Dean screamed. Sam heard it but couldn't pinpoint where the sound was coming from. It was a blood-curdling sound and Sam's heart was pounding as he strained to see anything in the thick, swirling fog that had enveloped them. The fog had come from nowhere, moments after they had arrived in the graveyard. It was supposed to be a straight-forward salt and burn gig but they had only gone a few steps past the wrought-iron double gates, when the fog engulfed them.
Then the scream. Sam frantically shone his torch in every direction but nothing pierced the dense mist. He heard a scuffling sound and realised there was something moving nearby. Maybe it was Dean. He dropped to his knees and started to crawl, feeling the ground in front of him, and scraping his knuckles along the side of a fallen headstone. The ground was damp and the denim of his jeans was soon soaked through and covered in mud and leaf mould. Every so often he heard the scuffling noise again, as he slowly inched forward. "Dean! Where are you?" No answer.
Something soft and wispy brushed past his face and he instinctively brought his hand up to bat it away but it was already gone. Panic was rising now and he scrambled forwards blindly, not caring that his hands were being scraped raw by stones, bits of marble chippings and broken headstones.
A strangled cry, much quieter than the first time. Then some muffled noises that sounded like stifled whimpers. Could that really be Dean? He would have to be in some serious agony to cry out at all, let alone make those noises. Sam called out again, but still there was no answer. If I can hear him, then surely he can hear me, so why doesn't he answer?
Suddenly the curtain of fog parted and Sam found himself at the edge of a small circle where the fog had cleared. In the middle of the circle, a bright shaft of moonlight shone down on a gnarled, leafless tree, and to Sam's horror, there was Dean, sitting on the ground but clearly impaled against the trunk of the tree with some kind of spear through his shoulder. Sam ran towards his brother but immediately felt the wispy creatures brushing all around him. In the moonlight he could see them shimmering around Dean too, but where they touched him, they sliced into his skin. He was covered in hundreds of tiny bleeding cuts, and was biting at the thick sleeve of his jacket to stop himself from crying out. His other arm hung limply at his side, rendered useless by the spear pinning his shoulder to the tree.
When Dean finally noticed Sam, he called out to him to stay away but Sam walked right up to him, with the creatures flying all around him, strangely doing no injury to him at all. Kneeling down, Sam took a closer look at the spear. It was impossible to tell how far it was embedded into the tree so his options were limited. He could try to saw through the shaft between Dean's shoulder and the bark of the tree, or cut through the front of the spear and pull Dean off it. Either way, it was going to hurt like a bitch. There was also the problem of the creatures which were still cutting Dean and now starting to shred his jacket and the front of his shirt. Nicks were already appearing on Dean's chest. His head, face, neck and hands were running with blood and he looked to be on the point of passing out. Actually, that was probably a good thing… Sam started sawing at the front of the spear with the mini hacksaw from his Swiss army knife. It didn't take long but by the time he had cut through it, Dean had indeed passed out. Sam got hold of his brother under both arms and swiftly, but as gently as he could, pulled him forwards and away from the trunk of the tree. The momentum, plus Dean's weight, pulled him backwards and he fell onto his back with Dean slumped on top of him. Out cold. Sam checked his pulse. It was there, if a little erratic. He definitely needed to get to a hospital. It was actually only then that Sam realised the creatures had stopped cutting Dean, though they were still flitting around them both in their hundreds. Whatever immunity Sam had from them, he appeared to be protecting Dean with it as long as they were in direct contact with each other. Finally a break, Sam thought.
The next problem was the fog. Not only was it too dense to walk through and find the way back to the gates and the Impala parked outside it, but carrying Dean's dead weight as well as trying to avoid tripping over headstones, was going to be well nigh impossible. Yet what choice was there? So with some relief that Dean was unconscious, he hefted him over his shoulder in a fireman's lift and headed back into the thick mist. Checking his footing carefully with every step, he edged forward, desperately hoping he wouldn't trip and add concussion to Dean's injuries. It was agonisingly slow and he didn't even know if he was heading in the right direction, or in fact, getting ever further away from the gates.
There was no way of telling how long he had been walking, but finally he felt firmer ground underfoot and realised he must be on the road leading to the gates. Dean was beginning to regain consciousness judging by the groaning noises that accompanied every jolting step. Sam sympathised but there really wasn't anything he could do about it. Mercifully the next step took him past the entrance and he was instantly back in clear night air. The mysterious fog was somehow confined to the boundaries of the graveyard. Clearly they had more work to do there, but for now, Sam had to get Dean to a hospital. He opened the rear door of the Impala and managed to manhandle Dean into the back seat, enduring some colourful language from his barely conscious brother in the process. "You're welcome Dean – you ungrateful bastard." His levity hid a deep concern at Dean's blood covered face and shallow breathing. Having quickly found out where the hospital was, he wasted no more time in getting there.
Several hours later, Sam entered a ward and found Dean sitting up in bed, in the far corner. One arm was in a sling and his face and hands were a mess of cuts, liberally slathered in antiseptic cream. It was not a pretty picture and Sam couldn't suppress a snigger as he approached the bed. "Hey, what's so funny Dude?" "Dean, have you looked in a mirror?" "Aw, c'mon, it can't be that bad right?" Dean looked up at Sam with an almost childish expression of quizzical hope on his face. Sam tried his best not to laugh, but the wide smirk gave him away. "Dean, just don't bother trying to hit on the nurses any time soon!"