saving breaths. “Come on, come on,” he urged quietly before repeating his actions. Time slowed and every second passed torturously slow. Two breaths, wait, two breaths, wait: the rhythm repeated and Sam grew increasingly concerned Dean’s damaged air passageway could not recover.

“Don’t you do this,” Sam spat desperately. “I swear to God, Dean, this time I will be pissed if you do something stupid and leave.” Two breaths, wait, two more breaths, wait: Sam thought of the implications of Dean dying, but the most important fact would be he had failed and his big brother would be sent to hell almost a full year early.

Two breaths, wait, two breaths, wait: in his best little brother voice Sam said, “I can’t do this without you.” Yes, you can. His words, but Dean’s voice whispered in his mind. “Well, I don’t want to,” he said aloud.

Dean’s eyes opened wide and he gasped, his back arching slightly off the ground. He looked around wildly before his green eyes settled on Sam and the panic receded into the depths of jade. “You okay?” he croaked.

“Am I okay?” Sam asked incredulously, sitting back on his heels. “Am I okay?” he repeated, his voice growing in volume. He slapped Dean lightly on the chest, who groaned in protest.

“Sam, calm down,” Dean forced out in a gravely voice. He rested his hand weakly on Sam’s knee and patted it once.

“Calm down?” Sam parroted.

Dean frowned and swallowed hard. He whispered something quietly that Sam could not hear and he leaned in closer. “What?” he asked.

“Gun.” Dean winced and squirmed slightly.

“Dean, you don’t need a gun right now,” Sam replied, with a corresponding head shake.

“No, gun’s in my back,” Dean corrected softly.

Sam’s hazel eyes registered understanding and he gently rolled Dean far enough to pull the gun out from under his lower back. Dean sighed in relief, but moments later flashed Sam a look of concern. Sam caught movement out of the corner of his eye and tightened his grip on the weapon with his right hand. His left hand rested lightly on Dean’s chest, subconsciously monitoring the shallow up and down movement.

He looked up and nearly pulled the weapon to bear at the sight of Waldo standing right outside the circle of salt. Waldo cocked his head in confusion and spouted a question that Sam assumed was in Takelma. Sam shook his head in a universal gesture of non-understanding.

Waldo scowled, but spoke again – this time in clear, articulate English. “Why did you disturb the sacred symbols of this area?”

“To free you, your parents, the hold this land has on the dead,” Sam replied. “These symbols did more than create a resting place for your family. They trapped spiritual signatures, forcing the final events of those buried here to reenact over and over, every night.”

“There are no others here,” Waldo replied, half confused, half accusation. He pulled his knife from the sheath at his waist and motioned to Sam with it. Dean started to move, but Sam pushed him back down easily with gentle pressure on his chest.

“No, they’ve all moved on, but spiritual residue remained, living out events that happened years ago,” Sam explained patiently when all he really wanted to do was pick up the gun and fire an iron round into Waldo’s heart however temporary that solution would prove to be. Normally he empathized with confused and lost spirits, but his compassion for Waldo ended when he tried to strangle his brother.

“I wish I could leave,” Waldo lamented. “I do not know which path to follow.”

Sam contemplated Waldo’s statement. His father, William, had embraced other cultures, a rarity for the days in which he lived. It was that acceptance and the combination of ideas thereof that had inexplicably trapped his family here. The destruction of the symbols had released all it seemed except for Waldo. Waldo who no doubt had been torn between worlds while alive – remained conflicted in death – impossible to stay, unable to move on. Dragonflies popped into Sam’s mind and he blurted, “Your parents followed the river.”

Waldo stepped closer to Sam, replacing the knife in the sheath. “You saw them, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Yes.” Sam slowly slid the gun further away from Dean’s body. If Waldo moved any closer, he would fire.

Waldo nodded and turned to look towards the river. “I should leave,” he announced. His shape became blurred, thinning into a smoky white. “I should leave.”

“Yes,” Sam said, returning the head nod. “They’re waiting.”

As Waldo faded, Sam returned his attention to Dean. “Do you think you can help me move you closer to the fire?”

“I got it,” Dean replied, his voice barely over a loud whisper. Dean shivered as the light breeze kissed his sunburned arms and face.

Sam moved to crouch behind Dean, grabbed his under the armpits and hauled him to his feet as he stood. “I got you,” Sam contradicted. He frowned at the protective way Dean clutched his chest. “You did get hurt, didn’t you?”

“I never said I didn’t,” Dean groaned. “I just said I didn’t want to talk about it. Still don’t.”

Sam huffed, but brushed aside irritation at Dean’s obstinacy. Confronting him on his behavior would not get him very far and Sam could not do anything for him right now anyway. They were stuck here until daylight. Fighting their way downhill in the dark would be an unnecessary risk. He deposited Dean by the fire and checked the clothes on the line only to find they were still sopping wet.

He sat down next to Dean, close enough that their shoulders touched. At least their boxers and t-shirts were dry. He toed off his wet shoes and peeled wet socks from his ghostly white, wrinkled feet and tossed them onto nearby rocks. The socks landed with spongy, wet sound and stuck to the rock. Leaning forward, he helped Dean out of his shoe, the boot and wet socks. Two more spongy sounds on the rocks signaled success and he leaned in closer to a shivering Dean. “It’ll be daylight in two hours,” he remarked to break the silence. “We can get out of here and head back to the clinic then.”

Dean turned to frown at Sam. “I don’t need to go back there,” he protested, through shivering teeth.

“Dean, you stopped breathing. I know in our lives that’s considered an inconvenience not a show stopper, but I’d feel better if you were checked out by a doctor,” Sam replied. He kept his tone carefully neutral; Dean tended to tread dangerously close to reckless most of the time, but when it came to his own safety the line seemed non-existent.

Dean’s head snapped and he wore an expression of genuine surprise. “If it makes you feel better,” he replied in a stage whisper.

“It does,” Sam said, relieved the battle would not need fighting.

They sat in silence for several long minutes, watching the fire crackle, accompanied by a chorus of crickets and harmonized occasionally by a lone owl. “I stopped breathing?” Dean asked, finally. He sounded almost resigned to the idea and that fact alone terrified Sam.

“Yeah,” Sam replied, not tearing his gaze from the fire. “You scared the shit out of me, Dean.”

They sat in silence once more, each brother lost in the implications of that statement. Sam tapped his foot, refusing to look at his brother. Dean would no doubt make light of it and brush it off and Sam was in no mood to pretend it didn’t matter. “Well, it’s all over now. The spirits are gone and everything’s okay,” Dean stated finally.

“Dean, you weren’t breathing. I was afraid you were going to die. Do you have any idea what that feels like?” Sam asked angrily, annoyed Dean was dismissing the seriousness of what had transpired. As soon as the ill-spoken words were out of his mouth, he wished he could pull them back.

An unreadable expression crossed Dean’s face and Sam prepared himself for the onslaught. Dean would either flippantly change the subject as if nothing had been said or explode in a tirade of anger. What Sam did not expect was for Dean to drop his gaze to stare at his bare feet and speak quietly in a cracking voice.

“When you died,” Dean began. Sam hiccupped in surprise, questioning why he had felt the need to press Dean on this issue. They never mentioned the death word. In an unspoken agreement between them, they occasionally alluded to it, but never spoke of it outright. Dean continued unabated, “I held you in my arms knowing there was nothing I could do. I pulled you close, willing death away, but it didn’t help. You drew your last breath and I couldn’t stop it.”

Dean paused and looked at his hands, examining them closely. “I failed, Sammy. Practically all my life, I’ve tried to do whatever it takes to keep my family safe and I failed.” Dean’s abused throat caused his quavering voice to crack. “You’re my little brother, my responsibility, so don’t ask me if I understand. I understand.”

Sam nodded, swallowing the lump of emotion lodged in his throat. “That goes both ways. You’re my brother,” he stated huskily, repeating the sentiment he’d voiced only a few weeks ago. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get you out of this.”

“Don’t say that,” Dean snapped angrily. “I don’t want you doing anything stupid.”

“With you as an example, I’m pretty much doomed there,” Sam quipped with attempted levity. In a strange, reversal of roles he needed to break the emotional tension and move on. His shoulders sagged tiredly and he felt the strain of responsibility for his brother. A burden he was sure Dean understood full well.

Dean scowled, his brow furrowed in frustration before his lips finally softened into a lopsided smirking grin. “I suppose you got me there,” he conceded finally. He squinted into the distance. “Sun’s coming up.”

“It’s about time,” Sam replied, stifling a yawn. “I think I’ve figured out a way across the river.”

“Ah man, I’d forgotten about the river,” Dean moaned. “No more swimming, okay.”

“No swimming,” Sam reassured him, tossing Dean his damp socks. “Mike sent us the most direct route, but if we walk downhill on this side, we should be able to find a place to cross further downstream, but close to the Impala.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Dean agreed, slipping on his socks and one shoe before fighting with the heavy boot.

“We’re only about two miles from the car, so it shouldn’t take more than an hour or two,” Sam stated, adding time for Dean’s unspoken injuries. “The jeans are still soaked, so we’re probably better off without them.”

“Good thing no one lives out here,” Dean smirked. “Or you’d be showing off those pale chicken legs to all the locals.”

“Sh’yeah, unlike yours,” Sam shot back, pointing to Dean’s legs with a head nod.

“What?” Dean asked innocently, his arms spread wide, looking down at his own legs. The black, soft cast stood out in stark contract against his pale leg. “Not everyone could pull this look off, the way I can.”

Sam snorted and shoved the wet clothes into the duffel. Throwing dry dirt on the dying fire, he quickly smothered the flames leaving only tendrils of gray-black smoke wafting through the air. He shouldered the duffel and helped Dean stand with the other arm. He waited patiently while Dean gained his equilibrium and silently indicated his readiness to begin. With slow, measured steps the brothers walked downhill through the thickly wooded forest.

Unseen by either brother, a large, rusty-orange dragonfly zipped through the air following the path of the river west towards the ocean.

They rested several times before reaching a point downstream where the water ran shallow enough that it afforded them stepping stones the entire way across the river. Negotiating the stones with the awkward boot proved difficult, but not impossible. Dean wobbled several times, but each time, Sam was close enough to steady him.

The final thirty minutes were spent fighting underbrush and thorny blackberry bushes. Tired, scratched and slightly the worse for wear the brothers emerged from the woods to the sight of the Impala in the distance. Dean hobbled slowly and Sam watched him surreptitiously for signs that he could not continue. It had taken longer than the two hours Sam had estimated, but they finally reached the waiting car.

“Ah, baby,” Dean crooned. “You are a sight for sore eyes.” He ran his hand affectionately down the roof of the Impala.

Sam snickered and opened the passenger door for Dean. As his brother slipped inside Sam remarked, “Why do I always feel like I’m interrupting a private moment between the two of you?”

He closed the door on Dean’s laughing reply, slowly walked around the back side of the Impala and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Next stop, Doctor Bailey’s,” he announced upon starting the engine.

Dean stopped chuckling and glared at Sam, causing the younger brother to chuckle instead. Dust kicked up on the abandoned logging road as the sleek, black car winded down the hill towards town.

Dr. Bailey pushed back his horn-rimmed glasses, searching the cupboard for the spare bottle he knew he’d put here last spring. The contents looked a bit cloudy and he gave it a hard shake to see if the fluid would remix. Squinting through bifocals he read the freshness date and realized it expired nearly eight months ago, but he assumed it would provide relief nonetheless.

He sighed as he thought about his patients in the next room. They had returned early yesterday morning, both bedraggled with Dean leaning heavily on Sam. He had properly chastised the pair and, after allowing brothers to clean up, he had promptly placed Dean back on oxygen, much to Dean’s dismay.

It had taken nearly a half an hour to coax the story out of the brothers and even then, he did not believe he had the whole truth. Falling into the river? That, he believed. The bruises were consistent with an unplanned water excursion and he doubted they would have shown up on his doorstep in their skivvies if not for lack of dry clothes.

Dean being strangled by a rope from the bridge in the river? That, he did not believe. The bruising pattern was consistent with fingers, not a rope. He did not think for an instant Sam had attacked his brother which meant they were hiding something.

He had evaluated Dean’s condition all the while under the watchful eye of his brother. Dean’s kidneys had survived the river trip, but his ribs had not faired quite as well. With Sam’s nodding approval, he had administered a strong pain killer. Dean had fallen asleep almost immediately, only staying conscious long enough for a rumbling growl to be directed towards his brother.

Don’t mind him, Sam had said. Doctor Bailey remembered he had smiled reassuringly at Sam, but the truth was, he had not really known what to make of the brothers. They seemed very close and yet there was something guarded about both of them. It had taken him well into the next day to discover the reason for the façade was him.

Every two hours he had gone in to check on his patients only to find Sam blinking awake at the squeaking of the door, sitting next to his brother, with his hand resting on Dean’s chest. Doctor Bailey had threatened Sam with banishment from the room and he remembered full well the expression on the younger man’s face.

It had not been threatening or angry, but the message had been all too clear. Sam was not leaving his brother and nothing the doctor said would change that. He had not tried to lecture Sam about sleep after that, but contented himself on the pockets of sleep his second patient was getting. It had been on his most recent trip into the overnight room that he had discovered Sam had needed his attention as well.

Dr. Bailey sat down on the rolling chair in the exam room and yawned. Exhaustion had settled into his bones from the late night hours: a symptom of his growing age. He had not had this much excitement since Carl Jenkins had chopped his toe off last Christmas splitting wood for the family bonfire.

He yawned again and pushed himself up slowly to a standing position. He knew he would not be able to convince the brothers to stay here much longer. Already they were showing signs of cabin fever. Doctor Bailey reached the door to the overnight room and he could hear annoyed hisses through the door. Hoping to learn more of the truth by stealth, he pressed his ear to the door.

“Dean, stop that,” Sam hissed. “It’s disgusting.”

“So are you,” Dean retorted.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Sam complained.

“Neither do you,” Dean replied.

Dr. Bailey heard a banging thud and Sam’s voice grow in volume. “God you are impossible when you’ve been cooped up too long. We need to get out of here soon before I’m forced to do something I’ll regret.”

Deciding it was safer to enter now, rather than after Dean had indeed pushed Sam too far, he knocked briskly once and entered. The sight that greeted him brought a chuckle to his lips, quickly squelched by the reproachful look on Sam’s face.

Dean was sitting on the bed, propped up against a pillowed headboard, slowly peeling a sheet of translucent, necrotic skin from his arm. Doctor Bailey noticed a few pieces of skin on the floor next to Sam where they had apparently been thrown by one of the two brothers. Dean had stopped midway through the pull when Doctor Bailey had opened the door, but continued on the longer the doctor stood in the doorway. The long section of skin broke loose and Dean leaned over and placed it carefully on Sam’s leg while Sam was distracted by the doctor.

Doctor Bailey glanced from one patient, pink from the chest up, to the other, pink mid-thigh down. He had a sudden, overwhelming attack of sympathy for these boys’ parents. If they could get themselves into this much trouble now, they must have been a handful as children.

“I found more Calamine lotion,” Dr. Bailey announced, handing the bottle to Sam.

“Thanks,” Sam replied, giving the bottle a shake.

Doctor Bailey gave Sam an appraising look. “You really did manage to get a nasty case of poison oak,” he commented.

“Yeah,” Sam replied, scratching a spot on his knee absent-mindedly. His fingers found the sheet of discarded skin, gingerly picked it off and tossed it to the floor. Scowling at Dean, Sam leaned in closer to Doctor Bailey and whispered conspiratorially, “How is he really?”

“He has really good hearing,” Dean sniped. He tugged on the nasal canula and frowned. “Is this really necessary?”

“Yes,” Sam and Doctor Bailey replied simultaneously.

Dean sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. “So? What’s the verdict, Doc?”

Doctor Bailey looked from one brother to the other. “I’m cutting you loose.”

“Really?” Dean asked the surprise evident on his face. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Doctor Bailey replied. He pushed his thick, black-framed glasses further up his nose. At the elated look on one brother’s face and the look of trepidation on the other, he continued, “It isn’t that I believe you are ready to leave, but I’m ready for you to leave. You’re acting like a pair of poorly housebroken pups, circling the carpet to soil it when what you really need to do is go outside.”

“I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to cause trouble,” Sam apologized, his hazel eyes conveying his sincerity. He pointed a pink coated finger at the door. “We can be ready to leave in ten minutes.”

Doctor Bailey frowned. Obviously, these boys had seen their fair share of hard knocks to be so quick to leave needed medical care to avoid trouble. “I think you misunderstand me,” Doctor Bailey explained. “It’s readily apparent you won’t stay much longer. I’m simply giving you permission to leave so you don’t have to sneak out in the middle of the night.”

The sheepish blush on Sam’s face and the smirk on Dean’s told him his statement rang true. “Uh, thanks,” Sam replied finally.

“Not a problem,” Doctor Bailey replied with a nod. “I’ll get you,” he said pointing at Dean. “Some sample painkillers and a final dose of the good stuff. And you,” he continued, pointing this time at Sam, “can take that bottle of Calamine with you.”

The brothers nodded and Doctor Bailey turned on his heel and left to fetch the promised painkillers. Behind him, he heard the light bickering start once more before he shut the door to silence it.

Sam shut the passenger door for his brother and turned to wave good-bye to Doctor Bailey before walking around the car to the driver’s side. He slipped inside, started the car and drove away from the clinic.

The orange sun hung low in the sky, hovering barely over the tops of the surrounding tree-lined mountains. The Impala windows were down on both sides and the cooling dusk breeze whipped through the car.

Dean leaned forward, reaching for the radio and grunted in pain, wrapping his right arm around his torso. Sam slapped his hand away from the dials. “Driver picks the music. Shot gun shuts his cake hole,” he said with a grin.

“Sam,” Dean growled his name in warning.

“Your rules, Dean,” Sam stated. His eyes flicked to his brother before returning to the road and his grin grew until dimples appeared.

“Fine time you picked to start listening to me,” Dean grumbled under his breath. He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the seat.

“I listen all the time,” Sam protested lightly. Dean glanced at him with disbelieving eyes and Sam shook his head at his grumpy brother. After a few minutes Sam spoke again, breaking the easy silence, “I think we should stay in Portland tonight.”

“Planning on spending another five hours at Powell’s?” Dean asked, rolling his window up to mid-way and shivering once.

“No,” Sam protested. An hour maybe, he thought. “It’s a good stopping point. There are several directions to head from there.” Portland would be a good stopping point so Dean could rest without overdoing it the first day. Sam knew first hand how uncomfortable sitting in the car for hours with busted ribs could be.

“Sounds good,” Dean replied. He looked out the window at the scenery as the road meandered through pasture land following the course of the deceptively calm river. “Are you sure the spirits moved on?” he asked in an abrupt change of topic.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Sam replied. “I saw the dragonflies following the river. They moved on.”

“Dragonflies?” Dean asked, furrowing his brow and turning towards Sam.

“Dragonflies were an animal totem that some Native American cultures viewed as spirits on flight to the afterlife,” Sam explained, tapping the breaks lightly to avoid hitting a jack rabbit bounding across the highway.

Dean’s lips lifted into a lopsided grin. “You’re a great sidekick, Geek boy,” he stated, turning back towards the window.

“Sidekick?” Sam asked. “The comic relief guy is the sidekick. That definitely describes you, not me,” Sam joked, hoping the easy banter would infuse normalcy back into their lives.

“Well, it’s true you don’t have a sense of humor,” Dean replied. “But the role of hero is always played by the best looking guy and that’s me.”

“I don’t think you meet the height requirements,” Sam shot back. “Shorty.”

“I’m six-one,” Dean argued.

“Yeah, you’re short,” Sam agreed with a grin.

“Whatever.”

Sam chalked up a win and the brothers fell into a comfortable silence. It stretched and lengthened until Sam noticed Dean appeared to be lost in thought. The melancholy expression his brother wore in direct contrast with his normal devil-may-care countenance.

“Hey Dean?” Sam asked, not taking his eyes from the road.

“Yeah?” Dean asked. He sounded tired and his speech slurred a bit from the medication as it finally kicked in.

“You’re going to be okay,” Sam stated, tearing his gaze from the twisting highway to his brother. “We both are.” He turned back to the road and continued with a change of subject hoping to steer Dean back into calmer waters, “I did a little research before we left and there’s possible demon activity in Mott, North Dakota.” A good hunt always seemed to cheer his brother up.

When Dean did respond, Sam shot him a quick glance thinking his brother had finally succumbed to sleep. But Dean was not sleeping; he sat slouched in the passenger seat, arms wrapped around his torso, gaze averted.

“Dean,” Sam interrupted. “Look, I think you’re looking for something I can’t give you. The truth is I won’t be okay unless you are. So, you have to promise me something.” Sam paused until Dean nodded. “You have to promise you’re going to take care of yourself. Give me this year to figure things out.”

Dean huffed lightly. “You’ve always been pushy,” he muttered. “And such a girl,” he finished with a smirk, elbowing Sam in the ribs.

Sam rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop a grin from escaping. “Get some sleep,” he said.

“When’re we stopping for dinner?” Dean asked, ignoring Sam’s command. “I’m starving.”

“We should be in civilization within a couple of hours,” Sam stated.

“A couple of hours?” Dean complained. “Just pull over and let me drive.”

“Nope,” Sam disagreed, flipping on the radio. He cruised through the stations quickly, but all he found was soft rock. It was better than nothing. “You’re not driving.”

Celine Dion’s sultry tones filtered through the Impala’s speakers. “Ah, hell no,” Dean remarked, reaching for the dial again.

Sam slapped his hand away again. “And we’ve been over that already.” Sam suppressed a grin, inwardly amused by Dean’s displeasure over the lack of acceptable musical choices. He toyed with the idea of putting them both out of their misery by pulling out the box of cassettes under the passenger seat, but he decided distracting Dean from his current frame of mind was worth the price of Celine.

Dean folded his arms across his chest. “Whatever, Sam. I changed my mind. Wake me up when we stop for dinner.” With that proclamation, he leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. Within minutes, his arms dropped from the protective position around his ribs to his sides as he fell asleep along the winding highway.

Sam turned down the soft music allowing it to play quietly in the background. The wind still whistled through Dean’s partially open window and the tires hummed on the asphalt, creating the perfect environment for Dean to sleep. Sam thought to the year ahead and while it promised the danger of demon hunts, the road he and Dean traveled - they traveled together.

A/N:  Yes, I wrote another fic that is set in my home state. But really, when you live out West there’s no shortage of haunted places to explore. Waldo is real. It was founded in 1854 by William Waldo. In the 1890’s there were 30,000 people in Waldo. Not only did the railways bypass poor Waldo, but the two major highways of the time did as well (and still do for that matter). It went from thriving metropolis, to small town, to a general store/post office, to what it is today…two graveyards in the middle of nowhere…literally. Thanks to all who have been reading! It was a fun ride!

The Story Behind the Story

If you should find yourself in Southern Oregon with a hankering to visit the ghost town of Waldo, here’s my advice. Drive to Cave Junction and find a local who knows:

a). What you are talking about and…

b). Where Waldo was located.

Because speaking from personal experience, the on-line directions bite rocks.

I had an idea of what I wanted to write, but I wanted to go out to Waldo to see the area first-hand, sort of pick up on the atmosphere and look around the old town site. When I told my husband where I wanted to go and why he said, “Sounds like a blast, let’s all go.”

So, charcoal sticks and paper in hand, we loaded into my husband’s soccer mom mini-van and headed to Waldo. An hour and a half later, we pulled off the main highway onto Waldo Road. According to our directions, the town had stood three miles down the road. The directions did not say whether it was on the right or the left side, but I expected a wide open area with a visible cemetery. I was wrong.

At mile marker three, there was an old stone marker on the left at the bottom of a hill with the plaque missing. There obviously had never had a road up the hill, so we assumed that was not the correct place. We drove a little further and when we reached mile marker four we turned around and went back.

When we reached the stone marker again, there was a small truck parked there and an elderly couple was picking their way up the hill. Deciding we had been mistaken about Waldo’s location, we followed.

The non-existent trail took us through swee’pea, manzanita bushes (I got my hair stuck as we crawled THROUGH one bush) and ferns. When we reached the top of the hill, the couple was coming back up from a lower spot on the hill.

My son asked, “Is this Waldo?”

“Waldo?” Jean (name changed) asked. “No, sweetie, that’s on the other side of the road.”

We thanked the couple and turned to leave when Bill (name changed) said, “You’ll never find it if you’ve never been there before.”

“Can you give us directions?” I asked.

“Nah, it’s a little complicated. We’ll just show you the way,” Bill replied.

My husband thanked Bill and Jean and then we headed down the hill. Jean left us in the dust (we found out later she is 72. Ouch). I stayed behind with Bill (affectionately dubbed, ‘Pokey’ by his wife) and talked about Waldo.

He told me the Protestant cemetery was on this side of the hill, the Catholic on the other side and the Chinese cemetery in the middle. He also informed me the Chinese cemetery no longer existed. By request of the Chinese government, the bodies had been exhumed, the tombstones removed and the entire lot sent back to China in the early 1900’s. All that remained were mounds of dirt.

We all piled into our respective vehicles and Jean and Bill led the way. We turned off onto a gravel, pot-holed road and it became evident very quickly that my husband’s van could go no further. Bill suggested we climb into the back of their rig, so we did and drove another mile down the bumpy road.

We parked at the foot of a steep, rutted dirt road and started walking. Once again Jean shot out ahead, my husband and son trying vainly to keep up and I talked to Bill. Part way up the hill he stopped, turned to me and said, “You know, we’re just teasing you. There’s no cemetery up this hill…yet.”

We emerged at the top of the hill amidst old-growth pine and cedar trees. Nestled in the shade of these sleeping giants were gray stone markers at the head of sunken graves. There was a children’s section, a few family plots and many, many unmarked graves where time and weather had worn away all signs minus the sunken ground.

I took a few rubbings, wrote down some thoughts and grave names/dates before we headed back down the hill. Jean and Bill were going to show us the way to the Catholic cemetery. After walking down the hill, loading back into their truck, then back into our van, we drove all the way around the hill to the other side.

We pulled into a grassy flat area clearly marked by signs that read: “Private Property. Keep Out.” What you need to understand is in rural Oregon that is a sign to be taken seriously. People come out, rifles in hand, when you trespass. And…Cave Junction is replete with naturalistic, free-spirits some of whom grow their own crops of happy grass.

Bill and Jean assured us it would be okay and if one of the property owners approached us, we would just tell them we were on the way to the cemetery and they’d let us pass. With that joyous thought in mind we proceeded to trudge two miles into the woods. We walked through a dry mining creek, past an odd stone shrine with wind-chimes, dream catchers and statues and over the Illinois River on a foot suspension bridge (metal, not rope).

My son, knowing how much I hate heights, waited until I was mid-point on the swaying bridge and then jumped up and down several times on it, causing it to rock ferociously. “Keep that up and you’ll be swimming,” I hissed. He laughed, but he did stop (lucky for him).

The Catholic cemetery is maintained better so the graves were not sunken, but only two headstones remained. The rest were marked by generic white crosses and the entire graveyard was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. If you search the tall grass carefully, you can find stained glass pieces of windows from the old church.

The feeling was surreal, being out in the middle of nowhere and knowing you were standing where a bustling town once stood. Incidentally, I never could tell where the actual town of Waldo stood. Wherever it was, Mother Nature had reclaimed the land, but it got my twisted mind to thinking and that’s how this story was born. A far cry from my original thought, ‘Dean falls in a well.’ LOL.

It also helped feed Heather’s requests for her graduation story: Hurt!Dean, a hug or a snuggle, angst (my dreaded foe) and if I could figure out how to get them wet or CPR then that would be great. So, there you have it - the story behind the story.

Oh and my husband totally scored. He convinced me this proved we needed a four wheel drive vehicle so now he has a 4X4, Ford 150 truck to accompany his soccer mom van. (c:

Thanks again for reading!