9

Sam was startled at the touch of hands to his battered face, and he reacted sharply. He flinched, growling, and shoved his attacker away with his tied feet. It brought a hearty string of curses.

"Ow! Quit it! -jesus, Sam, it's me!" Dean hissed angrily. He got back up to his knees and finished what he was trying to do, cutting Sam free of his bonds as the younger Winchester shook away the cobwebs.

"Sorry." He sat up and rubbed his bruised temple. "How'd you get free?"

Dean shrugged, glancing around nervously. "It was slippery enough for me to get it off." The ropes were a reddish pile on the floor. Sam glanced at the sodden bandage, angrily remembering Buell's relentless grip on Dean's arm. True enough, the blood still trickled down over Dean's fingers. He remembered, too, the talk about the car. He hoped, he prayed, that Buell was just talking. Dean finished sawing at the nylon twine, and Sam flicked the segments away. They were free, at least for the moment. Dean took a second to grill his brother about his state. He had, after all, been whacked repeatedly on his head, Dean wanted to be sure he was able to think and function without hindrance. They couldn't afford to make any false steps now.

Sam twisted away from his ministrations. "I said I'm fine! You're the bigger worry, Dean! Are you able to think clearly?"

"As much as ever." He smiled wryly. "C'mon; we've got to find our way back out of this freaking rat-hole. Do you remember anything that might be useful? I was just working at keeping up to you while we were walking down here."

Sam nodded. "I think I have a pretty good idea. But there will be people; somebody's going to be posted at the entrance for sure."

"Then we'll deal with it. Just hope he's got some decently big feet, I'm shoeless here."

Sam glanced at his brother's sock feet. Right; the laceless boots had been discarded when Dean had lain down on the bed at May's. Buell had hardly given them the time to grab such luxuries before they were hauled away. They rose in unison, taking a moment to stabilize and get their bearings, and Sam directed their skulking travel down the rocky corridors.

They stopped and hugged the wall when voices seemed to approach, afraid to breathe. There was no other cover to be had. But the voices diminished again, and Dean glanced at Sam, nodding to him to continue on. The second time they heard words, they seemed to grow louder. Dean gestured toward a doorway, and they ducked inside a side tunnel. It was empty, with the exception of row upon row of towering, green, fragrant plants. Their heads were crowned by light fixtures, their roots embedded in a sophisticated hydroponic system. They were a thing of beauty. Dean whistled softly and grinned at Sam, making motions to fill their pockets with the spiky leaves. Sam shook his head in annoyance.

"Don't be an ass!" he hissed. Dean rolled his eyes and they waited in silence until it seemed safe to venture back out. Sam pulled the door open slowly, and glanced around. It seemed clear. They took to the main tunnel again, and after several twists and turns, Sam led them up to where the tunnel connected with the outside world. They were that close to freedom. The only thing standing in their way was the very capable-looking man seated with bored disinterest at the doorway. He held a shotgun loosely in one of his hands as he flipped lazily through a skin mag. Dean caught Sam's eye, and held his hand up. He dropped each finger in a countdown of three, and when no digits remained he ran headlong and threw himself at the guard. The man was caught entirely unawares; bowled over backward in his flimsy lawnchair, and Dean clamped a hand over his mouth before he could even think to yell. His plan did not extend to what should happen next, but Sam followed closely, and he delivered a crushing blow to the pinned man's face. It was enough to turn his expression from shock to blandness, then to slumber. Dean gave a thumbs up to his brother, and Sam busied himself by tying the guard with his own coat sleeves. When they were assured he was immobile, Dean took a moment to catch his breath. His shoulder was screaming from the impact, but he forced himself to hide it. Instead, he smiled at Sam, gesturing at the unconscious man's feet. Sam grinned back, and quickly stripped him of his footware, tossing each shoe to Dean. Dean sat, pulling the hiking boots onto his own feet with an expression of distaste. -Nothing quite like wearing a hillbilly's warm, steamy boots- They were a few sizes too big, but at the moment he wasn't complaining.

Dean tied them as Sam turned the half-dozen deadbolts on the door. Suitably shod again, Dean grabbed the gun, and ransacked the man's pockets for ammunition, shoving shells into his jeans. When they were ready, they slipped quietly through the steel door, out into the fragrant and velvet darkness of the forest.

Bobby followed Russell Adams. Russell had outfitted them both with backpacks, complete with flashlights, ammunition, rope, anything that could be useful in the woods. Bobby had added his own firearms, plus a few things he needed for his own peace of mind, while Russ carried a well-stocked first aid kit.

The travelling was difficult in the dark. Bobby was more than appreciative that there was an experienced pair of eyes guiding the foray. He had his own set of skills, but they were of limited use here amongst the trees. Russell had stated that Buell was living on the mountain, but Frank Buell was himself an experienced woodsman; if he didn't want his home base to be found, then it wouldn't be. Russell knew that the huge wind generating towers would have some significant connection to whatever it was that Buell was immersed in. If they started at their base, and followed along where the power was being directed, then surely they would find out what was going on.

They had started with the newly forged road at Buell farm. It was a convenient path to higher ground, and they followed it with ease. They passed the flat clearing with its ghostly wooden ruins, skirting the meadow and heading deeper along less and less defined paths. Bobby looked down, startled, as they passed the old farm. His EMF meter, always part of his gear, had blipped, lighting up briefly. But it remained silent after that. He said nothing to Russell; the man knew the forest, but there was no sense in alarming him about anything less tangible. Russell Adams seemed to navigate by some sixth sense, Bobby was certain that he would have been lost and useless by now without the guide. They followed deer trails and hiking paths, on a constant ascent. The trails were rocky and winding, involving a great deal of scrambling and climbing over fractured rock faces slick with lichen and moss, or hollows filled with tangled blackberry and wild rose canes. They were scratched bloody, and the chill of the approaching night was already making their breath condense. Russell stopped frequently to allow his neophyte companion to catch his breath. Soon Bobby could hear the rhythmic beat of the rotating vanes of the turbines. They were nearing the summit, where the windmills turned lazily in the quiet night air.

Near the steel tower of one of the turbines, Russell stopped. They took a moment to recharge, eating chocolate bars and draining a few of their water bottles. He laid out their strategy for Bobby. "We should keep quiet, from here on. Don't know where these bastards are, so I don't want to give away our position with pointless chatter, agreed?"

Bobby nodded wearily.

Russell continued in a hoarse whisper. "These mills should be feeding power to whatever that SOB is doing. We need to find where they go, and follow those lines. The ground here's rocky, so I doubt that they'll be underground." His wisdom was sound. Buell would have had to dynamite a channel through the bedrock to bury his power lines, and even he couldn't pull that off without attracting unwanted attention. They had no trouble finding the cable; it led away from the towers like some massive, twisting spinal cord, feeding the mystery somewhere in the distance.

Finding the cable was easy. Following it was another matter. Frank Buell had sought to hide it as best as he could, using the natural features of the land to camouflage and protect it. Bobby and Russ Adams were obliged to crawl over the broken rock formations, down into the dank and steep ravines, because the alternative was to lose the trail and be left standing, while Dean and Sam Winchester fell deeper into peril. Russell had no emotion invested in these strangers, but he was a conscientious man. They were taken against their will from the sanctity of his family's house, and that was something he could not abide. And he saw the determination and grit of his older companion. Whoever, whatever this Bob Singer was, he was a loyal and dogged supporter of his kin. That carried considerable weight with Russell Adams.

It was fully dark when they found where the cable crossed a well-used ATV trail. Here, it began to run parallel to the path. They could see, by the light of their flashlights, that the makeshift road was recently used; clods of dirt were freshly turned, ruts damp with water that had yet to drain away..

Once out in the cool night air, the brothers exchanged looks. Neither had any real idea in which direction to head. Sam gestured toward the ATV road. Dean shook his head. "Too visible-" he whispered. "That's the first place they'll start looking." They could walk a parallel course, but it was still too risky, any snap of a twig could alert the searchers following the road.

"Guess we should just head downwards, then." Sam ventured. "I mean, that's our ultimate goal, right? Maybe if we find a stream, we should just keep with it; it'll be heading down to lower ground."

Dean nodded his agreement. He hugged his arms to his middle to ward off the cold, lamenting silently that they hadn't stripped their doorman of his coat as well as his footware. At least Sam was wearing his jacket, Dean had only his long sleeved tee shirt, and it was wet with blood in several places. It made for a chilly prospect. Several times Sam had tried to put his big coat over Dean, but he refused, not wanting to feel hampered. But as long as they kept moving, it would be fine. And the temperature at least kept the mosquitos at bay. He scanned around, trying to survey the terrain in the poor light of dusk. It was all black shadows, and even blacker hollows. But there was a definite drop in elevation in one direction. He pointed, and Sam agreed. Choice decided, they crept out into the dark.

The light feature on Sam's watch was helpful. It cast a cool, blue glow when the button was pressed, they used it sparingly, only when they paused, to illuminate their next choice of ground. A cellphone would have been brighter, but neither had one handy at this critical time. One of those would have been handy on a few levels. They hadn't gone very far when they could hear a number of angry voices floating down from the tunnel mouth. The unconscious doorman had been found, and a commotion could be heard. Dean cursed quietly and put a cautioning hand on Sam's arm, pantomiming silence. They stayed still, hidden somewhat behind a formation of tumbled rock. When they were reasonably sure that the voices were heading away down the main trail, they moved on again, as silently as the forest floor would allow. More than once, they stopped, listening tensely as a shout echoed amongst the trees. Other sounds confused the issue; some lonely-sounding night bird calling intermittently, the wind rustling leaves. And not too far away, the unmistakable burble of water flowing over stones. It was the stream they sought, the avenue by which they could find their way to the highway.

Bobby looked to Russell for his input now. Russell was sure that they were on the right track. "I don't think we should stay on this road, though. It's gonna be too visible. I can see lights down there, we can head towards that, but we'll stay off the track." Bobby nodded his agreement. They followed the general direction that the ATV path carved, careful to stay under any radar. Within a short time, they had found themselves discreetly observing the entrance to Sutler Mines #5. Russell crouched, watching. What the hell was that bastard up to way out here, and underground?

Bobby crept as close as he dared, listening keenly to the group of angry men standing there. He quickly ascertained what their issue was. He gestured to Russ. "Looks like the boys managed to spring themselves." he whispered. Russell nodded, and Bobby continued, "If I know Dean at all, he'll be avoiding the easy way down the mountain, there's no point following that track anymore. Do you know any other ways down?"

Russell thought for a moment. "Spencer creek starts up here. Do you think they would have thought of following it down?"

"If that's the next logical way, then yeah, I'd say so."

Russell turned their travel in that direction. Due to his experience, and his profession, Russ Adams knew how to track. He soon found telltale signs that some one had been thinking the same way. They followed the indicators, and they came across the little creek. Bobby was relieved, but when Russell produced his UV light, his tension cranked up again. As a game warden, Russell was constantly vigilant about poaching. The worst sort of hunters; poachers shot at deer in any season, regardless of the breeding season, or the numbers. And very often, they shot wild, hitting and wounding animals, leaving the poor creatures to wander, often dying cruel and agonized deaths. Russell used the UV to track blood trails, finding and dispatching injured animals that had been abandoned to their suffering.

He found a blood trail here.

"Water? Am I hearing water?" Dean demanded.

Sam nodded. "I think so-" Before he could add to that, his brother was moving clumsily toward the sounds of the stream. It hadn't occurred to Sam, but Dean was ravenous with thirst. Sam followed his crashing path downwards, terrified that the sounds would alert Buell and his men. "Dean!" he hissed in warning, over and over. Dean ignored him, and Sam found him at the water's edge, drinking like a horse that had walked through a desert. When he saw that, Sam berated himself in silence. -of course- Dean had lost blood, and had been expending energy he could barely afford; of course he was thirsty. Sam waited quietly while his brother consumed his fill of the cold mountain water.

"Better..?" he whispered hopefully, when Dean had finally sat back, wiping his face dry with his sleeve.

Dean nodded. "I think I swallowed a frog with that last mouthful. " he snorted. He did feel a little better.

Now that they had found their direction, they pushed onward with renewed energy. Buell and his lackeys still seemed to be following the ATV trail, no one was bothering to check their chosen route, at least not yet. They kept to the stream. It was not easy travel; the creek didn't simply lead them down the mountain like arrows painted on the floor of an IKEA store. The water disappeared occasionally in boggy or swampy areas, and reappeared in unexpected places. Beavers had damned the rivulet in one place, creating a large and shallow pond. They had to skirt it's soggy edge for some distance, sliding through dank, black peaty loam that soaked their ankles and filled their nostrils with the sewage smell of decay. But the downward direction continued uninterrupted, regardless of the difficulty. At least they knew that they weren't wandering astray.

After what seemed like hours, Sam tried to get his brother to take a break. But Dean rebuffed any attempt he made to slow down. He had a wildness in his eyes that sort of scared Sam. He'd tried to get him to halt, to rest, just long enough to check him over, at least to rewrap the bandage that sagged loosely from his forearm. The wooden spoon had long since rejoined the sticks and branches of the forest floor. But Dean steadfastly refused, keenly aware of the threat that followed them now in this unfamiliar territory. There were many places where Dean felt he was master of his realm, but the woods was not one of them. It was a serious disadvantage; their pursuers knew the land well. Dean was battling blood loss and dehydration, and had been for nearly twenty four hours now. But now, he was beginning to feel something else. He felt flushed, a heat had begun to radiate from his face, it was more than simply exertion. As they stumbled along through the inhospitable and uneven terrain, he found it increasingly difficult to keep from tripping on the roots and stones. He knew he should step more carefully, pay closer attention, but he felt a strange disconnect, and his feet would simply not obey such precise orders. The shotgun slung over his back seemed insanely heavy. Sam had noticed, and he relieved him of that burden. More than once he found it necessary to steady him as they forged on.

They were both feeling the cold, but Dean shivered so hard now that he could hardly whisper coherently. Sam finally had enough. He stopped Dean silently, and with a heavy and unyielding hand, he forced him to sit on a rocky ledge.

"We're wasting time!" Dean growled.

"Shut up...this'll only take a minute." Sam shrugged off his jacket, dropping it over his brother's shoulders. He took off his watch and shone its light over Dean's injured limb, finding the end of the bandage, and he carefully unwound the loose, wet cotton. When it was free, he wrung it out as well as he could and found another piece of wood to use as a splint.

"Hurry up!" Dean whispered, irritated. He was so tired, he was afraid that if he sat much longer he'd find it difficult to get up and moving again. Even in the poor light, Sam could see the dark line of fresh blood snaking away from the wound. He re-tied the cloth strip as tightly as he could, winding in the stick as Dean flinched and swore softly.

He worried about that blood. "Do you think maybe we should tie it off again? You're still bleeding a fair bit.."

Dean shook his head. "I need to feel my fingers. I can't grip much but I don't want to be caught one-handed if they find us." It was sound reasoning under the circumstances. Sam left his doctoring at that for now. Sam took a chance and rested his hand against Dean's cheek. He felt the heat. "Are you sure you feel ok? You feel hot to me."

Dean scowled at him. "It's not easy, ok? Yeah, so I'm a little hot; what do you expect? I hate the freaking woods! It's not like I do this every day, I'm not an extreme fitness freak like you!" He got up angrily. "Well? are you coming or not?"

Sam sighed and followed him. His mind whirled as he went. Dean was a stubborn SOB. His wound was so deep and so dirty, contamination was inevitable. If they's just gotten on the road before Angus had come, Dean would have been patched up and they'd be in Bradford having beer and wings with Bobby by now. He was absorbed by that train of thought when he was startled by the reverberating shot.

"Sam!" Dean hissed. "Get down!"

Sam dove, and another series of shots rang out. The brothers rolled along the dank ground, keeping their heads from being targets. They stopped, panting, and listening. A few more bullets whizzed through the trees, with no real target. Dean was sure that they were just guessing now. He gestured to Sam. "-stay down; just keep along the stream!" he whispered. They crawled along on their bellies, not daring to look up. Another random shot rang through the trees, and they heard voices wane into the distance. Finally they felt safe enough to stand.

Adrenalin is an amazing thing. While it courses through your veins, nothing is impossible. Your own state, and the conditions around you are almost irrelevant; you blaze ahead and tackle the dragons until they are vanquished. But god-forbid it runs out before the battle's done. Your body is left to struggle on, beaten, weakened, while the dragons regroup. Dean had finally hit his wall. He stumbled by the stream side, and fell to his knees, clutching his arm to his side and panting in the cold. "Sam-"

Sam whipped around. He saw his brother falter, and leapt to soften his fall. Dean crumpled to the forest floor, exhausted and in pain.

"Dean, you alright? Dean?" Sam repeated anxiously..

"Tired." he managed. His ears were buzzing, it muffled all other sound. The dark shapes of the forest were blending into black, and the cold that surrounded them seemed to wrap around him now like wet linens. He wanted to say more, to reassure Sam that all he needed was moment or two. He'd get up and keep going, after a short rest. He'd lead his little brother to safety...

But his mouth refused to form the words. He felt Sam's hands take hold of him, felt him lift him from the damp leaves. He wanted to object...I just need a minute...just a few minutes...but after a moment he stopped feeling anything.