Dean's done some pretty stupid things before. The underage waitress in Kenosha, for one. And the syphilitic stripper in Lincoln, the horny English teacher in Portland whose father-in-law happened to be the county sheriff...let's just say, the list goes on.
But this? This might be the stupidest thing Dean's ever done.
Lightning flashes, lighting up the forest in front of him. The thunder booms a second later. There's a tornado warning--half the reason Dean's traipsing through the dense forest in the dead of night in the middle of the worst storm to hit Potter County since '89--the other half being that he's just plain pissed they left without him. Never mind the part where he's hacking like a lifelong chain-smoker with emphysema. Or the part where he might have actually broken a rib from all the coughing. He doesn't have freaking pneumonia, no matter what Dad says. He would know if he had pneumonia, and he doesn't. It's a bad cold. Okay, maybe the worst cold he's ever had in his 19 years on this planet, but a cold nonetheless.
God, where the fuck is this stupid lake?
More lightning, and a loud cracking followed by a muted thump. Dean shifts the flashlight to the right and sees the slightly charred corpse of a maple tree blocking the trail. Great.
He takes a step off the trail and sinks up to his ankle in the thick mud. He pulls his foot back with a loud squelch. So much for that idea. He considers the downed tree, decides to just climb over it instead. It's not that big around, but it's not lying flat on the ground; there's about a foot of clearance underneath. He bends down to set the shotgun on the ground beneath the tree and the change in position makes him cough. He tries to straighten up but dizziness overtakes him and he pitches forward. There's a sharp pain in his head, then blackness.
x0x0x
"Dad, look," Sam says, pointing. "The car's gone."
John looks at the empty parking space illuminated by the truck's headlights. Raindrops splash in the large puddle that covers half the painted boundary line. The storm's dying down, but the rain isn't letting up much. John pulls into the vacant space and digs the motel key out of his pocket. "Go inside and check if his guns are gone."
Sam nods and jumps out of the truck. He's back a minute later. "He took the sawed-off and the Glock."
John grits his teeth. Dean, you fucking idiot. He waits for Sam to buckle his seat belt, then throws the gearshift into reverse and points the car north to the state game lands.
"There," Sam says, indicating a dark shape on the side of the road. It's the Impala, all right.
John shakes his head. "I'm gonna kill that kid," he mutters. He parks behind the car and kills the headlights. "Grab your stuff. I'm gonna drive down the other way, see if he managed to make it all the way to the lake."
"Okay," Sam replies, opening the door. The rain is still steady but it's a little lighter than before. It's still pitch-black outside; dawn isn't for another few hours. Sam climbs down and turns on his flashlight. John watches as Sam disappears into the brush, the light bobbing up and down, illuminating the trail.
x0x0x
It's cold, and wet, and dark, and Sam's older brother is possibly the stupidest person in the world. Sam brushes his soaking wet hair out of his eyes (maybe Dad's right, it is time for a haircut) and steps over a thick branch. There are branches down everywhere, huge ones that must have come off hundred-year-old trees. He's been walking for almost half an hour. He hopes to God he finds Dean soon. He's pretty sure Dean didn't make it to the lake. Hell, he's pretty sure Dean wouldn't have recognized the lake even if he did, Dean's that sick.
His flashlight beam falls on a downed tree blocking the trail. As he swings the flashlight around to look for an alternate path, a glint of reflected light catches his eye. It's Dean's handgun. Thank God. Shifting the light to the left reveals a heap of wet denim and leather. Sam runs forward. "Dean!"
Dean doesn't stir. Sam drops to his knees beside him, not caring how wet the ground is. "Dean, wake up," he says, gently shaking Dean's shoulder.
Dean's eyes flutter and he coughs, wet and painful-sounding. "S'mmy?" he murmurs.
"Yeah, it's me," Sam replies. "We've gotta get out of here. Can you get up?"
Dean groans softly and pushes himself up. His right temple is scratched and bloody and he's got the beginnings of a black eye. Sam carefully pulls Dean up to standing and slings Dean's arm over his shoulder to support him. He digs Dean's cell phone out of his pocket and dials Dad, who answers on the first ring. "I found him," says Sam.
"How is he? Where are you?"
"Not too good, and about three-quarters of the way to the lake. Trail's blocked, but I think we can get around it."
"Okay. good." Dad sounds a little relieved, but still worried. "Come this way, I'll meet up with you on the trail."
"Okay," Sam agrees. He disconnects the call and puts the phone in his own pocket. He turns his attention back to Dean. "Dad's coming. We gotta get around this tree."
"Over." Dean coughs. "Over this tree."
"Yeah." Sam shifts Dean to lean against the tree trunk. "I'll go over, then I'll help you." Sam clambers easily over the tree and leans across to take hold of Dean. He manages to haul Dean up and over the tree but has to manhandle him quite a bit to keep him from falling once he's on the other side. Even that little bit of exertion sends Dean into a paroxysm of harsh, rattling coughs. Sam can't help but notice the way Dean braces his ribs when he coughs and the deep lines of pain that are etched into his forehead and around his mouth. Dean should be in a hospital, not hiking around in the woods in the pouring rain.
Sam puts his arm around Dean and nudges him forward. "Come on, let's go."