Dean lost the coin toss to go down for the salt-and-burn. He hated that Sammy was going in without him, but he shut his mouth. If he said anything, it would just give Sam leverage to bitch when he won the coin toss. So he sucked it up and took comfort in the fact that it was a daytime excursion.
What could possibly go wrong?
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The rangers had done their best to keep people off the trail. They hung signs, the cordoned off the area, they even brought in a piece of heavy equipment to move boulders across the path. Short of burning the trail down, they were at a loss.
Enter Sam and Dean.
Despite the fact that the trail was clearly marked as a hazard, people still found their way onto it. And they found their way onto the missing list not long after.
Sam discovered an old mining system, part of it running directly underneath portions of the trail. Dean learned from talking with the rangers there was a place on the trail where it had caved in straight through to the mine system below.
Sounded like a good place to start.
They traced the first disappearance back to 1983. A camper had wandered away from the rest of his group on the trail and was never seen again.
Dean packed his duffel with a long coil of rope, holy water, salt and snacks for the hike. Sam got the lighter fluid, water and extra ammo. Both had flashlights and miscellaneous other small items.
They even managed to keep their bitching to a minimum, for once just enjoying their time together on a "cake-walk" hunt.
That should have been the first red flag.
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They arrive well before lunch figuring to drop Sam down into the cave-in, grind through the salt-and-burn and then find a place on the way back out to sit and eat.
Salt, lighter fluid, flashlight and strike-anywhere matches transferred to Sam's duffel, everything else transferred to Dean's where it sits beside a gigantic tree.
Dean secures the rope around Sam's waist, "Yes, yes, I know you can tie it yourself, I'll feel better if I do though."
Sam rolls his eyes, but lets Dean do it. He knows what it costs Dean to let him go down there by himself. He wouldn't admit it, though, because Dean would just deny it. He considers it a small price to pay to be able to do this himself.
He has accepted that it really isn't that Dean doesn't trust him. Dean honestly just does not trust anyone else around him.
It used to rankle him, made him absolutely crazy, thinking Dean just had to have him on a tight leash, treat him like a child, baby him every step of the way. He's older now, though, and they've spent some time apart and Sam has learned to appreciate what his brother's actions really mean.
They scream "I love you" when Dean can't say the words.
So he kneels at the edge of the dark hole, looking over at Dean holding his lifeline in his hands. He sees that slightly manic "must protect Sammy" look in his eyes and he does the lamest thing he can think of to lighten Dean's mood.
Dean watches Sam at the edge of the hole, wishing he were the one going down into the unknown dark instead. Sure it's daylight and this should be a quick in-and-out, but that's Sammy about to drop down that hole, and he doesn't have to like it.
He does have to laugh, though, when Sam flashes him a gigantic smile and whoops, "GERONIMO!" as he slides back into the unknown.
But then the rope is biting into his hands and he remembers their last pair of gloves was ruined in the last hunt and he'd forgotten to replace them. Hadn't even thought about it until just then. Doesn't matter, though, the rope could be lined with razor blades. He'd never let go.
His hands are hurting and damn is that kid heavy, he's running with sweat in the nearing-noonday heat but it's sure as hell not sweat causing that itch between his shoulder-blades. He knows that feeling, knows something bad is headed their way and there isn't a damn thing he can do to stop it.
He takes a breath to yell a warning to Sam but before he even finishes his inhale he's hauled forward with enough force that he's yanked clean off his feet. Dean slams to the ground on his stomach, knocking the wind out of him and blacking his vision out for a second.
He never loses his grip on the rope, though.
Fear overrides his body's shut-down mechanism and he forces his uncooperative lungs to drag in enough air to shout, "SAMMY!"
Dean feels the weight on the other end of the rope, swaying, dead (don'tsaydead) weight in the open. Dean knows he's hurt after hitting the ground that hard. He doesn't know how bad, doesn't care. His hands feel like they're on fire, that much he does know.
Growling through the pain he makes it to his feet, keeps the rope as steady as he can and feeds it through his hands as he walks backward toward his duffel and the tree. Wrapping the tail end of the rope around the tree he does a quick and dirty knot he knows will hold long enough for what he needs to do.
He grabs the flashlight from the pack and sticks it in his back pocket nestled against the .45 in his waistband He unties his flannel from his waist and strips off his t-shirt as he hurries up to the edge of the hole.
Snapping on the flashlight he looks down the hole and his heart nearly stops. Sam is limp, hanging at the end of the rope by his waist. Dean starts shaking so bad he needs to grab the flashlight with both hands to steady it, to see if Sam is breathing.
pleaseohpleaseohplease
For one long moment that seems to last for decades, there's nothing. And then he sees it - a shallow breath. The rope is cutting into him, though, making it hard to breathe. Dean pans the flashlight around the floor of the cave-in. It's not ideal, but it could definitely be worse.
Dean hurries back to the tree, clicking off the flashlight and tucking it back in his waistband on the way. He wraps his flannel partly around one hand and his t-shirt partly around the other and unties the rope. As gently as he can manage while still hurrying the hell UP, he lowers Sam's unconscious body the rest of the way down desperately hoping he's not doing more harm than good.
He's got to get down there though, and this is the only way.
When he feels the tension leave the rope, he knots his shirts together making their combined length as long as possible. He loops them around the tree, then loops the rope around the shirts. Hopefully the shirts will provide enough of a buffer between the tree bark and the rope that the rope won't be damaged by the rough bark. That's the hope, and right now hope is all he has.
Once the rope is secure he moves over to the edge of the hole, takes a steadying breath and lowers himself down. He used to wonder why rope climbing was a staple in their training, but that was before he started hunting and now he knows. He's ridiculously thankful for that training right now.
He keeps his awareness turned outward, waiting for an attack like the one that took Sam out, but he's down quickly and nothing comes his way. Unfortunately not even the hyper-alertness is enough to distract him from the raging pain in his hands or the way the rope rasps against whatever damage he's ignoring on his chest and stomach.
He reaches the bottom and straddles Sam's motionless frame. Crouching down he reaches one hand out to check his brother's pulse, with the other he reaches for Sam's duffel. Satisfied with the steady, strong pulse, he reaches back and pulls out his flashlight. He can see Sam is bleeding, there's a gash over his left eyebrow. It hurts something inside him to have to turn away from his injured brother, but he'll have to get rid of the ghost before he can help Sam.
There are several sets of remains strewn about, but only one looks old enough to be the camper they're looking for. Grabbing the salt, accelerant and matches Dean hurries over to the skeletal remains. Cradling the flashlight between his shoulder and ear, he dumps salt with one hand and lighter fluid with the other. Tossing both containers he grabs the matches and is about to light one when he feels that familiar itch and instinctively drops flat to the floor just as a large rock sails by where his head just was.
He feels the air crackling around him as it amps up to toss him around like a ragdoll, though it takes less than a fraction of a millisecond to go from amping to doing. With his thumbnail he flicks the match to life and drops it from where he's lying practically on top of the remains.
Too close.
He's way too close to get away in time, and he knows it, but desperate times and all of that. He feels the burn along his bare arm and chest, manages to shield his face with his other arm as he rolls away.
He starts to get up, reaching for the flashlight as he goes, but can't quite make it to his feet. Dropping back to his hands and knees he breathes through the maelstrom of pain and fear. Adrenaline sears through his veins like liquid ice when he hears an unsteady, "Dean?"
In a flash somehow he's made it to Sam's side, Dean is trying to shift him so he can look at the gash over his eyebrow, how much blood has he lost, does it need stitches? He sees Sam's eyes rake over him as well. They're a little glassy, but he knows his little brother is cataloging every bump, bruise, blister and scrape he's been ignoring since slamming into the dirt who knows how long ago.
Sam flinches hard when Dean opens the wound up just a little to see how deep it is. "I know, I'm sorry buddy. I just gotta see. You're doing great."
Sam huffs out a small laugh. "I'm not five, Dean," he says but Dean can see that sparkle in his eyes, the gratitude on his face.
"Yeah, well, you coulda fooled me. Down here playing in the dirt like a chubby twelve year old." Dean smirks and arches an eyebrow, but his mind is already on getting them back up the rope and what he will need to do to patch Sammy up once they get back.
He stops probing the edges of Sam's wound and, without asking Dean's permission, his mutinous hand slides down to cup Sam's cheek. He leaves it there for just a moment, soaking in the relief of Sam being warm and alive.
Sam doesn't move, doesn't breathe, doesn't blink from his brother's eyes. He appreciates the moment for the rare gift that it is and soaks in the fleeting, blatant display of his brother's love. Not that he ever has any doubt that it is there, it's just very humbling when it spills over like this.
All too soon Dean realizes his free arm is cradling his own naked, abused abdomen and the moment is way too intimate suddenly. Instead of yanking away like Sam has a communicable disease like his instincts tell him to, though, he slides his hand down the side of Sam's neck to his shoulder as his own chin drops to his bare chest.
"Scared the shit out of me, bro," he mutters, takes a deep breath and pats Sam on the shoulder twice before turning away to gather their gear so they can get the hell out of there.
He's got a little brother to patch up.