Disclaimer: All standard disclaimers apply.

A/N: I need to apologize for being a day late posting this newest chapter. Real life has a way of biting my plans right in the persqueeter.

Also, I need to clear up some confusion regarding the last paragraph of the previous chapter (see below):

Before I know what I'm doing, I hear myself trying to reassure him with information that I know isn't true. It's not like I want to lie to him. It's just that he's my brother. I hate seeing him so stressed and the falsely reassuring words just tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. "Anyway, Dean, the snake that bit me was relatively small, probably a juvenile. If it did manage to squeeze in any venom, it's probably not going to be nearly as potent as the venom of a larger, full-grown adult."

The way I constructed this paragraph apparently didn't make it clear enough that Sam is knowingly lying to Dean about the potency of the snake's venom. In that slightly twisted, Winchester version of love, Sam is trying to protect Dean from the true reality of the situation by lying to him that the venom of young snakes is less potent than that of adults even though he knows that isn't true. In reality, a bite from a young rattlesnake can be as much as twelve times more toxic than a bite from an adult of the same species. In addition, the bite of an adult will cause hematotoxic symptoms with a few neurotoxic side effects. The bite of a juvenile, on the other hand, will usually cause greater neurotoxic side effects then an adult, as well as the usual hematotoxic symptoms.

By the way, if any of you have been wondering about this fic's title. Crotalus is the genus name for the rattlesnake. The species name for the Western Diamondback is 'atrox', giving it the proper scientific name of 'Crotalus atrox'.


Crotalus

Chapter 3: We Gotta Get Outta This Place

Sam's POV

I didn't think it was possible, but each minute that ticks by brings an increase in the fiery blaze that ravages my right hand and arm. I've never felt anything like it and the surging intensity of the white-hot pain has me wondering if my arm will just suddenly burst into flames or, worse yet, that it already has, leaving behind nothing but peeling strips of charred, lifeless, leathery flesh. Despite the seismic tremors of agony that sizzle up every nerve tract in my arm, the skin immediately around the bite has lost all feeling and an odd, rather nauseating metallic taste fills my mouth. The skin over the bite is tight now and has taken on a shiny appearance that's marked by a deep purple-black discoloration.

As though the worsening appearance of my hand and the gradual, but emphatic escalation of the pain wasn't enough, the quiet woodland landscape is filling with a low, reverberating roar. The barren sandstone outcroppings of the ridge top we left earlier have given way to thick forests of enormous, old-growth trees, many of them slick with emerald green moss or dotted with pearl-colored plaques of wood fungus. Visibility of the trail ahead has decreased markedly due to the lush growth and the numerous switchbacks that wind their way back and forth around the towering trees. It's just around the bend of one of these switchbacks that Dean and I now face the source of the thunderous noise that's grown louder and louder over the past few hundred yards. The crude trail we've been following has abruptly disappeared into the teeming froth of a large stream that has been swollen into a whitewater river by the recent heavy Spring rains.

With the sudden appearance of this huge obstacle in front of us, I swear the pain in my arm has jacked up a few more notches. A thousand thoughts rush through my head as I look around for some other route. When Dean pipes up, it's pretty obvious we're both working through the same problem.

"Oh, man. I think we should look around a bit, Sammy. There's bound to be a bridge somewhere to cross over."

We could waste quite a bit of time finding an alternate route and my nerves do an extra twist or two. The more time spent looking for a route over the stream, the more time that snake's venom has to do its worst. I'm finding it harder and harder to hide both my pain and my right hand from Dean's view. When I catch a glance of something jammed against an immense boulder that juts sharply from the roiling current, the realization hits that our 'oh, shit' factor has just shot through the roof. It doesn't take long to figure out that a large rough-hewn log bridge had once stood across the stream but had been swept downstream by the rushing torrent of high water. The only remaining evidence of the bridge was the section that had been battered into splintered pieces and become trapped by the irregularly-shaped boulder. Pointing with my left hand, I draw Dean's attention to the area where the demolished bridge had come to rest.

"Yeah. There was a bridge, but I wouldn't count on using it now, Dean."

"Son of a...How do you suppose we get across?"

"No other choice but to look for an alternate route."

"How's the hand, Sammy?"

"What?"

I should have known Dean's concerned question was coming, especially with the high water putting a new wrinkle in our plans to simply hike on out of here, and I should have been prepared for it. But I'm working so hard at pushing the pain down, not letting Dean see just how bad things are getting, that I allowed myself to stop paying attention. God, how stupid can I be?

"Oh, uh, fine...no problems." I wince inwardly at my clumsy attempt to cover up and pray hard that Dean's too consumed in coming up with a 'Plan B' to have caught my bumbling hesitation.

§§§§§§

Dean's POV

OK, something in the way Sam's trying almost too hard to sound casual and the way he seems to purposefully be keeping his right hand out of my view is causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up. Sammy's never been a good liar and I've gotten pretty good at ferreting him out when he's trying to pull a 'shuck and jive' routine on me.

I eye Sam suspiciously and I can already see him starting to squirm. I'm not sure if I should be celebrating about that or letting that ever growing sense of anxiety that's starting to gnaw at the edges of my nerves get a foothold. On one hand, it's obvious that the little geek still can't manage to put one over on me and I'd love nothing more than to smugly rub it in like any good older brother would do. But on the other hand, if he's trying that hard to keep something from me, well, most likely it's something I need to know about, but probably wish I didn't. I can feel my stomach clenching into anxious knots and decide the time for a direct confrontation is long overdue. As I walk over and stand directly in front of Sam, he almost imperceptibly turns his right side away from me and I allow my suspicions and concern to spill out in the accusatory way I drag out his name.

"Saaammm,"

Sam doesn't respond and he's purposefully avoiding my gaze. Now I know I'm not going to like whatever it is he's hiding and the knot in my stomach twists even tighter. OK, Sammy, if you're going to act like a spoiled brat, I'm going to treat you like one.

"If everything's fine, then why are you hiding your hand from me?"

"I'm not hiding it. Do you see me shoving my hands into my pockets, Dean? If I was hiding it, I'd be sticking my hands in my pockets, ok? So can we just get back to solving the bridge problem?"

Sammy's petulant and defiant tone was something that had always been a staple with he and Dad since Sam had hit his teens, but he rarely used with me. I need to show him I won't take any shit from him, but I've got to be careful. If I come off too much like Dad, I'll get nowhere with him and he'll be even more pissy and uncooperative.

"Well, if you're not hiding it, then let's have a look at it, Sam."

"Dean..."

"I mean it, Sam. You've been flipping me off with half-assed assurances since you got bitten."

My baby brother finally makes his fatal mistake by glancing up at me and now that I've got his gaze, I'm not about to let go of it. I fire my most challenging, no-nonsense look at him and add the verbal coup de grace.

"Please, Sam...for me."

§§§§§§

Sam's POV

Geez, Dean! You're like a frickin' terrier. You go to ground and clamp down on something and you just won't let loose, no matter what. Can't you see that I'm just trying to protect you, like you do for me? Why do you always know when I'm trying to lie to you? For that matter, why am I so damned bad at it?

One of these days, maybe I'll be able to pull it off, be able to slip one past Dean, but it's obviously not going to be today. As quickly as the signs of envenomation are setting in, it's just a matter of time before it'll be impossible for me to hide it and Dean's gonna figure it out anyway.

I let a defeated sigh escape and begrudgingly lift my bloated right hand into view, but not before quickly looking away from Dean's penetrating stare. The last thing I want is to see the look in Dean's eyes when the impact of this little bombshell hits him.

"You lyin' bastard!!"

Yeah, that went well.

"How could you lie to me like that when you knew full well...?! Did you lie about the potency of the venom, too?! You did, didn't you?! You knew that was a dangerous bite and you lied to me! Oh, God, we've got to get you out of here...got to be something we can do to slow this."

Alright, so I was wrong. It really turns out the last thing I want is to hear the distress in Dean's voice coupled with the sight of watching him digging angrily into his pockets, pulling out the GPS unit and his cell phone, frantically checking them and then jamming them furiously back into their pockets when they failed to garner reception.

"Dean, just slow down. It's gonna be alright. From what I can tell, once we get across this stream, we're only a few miles from the ranger's station. There'll be a radio there and help will be just one easy call away. In no time, this will all be a bad, distant memory and we can sit back, laugh about it and add this to the top ten reasons why Winchester's just shouldn't go camping."

Dean's anxious hazel eyes flash over the raging waters that are cascading viciously across the trail, obliterating our path to salvation. For an instant, I can see in those eyes the soul of a frightened four year old boy; that same boy that carried me from our family's burning home, that saved me from being the second victim in an unspeakable family tragedy, and it cuts deep that, once again, I can do little to protect my big brother from the burdens he seems destined to carry.

§§§§§§

Sam's POV

I'm not really sure how long Dean's been gone but I'm starting to get concerned about him. Not only is there the possibility of Dean meeting up with more local wildlife, but in his single-minded quest to locate a passage through, over, or around the raging waterway that currently blocks our path, I know Dean will take unnecessary chances that might result in him getting hurt...or worse.

I had argued loud and long about going with Dean on a recon of the area. In the end, I lost that argument to a silly children's game and he made me stay behind and rest. Dean had spent way too many years losing Rock, Paper, Scissors so I certainly wasn't surprised when he rejected using the game as a way to settle the disagreement. Still, I thought I'd outsmarted him when I'd jumped at his suggestion of a thumb war. Ever since my growth spurt at puberty, Dean's lost every pitiful attempt he's ever made at thumb wrestling me. I suppose there are benefits to having, as Dean says it, freakishly long limbs.

But it wasn't until Dean presented his hand that it dawned on me that my dominate hand, my right hand, as swollen and excruciatingly painful as it is, was far from being thumb wrestling fit. That's when I knew Dean had outfoxed me and I'd be staying behind. I hadn't taken into consideration that, where I could win every bought we fight right handed, I lose every bought with the left...and this time was nothing different. Dean's smug, lop-sided smirk as he helped me settle at the base of a large redwood, my back propped against the gigantic trunk, was proof-positive that he'd planned that out from move one and I'd fallen into it hook, line and sinker.

Even though I hate it that I'm not out there watching Dean's back, I have to admit that it feels good to be taking it easy. My right arm feels as though I've dunked it into a vat of caustic acids and the intense burning is relentless in its crawl towards my shoulder. Nothing I've ever felt has hurt this badly and I'm not certain if the earnest churning that has begun stirring deep in the pit of my stomach has more to do with the pain or an effect of the venom.

Until I'd had a chance to rest, I hadn't realized just how tired I really am. Despite the cooler early Spring temperatures, I notice a smothering heat creeping over my body. Tiny beads of sweat stand out on my skin and I can feel the dawning of a major league headache coming on. It's not the sudden, white-hot headache I get before a vision, but it's still piercing enough to gnaw away at me and add to the overall fatigue that's already crashed over me. I lean my head back against the rough bark of the tree and allow my eyelids to drift closed and hope that I can shut out the pain, even for just a minute or two.

§§§§§§

Dean's POV

I swear I've been searching for an eternity for some alternate route to the ranger's station and I have yet to find any way across the swollen stream. I'd let my hopes begin to rise that I'd found a way over by carefully walking across the trunk of a large oak that had fallen over the stream. But just as the opposite shoreline was almost within reach, it became frustratingly obvious that the tree's span ended about twenty feet from the shoreline. I've already tried wading the remaining twenty feet to the shore, but the footing is so slippery and the foaming white water is rushing so viciously that it slammed me down onto the jutting rocks before I knew what was happening. The force of the blow took my breath away and it was only luck that allowed me to grab hold of one of the tree's uppermost branches and pull myself back to the safety of the downed oak before the roiling current swept me under.

So, once again, I find myself standing back on the shore from where I'd started. I've accomplished nothing, let time slip away in the process, and have nothing more to show for my troubles than a nice, ripe set of bruised ribs and a tear in the left thigh of my jeans. Judging from the sting and the crimson bloom around the frayed fabric, I've probably got a decent-sized gash on my leg, but I'm not about to waste any more time right now and decide to ignore it.

"Dammit!" I angrily jab the toe of my boot into the dirt in frustration and watch as a spray of grit shoots into the swiftly moving current of water. Although Sam is nowhere around to hear it, I swear an oath to him anyway. "I promise I'm gonna get you out of here, Sammy. If it's the last thing I do, I'm getting you out of here."

I glance at my watch and then run my hand through my hair in exasperation. Scanning the immediate area as I consider my next move, I feel a rising uncertainty. No, maybe it's better described as a sense of self-doubt. I'm starting to feel much like I did when Sammy and I went back home to Lawrence. At the time, I had felt kind of lost, not sure what I should be doing or how I could bring myself to go back into the house where my mother had died, and I'd called the one person I was certain would know what to do. But Dad's not here any longer and I have no other choices. I have no one else to fall back on and I've got to make my own decisions. The problem is, none of the decisions feel right and I don't know what to do.

For probably the hundredth time, I pull the GPS unit from my pocket and check for reception. The machine beeps to life and a few breathless moments later, dark black numerals indicating the coordinates of my location flash onto the screen. My heart skips a beat at the sudden upswing in our luck. Oh, thank God! If the GPS can find a signal, it's likely that my cell just might find one, too, and getting help for Sammy will be just a simple phone call away. I quickly dig into the other pocket of my jacket and feel jagged edges where I should be feeling the smooth, sleek outline of my cell. I pull the mangled electronics from my pocket and realize the body slam into the rocks had damaged more than just my ribs and thigh. Goodbye, good luck...hello, Winchester luck.

It's futile, but I flip the shattered cover of my cell open and press the power button, a silent prayer going out that the mutilated device will somehow still work. As if the water draining from the blasted thing and pooling in my hand isn't offensive enough, the tiny screen's refusal to give even a spark of life only adds insult to injury. I'm not sure why, but I flip the phone shut and stuff it back into my jacket. I tell myself that if I hang on to it long enough, it'll dry out and miraculously return to life. In reality, I know it's just too trashed to function, even if it hadn't been dumped in the drink.

How could I be so God damned stupid to get us into this mess? It's no one's fault but my own that Sam got bitten. Why am I such a screw up? Why do I always let down the people that I love? I'm gonna stop it here and now, Sammy. I swear I'm not going to let you down any more. You're not gonna die because I am going to find a way out of here.

I check my watch one more time and notice that it's close to two hours since Sam was bitten and the snake's venom entered his system. None of my choices still seem all that great, but I've got to do something. Taking a deep breath, I make my decision and set off downstream for an additional ten minutes. If I get lucky, I'll find another route out. Then I can go back, make sure Sam is as comfortable as I can make him, leave him with water and supplies and then set off on the alternate route to get help and lead them back to Sam. If I'm not lucky...well, I just don't want to think about that.

§§§§§§

Sam's POV

It's hard to say how long ago I dozed off, but what I am sure of is that I woke incredibly thirsty. Thankful that Dean had placed our supplies so close, I rummage through them until I find my canteen. I shove it between my legs and grip it tightly with my knees as I use my left hand to unscrew the top. Tipping the canteen high, I pull hungrily at the contents, but find only a few swallows that don't even come close to quenching my thirst.

Disappointed, my left hand falls limply at my side, the empty canteen still in my grasp. My throat is burning with an unimaginable dryness and I regret that I insisted Dean take the second canteen with him. I wonder if maybe Dean's already returned, found I was sleeping and didn't want to wake me, so I call out for him.

"Dean? Dean!"

I scan as far as I can in all directions and don't see him. I also don't get a verbal response and I know that if Dean were here, he wouldn't have ignored my call. That means only one of two things - either Dean hasn't made it back yet...or he couldn't make it back. My mind starts reeling with a million scenarios of how Dean has gotten himself hurt and is stranded alone and helpless in the forest.

I shake myself from my morbid thoughts and inwardly chastise myself. I know that Dean can be a reckless pain in the ass sometimes, but Dean's also the most amazing person I know. Through the years he's gotten the both of us out of some pretty huge jams. I owe my life to him more times than I can count and, of all the people in the world, he's the only person I'd want with me when the chips are down. I refuse to start doubting him now and tell myself he's fine and will be back as soon as he can.

Despite the nap that I've gotten, I still can't shake the oppressive fatigue that's descending on me and I really don't relish a trip to go for water. I find myself wishing Dean had chosen a rest spot closer to the stream's bank. Just the thought of getting up and walking the few hundred feet to the water's edge seems exhausting. I sit for a few more minutes, but the burning in my throat wins out and I decide to make the trip to the stream.

Using my left arm, I push myself up, levering my back against the rough bark of the giant redwood that has served as my backrest. Blood continues to drip from the puncture wounds on my right hand, a few splattering the redwood's trunk, but most dripping a strange, damp pattern into the loose dirt at the tree's base. By the time I work my way to my full height and trudge to the water's edge, I'm panting like some out of shape, beer-guzzling weekend warrior instead of the hunt-hardened young man that I am.

§§§§§§

Dean's POV

I suppose, at any other time, I might have been able to appreciate the natural beauty of the water as it rushed over the seventy-five foot drop, a fine mist spraying up several feet into the air as the water cascaded onto the rocks below. But the beauty of that scene was lost to me when I realized that the only route I've found across the raging stream would require Sam and me to wade part of the way across the water downstream of a natural dam and then over the rock wall next to the falls.

The dam had been formed near the stream's bank when debris that the swiftly pounding current had carried from upstream had become lodged there. In order to reach the far shore, we'd then have to make our way down the seventy-five foot drop-off by climbing down the sheer-sided rocks beside the falls. Some exposed tree roots that stuck out from the nearly vertical wall of the far bank would double as handholds. From there, we could pick up a new trail and it would be smooth sailing to the ranger's station.

The crossing is almost a forty minute hike from where I'd left Sam and it's been bothering me that my explorations have forced me to leave him alone for far too long. I know he took care of himself when he was at Stanford, but I'm still glad that I'm nearly back to the small clearing where I left Sam to rest. And, if the truth be told, I won't mind a Tylenol or two from the first aid kit for my ribs, either.

As I approach, it's plain to see that my baby brother's no longer perched against the redwood where I'd left him. A shudder runs through me as terrible possibilities rip through my brain and my guts ripple with dread. What if Sam had become confused and wandered off into the forest? What if he got concerned because I've been gone so long and had set off on his own to look for me? Maybe some bear or coyote or cougar or something had happened upon him and dragged him off.

"Sam! Sam, where are you?"

I hear nothing in return except the sound of the rushing water nearby. If this is Sam's idea of a sick joke, I'm gonna kick his ass for giving me a heart attack.

"This isn't funny, Sam! Answer me, dammit!"

No answer comes, so I quickly survey the area around the tree for any clues as to what happened and where Sam has gone. A few droplets of blood spatter the trunk about waist high as well as the dirt at the base of the tree. A few scuffled prints from Sam's boots is still evident in the loose dirt and the supplies I left with him lay scattered haphazardly to the left of the tree.

Not enough blood for an animal attack and the boot prints seem to indicate that Sam walked away on his own. Everything's here, all of the supplies...except the canteen. Holy shit! The stream...Sam's gone to the stream to get water. Oh, God, what if he fell in? With that arm he'll never be able to fight the violent current.

Racing for the stream, I pray that I'm completely wrong, pray that I didn't leave my brother alone to drown, pray that I'm not too late. If only I'd found a way out sooner; if only it hadn't been my fault that he was bitten in the first place.

Halfway to the stream, I spot Sam down on his knees about ten feet from the shoreline, his back hunching convulsively, and it's clear why he wasn't answering me. I close the remaining distance and crouch at my brother's side. I'm unable to do little more than gently rub my hand up and down his back as Sam's violent retching comes to an end, the contents of his stomach forming a pool of acrid liquid on the ground in front of him.

§§§§§§

The repeated violent episodes of dry heaves had really taken their toll on Sam. The breaks during our hike to the crossing had grown longer and longer, but the restorative effects on Sam seemed to lessen with each one. Sam had been pouring everything he had into keeping a good pace but even though he did his best to hide it, he was reaching about as deeply as he could. That was when I decided I needed to keep Sam close.

But as I stand in the chest-deep water frantically searching the surface for any sign of my little brother, I realize that I hadn't kept him close enough. In the instant that I heard Sam's sudden, strangled gasp he disappeared below the churning current, my hands groping wildly for any hold of him I could get but coming up hopelessly empty. It all happened so fast it was almost as though Sam was one of the apparitions we hunt...here one second and gone the next.

§§§§§§

Sam's POV

For Dean, it had been a forty minute hike downstream but, with me, the return hike grew into a trek of nearly an hour and fifteen minutes. Intermittent bouts of dry heaves slowly robbed me of my energy and left me feeling lightheaded. Dean didn't said a word about it, even when I stumbled awkwardly into him, but the amount of time it has taken for us to get to this crossing has weighed heavily on him.

Resting here at the crossing's edge, I can't remember ever feeling this run-down after a hike. Dean thinks he's doing a good job of covering up and, for anyone else, he would be. But I'm no longer the chubby little kid that innocently takes everything at face value and I see the twitchy jumping of Dean's leg as he sits nearby and can hear the very faint, but distinctive, hummed strains of Metallica. Dean doesn't even realize he's doing it, but it's one of his non-verbals that broadcasts his anxiety loud and clear.

I can't sit and rest here forever, though, and from somewhere deep inside I'm able to muster enough energy to push myself to my feet. Once I'm back on my feet, lightheadedness sweeps over me again and Dean must know it too because I feel his steadying hand on my left elbow.

No words pass between us as we step into the water and start our journey across the stream. Dean is in the lead, carefully picking his way across, certain that each step is secure before allowing me to follow. The water's depth and speed is minimal here due to the damming effect of the debris from upstream and we're making good time.

When Dean reaches the end of the dam, I notice that the water, now to his chest, is bubbling and churning angrily around him. We're almost to the falls, the halfway point, and the thought of resting again on the opposite bank pushes me forward.

The icy slap of the chest deep water sends unexpected flashes of white-hot electricity sizzling up my right arm and, before I can take a breath, I've plunged below the surface, my feet unable to maintain a purchase on the silt-slickened rocks of the streambed. The current grabs hold and catapults me into a disorienting sequence of dizzying somersaults that leave me unsure of which way is up. Strangely, it runs through my mind that this must be what it feels like to be some hapless animal in the jaws of a crocodile as it executes its cunningly effective 'death roll'.

Suddenly, I'm rocketed upwards, breaching the surface only long enough for a short half-breath before I'm violently jerked back under and tossed like some life-sized rag doll. The more I fight for the surface the more my lungs burn for air and the more it seems the current rolls and bounces me, scraping me across the rocks and debris that litter the streambed.

In the back of my mind, I realize that the current is pulling me quickly towards a plunge from the falls and I know I should be frightened, but I'm not. A strange peacefulness has descended over me and I feel a need to stop fighting. The pain, the uncertainty and the heart-wrenching tragedy that seem to haunt my every living moment would come to an end, if only I allowed myself to let go and slip quietly into oblivion.

Dean flashes into my head. I really don't want to leave him and I know he'll grieve, but he's strong and I know he'll find it somewhere in himself to push on. I think about all of the people waiting for me - Mom, Jess, Dad, Pastor Jim and Caleb - and a protective warmth passes through me. For the first time in hours, I no longer feel the excrutiating pain in my arm. The temptation is just too great and my body is just too tired to struggle any longer. My body relaxes, no longer battling to find the surface, and I release myself to whatever fate awaits me.


To be continued...
A/N: "We Gotta Get Outta This Place" is a song from 'The Animals' 1965 album, "Animal Tracks". Another 'Animals' track, "The House of the Rising Sun", is heard on the Supernatural Season 2 episode, "Roadkill" .