Thank you SOOO much to all of you who have reviewed and/or favorited this story. You are such an encouragement and inspiration for me. As a thanks, I am posting this chapter a day early. Hope you enjoy. Also, thanks to LADragon12, Sarah, and the other anonymous reviewers. Your comments are much appreciated! :)

Enjoy...

Chapter 3

It all happened so fast.

Sam guessed that little over thirty seconds could have passed from the moment he had first spotted the spirit of Jeremiah Moulder, to getting knocked on his rear, to hearing Dean's gun fire and looking up to see his brother flying through the air.

For a horrible second, he saw Dean teetering on the edge of the ridge, arms outstretched, gun somehow still miraculously clutched in one hand…and then with a single blink of an eye, he was gone."

"Dean!"

Sam wasn't even really aware of screaming his brother's name. He flung himself forward, both his gun and the spirit of Jeremiah completely forgotten in the horror of watching his brother fall. He reached the edge just in time to see Dean bounce and roll the last twenty yards down the steep incline before coming to rest in a motionless heap on the narrow stretch of bank at the base of the ridge.

"Dean!" Sam couldn't help but call out his brother's name again, his heart pounding so hard he thought for sure it was going to beat its way out of his chest. "No, no, no, no," he whispered, staring intently at his brother's limp form, mentally willing Dean to stir, to give him some kind of indication that he was okay. But Dean did not move, and from this far away it was impossible to make out the rise and fall of his brother's chest that would have at least reassured him that Dean was still alive.

"Please…please be okay," Sam thought desperately, his eyes searching the ridge frantically for some way to safely get down to his brother. The area immediately around Sam was far too steep to attempt to scale, but about a hundred yards further up the ridge he could see the ground angling downward, the slope leading down to the river far less sheer.

"Hang on, Dean," he muttered, forcing himself to his feet and grabbing his shotgun from the ground beside him. "I'm coming." Tearing his eyes from his brother's prone form, he took off down the ridge at a dead run, fear lending him speed. He knew Jeremiah could return at any moment, and the idea of his brother lying helpless and vulnerable at the base of the ridge was terrifying. Sam could only hope the spirit would assume Dean was out of the picture and come after him instead. His hand tightened on the grip of his gun, and he found himself almost wishing Jeremiah would appear so he could blow the bastard full of rock-salt. Not a lasting solution, of course, but it would certainly make him feel slightly better.

He reached the angled portion of the ridge and began his hasty descent down toward the river, slipping and sliding in the wet earth, using the occasional stray bush or large boulder to help steady him. It seemed to take forever to reach the base of the slope, and with each passing minute the fear bubbling in his belly shifted more towards full out panic. He had no idea what to expect when he reached his brother, but his mind had no problem coming up with numerous morbid possibilities, each one more gruesome then the next. He tried to force the disturbing images from his thoughts by repeating "He's okay…he's going to be fine" over and over again under his breath, but he hadn't quite managed to convince himself by the time his booted feet finally hit the sandy bank of the river.

The deep gloom of late evening was quickly shifting toward full dark, and though Sam wanted to race down the shore as fast as his legs would carry him, he forced himself to slow down lest he accidently run right past his brother. His heart was still racing, making his chest ache and his breath come out in strangled gasps. The palm gripping his gun was slick and sweaty, and he kept biting his bottom lip between his teeth as his eyes searched each shadowy boulder or clump of brush he passed.

After what seemed like ages, he finally spotted the crumpled form of his brother, and he stumbled forward, unaware of the small cry that escaped his lips. Dean was lying on his side on the sandy ground, head turned to one side, one arm bent and tucked partially beneath him while the other rested near his head. As far as Sam could tell, he hadn't moved at all from where he had first landed.

Dropping to his knees beside his brother, Sam had to fight off the instinctive urge to pull Dean up off the ground and into his arms. But the rules of basic first aid had been drilled into his head from a young age, and he knew with the type of fall Dean had taken it would be dangerous to move him at all until he determined the extent of his injuries. So instead of grabbing his brother, he merely let one hand drop cautiously on his back while the other hand reached for the artery in his neck.

He felt the reassuring rise and fall of Dean's diaphragm at about the same moment he picked up the steady thump of his brother's pulse beneath his fingers. The wave of relief that swept over him was so strong that, had he not already been kneeling, his legs would have surely buckled. As it was, he felt his shoulders slump and his head bow as he let out a deep breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding.

"Thank you…" he breathed, unsure who he was talking to, but needing to give voice to the overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude he felt at finding his brother alive. He had no idea how badly Dean was injured, but as long as he was breathing and had a pulse, he had a chance, and that was all Sam needed at the moment.

"Dean," Sam called softly, reaching out and tapping his brother's cheek gently with one hand. "Dean, can you hear me?"

No response. Not so much as a groan.

Sam swallowed his disappointment, running his gaze up and down his brother's limp form for any obvious sign of injury. He knew he needed to do a more thorough examination, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to see anything in the growing dark.

A sudden idea hit him, and he began looking around for any sign of Dean's duffel bag. He spotted it lying about ten yards away and quickly rose to retrieve it. Bringing it back to his brother's side, he hastily unzipped it and began rooting around for the torch lantern he knew his father kept in there. He finally found it and drew it from the bag, wincing slightly when he saw the long crack running along its side. Mentally crossing his fingers, he flipped the switch at the base of the lantern, relieved when the small row of LED lights instantly flickered to life.

Placing the lantern near Dean's head, Sam couldn't help but wince as he looked down at his brother. What he had originally thought was a heavy smear of dirt down the left side of Dean's temple was actually blood. With the light from the lantern, Sam could trace the blood trail back up to a narrow cut high on his brother's forehead, just below his hairline. The cut was still oozing slightly, but Sam was more concerned with the lump beneath the injury, as well as the heavy bruising he could already see spreading down across his brother's forehead. He had no idea how bad the injury was, but he knew if he wasn't able to wake Dean soon that they would be in serious trouble. Head injuries were nothing to be played around with.

There was something disconcerting about the way the light from the lantern played across his brother's features, casting deep shadows around his eyes, while the rest of his face was bathed in an iridescent glow. It made Dean look far too pale…almost ghostlike, and Sam couldn't help the shudder that ran down his spine.

The thought of ghosts brought to mind their other problem - Jeremiah. Sam had no idea why the spirit had not reappeared to finish them off, but he knew he couldn't expect their luck to hold out indefinitely. He needed to be able to focus on his brother without fearing that Jeremiah would suddenly reappear and chuck him into the river when he wasn't looking.

"Hold on, Dean," Sam muttered, rummaging through the weapon's bag yet again before pulling out a small, one gallon portable gas tank. Instead of gas, however, this tank contained one gallon of pure salt. Sam quickly rose, and starting at the base of the ridge, began creating a wide ring of salt with Dean at its center.

Once finished with the salt ring, he returned to Dean's side, jerking slightly in surprise when he found his brother's eyes open and watching him. "Dean…hey, man," he greeted softly, dropping back down to his knees next to his brother, unable to hide the rush of emotion that swept through him at the sight of the familiar green eyes staring back at him.

Dean made a soft sound that might have been an attempt at a greeting or merely a groan, Sam wasn't sure which. He began to stir, his head lifting slightly from the sand, and Sam hurriedly placed a restraining hand on his back before his brother could move any further. "Easy, Dean," he cautioned. "Try not to move. You took quite a fall and I haven't had the chance to check you over yet."

Dean blinked up at him, then swallowed hard. "What…what happened?" he asked, his voice sounding like sandpaper, barely audible over the noise of the river behind them.

"Don't you remember," Sam asked, watching his brother's face closely. "Jeremiah tossed you off the edge of the ridge."

Dean stared back at him blankly, his face showing no indication he had any idea what Sam was talking about. Sam bit his bottom lip, trying hard to hide his worry. He knew head wounds could be unpredictable, causing all sorts of symptoms, not the least of which was memory loss. The fact that his brother was awake and talking was a good sign, and if that was all he got, he would take it gladly.

But in a moment his brother's gaze cleared, and Sam could see dawning comprehension. "Well," Dean muttered, his voice still sounding weak and gravely, "that wasn't very nice of him."

Sam let out a small huff of laughter, though the situation was anything but funny. Still, his brother's typical reaction of handling a serious situation with wit and sarcasm was so very welcome at the moment, he couldn't help himself. "I guess the gut full of rock salt you gave him must have pissed him off," he replied lightly. "At least he hasn't reappeared since then. I put a ring of salt around us just in case, though."

"Good thinking," Dean muttered, still lying with one cheek pressed into the rocky sand of the bank.

"Do you have any pain in your neck or back?" Sam asked, anxious to get his brother into a more comfortable position, but hesitant to move him until he knew it wouldn't cause further injury.

Dean let out a small sigh, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. "Hard to tell," he whispered, forcing Sam to lean in close in order to hear him. "I pretty much hurt all over at the moment."

Sam winced in sympathy. "Okay, well can you feel all your limbs?" he asked, deciding to go a different route to find out what he needed to know. "Can you wiggle your fingers and toes for me?"

Very slowly the fingers of the hand next to Dean's head began to fold back until only the middle one remained. Sam grinned down at his brother. "Now your toes," he ordered, choosing to ignore the silent insult.

Dean gave him a bland look, but a moment later his face twisted into a grimace, and a soft sound of pain escaped his lips.

"Dean, what is it?" Sam asked worriedly, leaning close.

"My right foot," Dean gasped, his face still tightly clenched against the pain.

Sam grabbed the lantern and moved it down Dean's body so he could get a better look at his brother's leg. He grimaced at what he saw. Dean's right foot was twisted at an odd angle, the toe of his boot pointing in a direction that shouldn't have been possible from the position of his leg. Sam felt his stomach clench at the sight, and he quickly brought his gaze back to Dean's face.

"Sorry man, but I think your ankle's broken," he delivered the bad news to his brother.

Dean accepted the diagnosis with a small grunt, his eyes drifting closed once more in a way that worried Sam. "Hey," Sam called, and then when that received no response, "Dean!" in a louder, more persistent voice.

At his shout, Dean's eyes slid open once more, but far too slowly for Sam's liking, as though his brother was fighting off a drug or alcohol induced slumber. "Stay with me, man," Sam urged, moving the light back up near his brother's face, fighting to keep the fear out of his voice. "I think you have a concussion, Dean. You have to try and stay awake, okay?"

Dean gave a slight nod, then pulled his other hand free from under his body and began to slowly push himself over onto his back, careful not to move his injured leg. Sam hovered over him worriedly, still not certain that his brother should be moving, but relieved that he seemed to have full use of his limbs, thus reducing the likelihood of a spinal cord injury.

Once Dean was on his back, he lay for a few moments, breathing heavily, his face a mask of pain. Sam pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. He felt a mixture of worry and relief when Dean eventually began to struggle to sit up, and he hurried to help. Grabbing Dean's shoulders he lifted his brother up slightly with one hand while he pushed the duffel bag behind his brother's back with the other. It wasn't the most comfortable thing to lean against, but at least Dean wouldn't have to expend the energy necessary to sit upright on his own.

Dean collapsed back against the bag gratefully, his breathing ragged, his face even paler in the harsh light of the lamp.

"You okay?" Sam asked quietly, already knowing the answer, but unable to help himself from asking anyway.

Dean let out a short grunt, one hand snaking around to hug his ribs, his features strained. "I'll be alright."

Sam might have been more inclined to believe him if Dean hadn't chosen that moment to twist his upper torso sideways and promptly vomit all over the sand. Sam watched helplessly as his brother's body shook with the force of the heaves, any doubt he had about Dean having a concussion disappearing with each convulsion. He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, silently offering the only support he could.

Once Dean had brought himself back under control, Sam rose and moved around his brother to carefully kick sand over the pile of sick. There was no way he was going to try and move Dean, and he didn't want the smell to trigger another round of heaving from his already weakened and battered sibling. When he had finished with that task, he moved to the duffel and unclipped his brother's water bottle from the side. Dean had his eyes closed, his arm still wrapped protectively around his chest, his breathing harsh. Sam touched him lightly on the shoulder, and when Dean opened his eyes, he offered the water bottle. Dean took it gratefully, spitting out the first mouth-full before taking several deep swallows.

Sam watched him carefully and waited until Dean had lowered the bottle before speaking. "Okay, broken ankle and cracked skull aside, what else hurts…and don't try to give me that 'I'm fine' crap, either, because I'm not buying it."

Dean grimaced up at him, and for a moment Sam was certain his brother was going to be stubborn, but then his shoulders slumped slightly, and he let out a long sigh. "Mostly I just feel banged up," he admitted tiredly, grimacing as he shifted slightly in an effort to find a more comfortable position against the bag, "like I went one too many rounds with Mr. T. My ribs are a little sore, but not bad enough that I think they're broken. Earlier exclusions aside, I don't think anything else is seriously damaged."

Sam let out a noncommittal grunt and reached for the buttons on his brother's jacket. He saw Dean's wrist twitch and half expected his brother to try and push his hands away, but surprisingly Dean remained still and cooperative. "Crap, he must really be hurting!"

Sam pushed the edges of the jacket aside and reached for the hem of Dean's shirt. He carefully lifted the material up, bringing the light closer so he could get a good look at his brother's torso. He kept his expression carefully neutral, but inwardly he winced at the myriad of splotchy bruises and scrapes that painted his brother's flesh an impressive canopy of red, black, and blue. He pressed his fingers gently against his brother's ribs, receiving a slight flinch in response. Deciding to trust Dean's judgment and refrain from causing him any further pain, Sam carefully lowered the shirt once more.

"Well, doctor, think I'll live?" Dean asked, the hint of sarcasm unmistakable.

Sam gave him a level look. "Probably," he responded shortly. "That is, unless you keep annoying me…," he trailed off, letting the empty threat hang in the air.

Dean blinked at him in surprise, then gave him a small grin. "Now that's just cruel, …threatening a man when he's down. You need to work on your bedside manner a bit, Nurse Nancy."

Sam felt some of the tension knotted in his stomach ease slightly, despite the fact that his brother's easy banter contained only half of its normal spark. He knew Dean had to be hurting badly, but as long as he was making even a modicum attempt at joking, it meant he was coping. He knew from past experience that it was when Dean grew silent and complacent that he needed to worry.

"Your head is still bleeding," Sam pointed out, artfully steering the subject back to the matter at hand. "Probably could use some stitches, but since Dad has the med kit…" he trailed off, his shoulders slumping slightly in frustration.

Without their medical bag, he was extremely limited in what he could do to help his brother. No bandages, no antiseptic, no needle and thread…he didn't even have any painkillers he could offer Dean. In addition, their dad also had their spare change of clothes. Both of them were completely soaked through from a day walking in the rain, and with the onset of night, he knew it was going to get cold. With Dean's injuries, he was worried about the possibility of his brother going into shock.

And there wasn't a single thing he could do about any of it.

Rising to his feet, he quickly turned away to face the river, biting his lip as he clenched his fists at his side. He couldn't ever remember feeling quite this helpless…this inadequate. His brother needed him, and Sam couldn't help but be afraid that he wouldn't be up to the task.


Dean watched Sam silently, not really liking the tense set of his brother's shoulders or the tightness of his stance. It wasn't difficult for him to guess at what Sam was thinking, and he let out a soft sigh. He found it amazing that Sam, who was basically a genius, who excelled at everything he did, always seemed to have trouble doubting himself.

"Sam." He said the name quietly, but with enough emphasis to immediately draw Sam's attention back to him. He looked onto his brother's hazel eyes and forced a reassuring smile. "It's going to be okay," he said softly, a gentle emphasis on each word. "You're doing just fine."

Sam stared back at him for a moment, his expression unreadable, though his eyes still held a hint of doubt. Eventually he tore his gaze away, glancing quickly toward the river and swallowing hard before turning to kneel by Dean's side once more.

"I think there's some holy water in the duffel," he said slowly, his brain obviously kicking back into gear. "I'll use that to clean out the cut…better than using up our drinking water. I also saw Dad put some fresh rags in there for cleaning the guns. I can use those as bandages."

Dean gave him a small smile. "Sounds like you have a plan," he replied lightly. He pulled himself upright long enough for Sam to grab the holy water and a small handful of rags from the bag, then settled himself back down, unable to suppress a low groan.

His whole body throbbed with pain, but the fierce ache in his temple and the stabbing agony shooting up his leg from his broken ankle were by far the worst. Part of him wanted nothing more than to lay his head back, close his eyes, and succumb to the comfortable oblivion of unconsciousness, but he knew that would be a bad idea.

At least his stomach seemed to be done with its attempt to exit his body through his mouth, though he still felt dizzy and a little nauseous. He had been told by more than one doctor that the effects of a concussion resembled a really bad hangover, but having experienced both, Dean would have taken the hangover any day of the week.

"Okay, try to hold still," Sam murmured as he finished soaking one of the rags in holy water and set about gently cleaning the blood and dirt from the gash on Dean's forehead. Dean sat silent and still through the process, working on keeping his breathing even and steady. When he had finished cleaning the wound, Sam folded another cloth into a small pad and pressed it firmly against the cut. Dean let out a small grunt, but otherwise did not react to the bandage being put into place. Using his pocket knife, Sam cut a long strip from around the bottom of his t-shirt, then used the cloth to bind the makeshift bandage in place. Once done, he sat back on his heels to admire his handiwork.

"Do I look like the karate kid?" Dean asked wryly, lifting one hand to touch the edge of the bandage wrapped around his head.

Sam reached out and batted his hand away. "Don't touch it," he ordered. "And if you're talking about the scene where he gets his ass kicked by the Cobra Kai gang, then yeah…I can definitely see the resemblance."

Dean opened his mouth to retort, but a sudden shudder ran the length of his body, and the resulting wave of pain from his broken ankle had him crying out instead. He quickly clamped his jaw shut on the cry, squeezing his eyes closed as he fought against the ferocious stabs of agony.

"Dean?" He heard the worry in Sam's voice, but for the moment was unable to respond, too caught up in the battle to get his battered body back under control. He felt Sam shift closer, and a second later his brother's hand came to rest on his shoulder. Dean used the contact as an anchor, forcing all his attention on the steady pressure as he fought to bring his breathing back under control.

He had no idea how long it took…it could have been one minute or five minutes…but eventually the stabbing pain receded back to a sharp ache and he was able to open his eyes and unclench his jaw. He looked up into his brother's anxious face and tried to pull off a reassuring smile, but the muscles in his face didn't seem to be cooperating.

"Is it your ankle?" Sam asked softly, his voice filled with concern, but also containing an underlying note of fear. He glanced down toward the offending appendage, then quickly pulled his gaze back up to Dean's face. This time there was no denying the edge of panic in his expression. "I think I'm going to have to set the bone, Dean," he said slowly, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip in a way he adopted when extremely nervous.

Dean merely nodded, not yet trusting his voice. His stomach clenched painfully at the thought of Sam even touching his ankle let alone popping the bone back in place, but he knew it needed to be done. If left too long, the displaced bone could cut off circulation to his foot, thus causing even greater damage. Still, knowing the reason behind the necessity didn't make him dread it any less. Crap but this was going to hurt! A lot!

Surprisingly, Sam looked as frightened by the prospect of setting the bone as Dean felt. He was staring down at Dean with barely concealed dread, his eyes wide and his face pale. "I've never set a bone before," he whispered, swallowing hard. "What if I hurt you worse?"

"You won't," Dean replied, his voice sounding stronger than he felt. He had always been able to push his own fear aside to calm and reassure his brother, and this time was no different. He felt his stomach settle as he reached up to clasp Sam's wrist where it still rested on his shoulder. "Just remember to hold the leg steady and whatever you do, do it quickly. You'll do fine."

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but when he opened them again a second later there was new resolve shining there. He gave Dean's shoulder one more squeeze, which Dean returned with the hand still clasping Sam's wrist, and then both brothers let go.

Sam grabbed the torch lantern and moved it down to set at Dean's feet, his eyes already focused on the new task at hand. "I've got to get your boot off before I can do anything," he stated, glancing up at Dean quickly. "Do I cut it off or would you prefer me to use the laces?"

"Cut it," Dean answered shortly, unable to stomach the thought of Sam tugging at his laces in order to loosen them. Any way he looked at it, this was going to suck, and he allowed himself a single moment of longing for the small vile of morphine tucked away in the medical kit. Normally he wasn't a fan of the drug, since it made him more than a little loopy, but at the moment he would have been willing to forgo a bit of dignity if it meant taking the edge off the pain he knew was coming.

They kept their pocket knives sharp, but even so, it took Sam a while to cut through the thick leather of the boot. Dean chose not to watch his brother work, but rested his head back against the duffel and kept his eyes firmly closed, focusing on keeping his breathing even and steady. He knew Sam was being as careful as possible, but even the slightest jostle of his mangled limb set waves of pain up his leg that had him wanting to cry out. He refused to allow any sounds of discomfort to pass from his lips, however, knowing it would only serve to distract and upset his brother. Instead, he clenched his teeth together so firmly that he felt the muscles along his jaw twitch and cramp from the pressure.

By the time Sam had gently removed his boot and sock, Dean's breathing had turned ragged and his whole body was bathed in a cold, clammy sweat. His stomach was twisting and churning violently, and he wondered if he was about to be sick again…not that he had anything left in his stomach to throw up. He was seriously considering asking his brother to hit him to knock him out…concussion be damned.

Sam glanced up for the first time from his inspection of Dean's foot, and when he caught sight of Dean's face, he swore softly.

"It's okay," Dean grated out, his jaw aching from his effort not to cry out. "Just get it done!" The last thing he needed at the moment was Sam hesitating for fear of causing him more pain. He was already awash in a sea of agony, and just wanted the whole thing done and over with. At the moment he didn't think the pain could get much worse than it already was.

Of course, he was wrong.

Sam gave a brief nod, his expression tense, then turned back to Dean's ankle. He felt his brother's hand grip his right leg, right above the break, while his other hand firmly closed around the pad of Dean's foot. "Okay, on the count of three…" he said. "One, two,…"

Dean never heard the third count. Pain more intense than he had ever felt shot up his leg, and he swore he felt the grate of bone on bone before his ankle snapped back into place with a small pop. This time there was no holding back the scream of agony that ripped from his throat, and he felt his whole body arch upward, his hands digging deep grooves through the sand at his sides. His lungs seemed to forget how to draw in air, and he felt the betraying sting of tears fill his eyes.

He must have lost consciousness for a moment, for the next thing he became aware of was Sam leaning over him, grasping his shoulders and shouting his name, his voice containing a hint of panic. Dean wanted nothing more than to give in to the welcoming darkness and float away into oblivion, but he couldn't ignore the fear in Sam's voice. With what felt like a monumental effort he dragged in a deep lung full of air…it felt like the first in a long time…and forced open his heavy lids.

"Dean?" Sam was still gripping his shoulders, his face showing a mixture of relief and concern as he stared down at him. "Come on, talk to me, man."

Dean swallowed, his throat feeling raw and sore. "I'm okay," he managed, his voice barely over a whisper. "It feels a little better now." And strangely enough, it was the truth. The fiery agony that had consumed his leg only moments before was steadily fading to a throbbing ache that, while not exactly comfortable, was certainly better than the alternative. He lifted his head and peered down toward his feet, relieved to see that the toes of his right foot were at least pointing in the correct direction now.

Sam released him and collapsed down onto the sand next to him, his shoulders hunched, his hands coming up to grip the hair on either side of his head. "Let's not ever do that again," he muttered, his voice so low Dean nearly missed it over the steady rumble of the river fifteen feet away.

"Agreed," Dean sighed, allowing his head to fall back against the top of the duffel. He felt weary to the bone, the persistent pain throughout his body robbing him of all his strength and energy. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and go to sleep, but he knew that wasn't going to happen…not until they were sure the crack to his skull hadn't scrambled his eggs.

He glanced over at his brother, watching as Sam stared out silently toward the river, a contemplative look on his face. He let the silence stretch on, knowing Sam was working something out in that overly large brain of his, and would tell him what he was thinking soon enough.

Without warning, Sam suddenly rose, his eyes still locked on the river. "I have an idea," he stated simply. Reaching down he grabbed up his shotgun and the torch lantern in one hand, then turned and headed down toward the river, stepping carefully over the line of salt and throwing a careless "I'll be right back" over his shoulder.

For a moment, Dean was too surprised to say anything, but as the lantern bobbed away down the stretch of bank, he felt a surge of fear come over him. He knew Jeremiah could be somewhere out there in the darkness, watching and waiting, and now that Sam was out of the protection of the circle of salt, he would be easy prey.

"Sam!" he shouted, shifting further upright against the duffel, ignoring the spark of pain the movement ignited in his head and ankle. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Get back here, now!"

He knew his brother had to have heard him, but Sam did not reply and continued to move farther away toward the river. Dean swore, and then began glancing around him in a desperate search for his own shotgun. He remembered having it when he'd been thrown from the ridge, but guessed that he'd lost it somewhere on the way down. There was no sign of it, and with another sharp oath, he turned his attention back toward his brother.

Sam had reached the river, and in the small pool of light cast by the torch lantern Dean could see him kneeling at the water's edge. It looked almost as though he was digging a hole, and Dean felt his consternation growing as the minutes slowly slipped past. What on earth did his brother think he was doing? If he gets himself hurt, I'll kill him!

After what seemed like ages, Sam rose, the edge of his shirt pulled up to cradle something. His brother grabbed up the lantern and gun and began making his way back toward Dean. As he drew closer, Dean could see the look of triumphant excitement on his face, and with effort he bit back the scathing tongue lashing he had been preparing.

"Decide to go digging for treasure?" he asked instead, as Sam stepped back into the protective circle of salt. He didn't bother to hide the annoyance in his voice, but if Sam noticed he gave no sign.

"I found it," he stated proudly, dropping down next to Dean's leg.

Dean frowned. "You found what…treasure?" he asked, now feeling more confused than angry. For a moment, he wondered if Sam was the one suffering from a concussion instead of him.

Sam didn't answer, but instead dug into the folds of his shirt and brought out a handful of what looked like dark gray mud. Without preamble he reached out and carefully deposited the wet pile directly on Dean's injured ankle, smoothing it out with soft, gentle strokes.

Dean felt his eyes widen. What the hell? "Uh, Sam" he began slowly, "why are you putting mud all over my ankle?"

Sam glanced up at him, a huge smile splitting his face. "It's not mud," he replied smugly. "It's clay." When Dean only blinked at him in continued confusion, he hurried to explain. "Clay is a lot thicker than mud and will dry much stronger. It might not be as good as a cast, but once it sets it will provide support and protection, and in the meantime it will hopefully help with the swelling and inflammation."

"Huh." Dean let out a small grunt, eyeing his brother incredulously. "Where do you learn all this crap, Sammy?"

Sam shrugged, turning back to Dean's ankle and removing another glob of clay from his shirt. "One of my fifth grade teachers took our class on a field trip to the river," he explained, smearing the clay on the opposite side of Dean's ankle. "She had us dig up clay and then make little figurines for our art show. I remembered how sturdy they were once the clay had set. I wasn't sure if there would be any here, but I thought it was worth a try."

Dean could only shake his head, but as Sam continued to lather his ankle with the wet clay he had to admit that the cooling sensation was helping to ease some of the ache. A minute later Sam rose, reaching for the shotgun once more. "I'm going to need some more," he declared, already turning to head back down to the river.

"Wait!" Dean shouted, drawing his brother up short. He held his hand out, wiggling his fingers. "Give me the gun," he ordered. "You can't dig and watch out for Jeremiah at the same time. I can cover you better from up here."

Sam hesitated, but Dean kept his hand outstretched expectantly, and his brother finally gave in with a shrug, handing over the shotgun. "Are you sure you can see straight enough to aim," he asked, grabbing up the lantern.

It was Dean's turn to shrug, and he gave his brother a reckless grin. "That's the good thing about these guns, Sammy…I only have to get close."

Sam looked far from relieved. "Yeah, just remember that I'll be down range as well," he muttered. "The rock salt might not kill me, but I'd rather not find out how much it hurts if it can be avoided."

"Ye of little faith," Dean replied, gripping the gun firmly and pulling it tight against his shoulder.

Sam rolled his eyes but made no reply as he turned and began heading back down toward the river. Despite his attempt to make light of the situation, Dean could feel his tension grow the further away his brother moved, and his grip tightened on the stock of the gun. He scanned the darkness intently, watching for any sign of movement, uncomfortable with how exposed Sam was in the small pool of light cast by the lantern. His worry turned out to be for nothing, however, as Sam soon returned with another shirt full of clay, his second trip having been as uneventful as the first.

"Almost done," Sam muttered a few minutes later, smoothing the last handful of clay over Dean's ankle. "One more trip and we should be set."

Dean frowned, but chose not to argue as Sam rose and headed down to the river yet again. He kept the shotgun tucked tight against his shoulder, barrel directed at a point slightly downriver from his brother. His ribs ached and throbbed from the effort of keeping the heavy gun raised, but he pushed down his discomfort and fought to keep the weapon steady.

Sam was in the middle of digging in the mud when the blanket of cold swept over Dean, chilling his blood and turning his breath to mist.

"Sam!" he shouted, every muscle tensing.

His brother must have felt the cold too, for he instantly rose and turned to hurry back toward the circle of salt. Dean saw a flicker of air directly behind his brother and shouted out a warning. Without turning, Sam flung himself forward, leaping over the line of salt and nearly tumbling into Dean's lap.

"Move," Dean barked, shifting his body to the right in order to see around his brother. Sam twisted out of his way, and Dean's gaze immediately located Jeremiah, standing calmly a few feet outside the salt ring. Without hesitating, Dean raised the gun and fired, but Jeremiah flickered and vanished a split second before the salt passed through the space he had just been occupying.

Dean swore, but a moment later the spirit reappeared, this time to Dean's left. Ignoring the pain, Dean twisted his body and pulled the trigger a second time, but a dull click was the only result.

"Sam, shells," Dean snapped, releasing the gun with one hand and holding it out, palm up, toward his brother. From the corner of his eye he could see Sam scrambling in his pocket for the spare shells.

"Trespassers," Jeremiah hissed, his voice sounding like water hitting a hot pan. "Murderers! You are not welcome here. You must leave!"

"Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you," Dean ground out, grabbing the shells Sam thrust into his hand and quickly reloading the gun. "This is a private party, pal, and you're not invited."

"Leave now or die," Jeremiah repeated, then flickered and disappeared before Dean could lift the gun and pull the trigger. As quickly as it had come, the blanket of cold was gone.