See Chapter One for summary, author's notes, etc

And the Greatest of These…

2.
It took more like two-and-a-half hours. Heading north, he drove straight into the gathering storm. Within fifteen minutes, he was battling gale-force winds and rain that battered solidly against the windshield and brought visibility down to virtually zero. He had no choice but to slow down, weighing frustration and impatience against the common sense that told him he would be no help to Dean if he drove the truck straight into a tree.

Turning east, around forty miles from Mitchell Crossing, he finally broke free of the storm. Here, the roads were dry, and the sinking sun still held a bite in its tail.

Dean had said the mine was five or six miles south of town. Bobby began looking for signs around ten miles out, yet still almost drove past the battered wooden board that hung crookedly on a post, the legend "Hooper Mine" barely legible in peeling red paint. He wrenched the steering wheel around and headed up the unpaved path, swerving frequently to avoid potholes. It was clearly some time since vehicles had used this backwoods route.

Two miles of hazardous driving ended abruptly in a wide clearing surrounded to the north and east by a dense pine forest. A couple of ramshackle huts stood forlornly to the west, and beyond them, partly obscured by a stand of tall pines, a large sign warned trespassers of danger to life and limb should they venture into the long-abandoned mineshaft.

Bobby drove into the clearing and brought the truck to a halt at a point where he had a good view of the terrain around him. He killed the engine and sat for a moment, simply listening. It was quiet, not even the sound of birdsong disturbing the almost unnatural silence. He hefted his gun, reassured by the weight of it in his hand, opened the door and stepped out of the truck.

He looked around warily. There was no sign of the Impala. No sign of Dean. No sign of anything.

"Dean?" he called, eyes still roving around, watching for movement. His voice sounded unnaturally loud.

"Over here."

The faint reply came from the direction of the mine. Bobby retrieved his first-aid kit from the truck and headed toward it, keeping a close eye on his surroundings as he went.

He found Dean sitting in the shade of the stand of pines. He was slumped against one of the larger trunks, legs stretched out in front of him, arms hanging loosely in his lap.

Bobby took one final look around to check for danger before squatting down beside him. One quick glance was enough to reveal that Dean was in bad shape. Lip split, left cheek badly bruised and the eye above it swollen half shut. The hair on the left side of his head clumped in a sticky mass of what could only be blood, and his right forearm was tightly wrapped with a makeshift bandage, dark with dried blood. Despite the heat, he was shivering, and the stale smell of vomit hung in the air.

Bobby squatted down in front of him. "Dean?"

Dean looked up, seeming to focus on him with some difficulty. "'Bout time the cavalry showed," he said softly.

Bobby grunted. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Not 's bad s'it looks."

"Well good, 'cause you look like a bone my dog's been chewing on for a week."

That got him a half-smile. "Got… bit… banged up."

"I can see that," Bobby said dryly. He could also see that Dean wasn't quite with him, eyes a little glassy and speech slurred. He reached out a hand and cupped Dean's uninjured cheek, turning his head so that the younger man had to focus on him.

"Dean, are we in any danger here?"

Dean shook his head and winced at the movement. "No. Was a… chulka… in the mine… but Sam… took care of it."

Sam took care of it? Had the chulka beaten Dean to a pulp? And if so… "Where'd Sam go, Dean?"

Dean closed his eyes. "I don' know."

"He just up and left?"

"Yeah. Pretty much."

Bobby frowned. "How long ago did he leave?"

Dean opened his eyes again and stared at him dully. "Wha's it matter? 's gone."

"How long, Dean?"

Dean's eyes drifted shut again, concussion or blood loss – probably both – taking their toll.

"Dean!" Bobby spoke more sharply. "Open your eyes, stay with me."

It was clearly an effort, but Dean forced his eyelids open and tried to focus on Bobby.

Bobby slowly repeated the question. "Dean, how long has Sam been gone?"

"Don' know." Dean's eyes flicked to the side, and Bobby followed his glance. He could see the entrance to the mine, half-hidden in undergrowth, around ten to fifteen feet below tree level. "I fell …down the steps. Guess… I hit my head. Sam… was gone when I woke up."

Bobby frowned. "So he went for help?"

A long pause.

"Dean."

"No."

That one word, uttered in a terse, defeated tone, confirmed Bobby's original fears. His jaw tightened. He had to know just how bad it had gotten. "He's not possessed," he said, more statement than fact.

"No."

"All right. Then you need to tell me what happened."

"Can we… talk 'bout this later?"

Bobby looked at him long and hard. He sensed that Dean was telling the truth when he said he didn't know where Sam had gone. It was also clear he didn't expect him to be coming back any time soon, or he'd have warned Bobby to be on his guard.

Bobby made a decision. "Yeah, it can wait. I'm gonna get you out of here, but I need to check you over first, okay?"

A muscle in Dean's cheek twitched. "'M fine."

"Humor me. What happened to your arm?"

Dean glanced down at the bloody bandage as if he'd never seen it before. "Cut it."

The bandage turned out to be an arm of a long-sleeved overshirt. It wasn't seeping blood, though there was enough soaked into Dean's T-shirt and jeans to prove that the wound had initially bled a lot. Bobby decided to leave it alone. He didn't want to risk starting fresh bleeding; Dean couldn't afford to lose any more blood right now.

"Where else does it hurt?"

"Ev'where."

"Okay," Bobby said patiently. "Where does it hurt most?"

Dean considered for a moment, and Bobby could almost see the cogs turning in his sluggish brain. "Side. Head."

"I need to take a look."

Careful examination revealed several cracked or broken ribs and a two-inch cut just above Dean's left ear. Probably a catalog of other cuts and bruises, too. All in all, the boy was a mess.

He decided against taking the time to clean any of the wounds. He knew there was a hospital in Mitchell Crossing, and his best move would be to hightail it back to town and get Dean some professional care as soon as possible.

Dean had kept still during Bobby's examination, the occasional tightening of muscles and sharp intake of breath the only indication that he was hurting. As Bobby moved back, he looked up and smiled crookedly. "Finished gropin' me?"

Bobby managed a grin. "Yeah, I've seen more than enough. Gonna get you to a hospital now and let some old dragon give you a sponge bath."

Dean scowled. "Don't need... 'spital."

"Yeah, you do, and this isn't a negotiation, so don't even bother to argue."

"Not… safe. 'm on… FBI… most-wanted list, 'member?"

"We'll have to take that risk. We're not screwing around with head injuries, Dean, and you might be hurt worst than it looks." Dean didn't argue and that fact alone worried Bobby. He scrutinized the injured man carefully. Dean looked like he was close to passing out. "Think you can make it to the truck, or do I have to carry you?"

The scathing look Dean shot him was pure Winchester, and Bobby bit back another grin. The kid was too damned independent for his own good, never knew when to give up and ask for help. He got that from his daddy.

It took some effort, but eventually Bobby had Dean on his feet. He held on as the younger man swayed dangerously and grabbed a fistful of his shirt.

"Steady, now. Take a minute."

"'M okay. Jus' bit dizzy." Dean's eyes were wide and glassy, and Bobby was sure he'd collapse in a boneless heap if he didn't hold on to him tightly.

"Take your time."

He waited a few minutes until Dean released his grip on the shirt. "World stopped spinning?"

"Kinda."

"Want to try moving now?"

"Yeah."

They made it to the truck with Bobby bearing most of Dean's weight and grunting with the effort. Boy was heavier than he looked. He paused, balancing Dean against the side of the truck so he could open the door.

"Almost there."

Dean swayed again and lost all remaining color. "Think I'm gonna hurl."

Bobby supported him as he leaned to one side, body racked with dry heaves. Probably already lost whatever solids he'd had in his stomach. Bobby winced in sympathy.

When Dean finished, he was trembling, and the freckles on the undamaged side of his face stood out starkly against the pallor. He looked so sick and miserable that for a moment, Bobby wondered if Dean had a serious internal injury he hadn't found in his quick examination. The sooner he got the kid to the hospital, the better he'd feel.

Bobby manhandled his burden into the passenger seat, then snagged a water bottle from the back seat, opened it up and put in Dean's hand. Dean stared at it blankly until Bobby gently coaxed him into lifting it to his lips and swallowing a few mouthfuls. When he finished, Bobby pulled an old blanket out of the back and wrapped it around Dean's still trembling body, then closed the door, walked around and jumped up into the driver's seat.

"Set?"

Dean just grunted, rested his head against the door and closed his eyes.