A few hours later they were crouched a hundred feet from the downed helicopter as the afternoon faded into rosy dusk.
They hadn't seen the hunters again and, so far, no signs of search and rescue. They had heard the tiger at one point, but after a rattling volley of shots, the beast fell silent. Whether that meant it was dead, or had decided to relocate, they had no way of knowing.
Dean was keeping an eye out, regardless.
In his experience, gained through watching countless Hollywood movies, bad shit always happened right after everyone relaxed. So, he stayed sharp.
And he stayed close to Sam, determined not to lose his hot helicopter pilot in what was turning out to be a real shit fest of a day.
Giving him a grin, Sam pulled a bottle of water out of his back pack and offered it to Dean. With a nod of thanks, Dean took a long pull, warmed by and keenly aware of Sam's eyes on him as he swallowed.
The bushes on the other side of the clearing parted.
Sam gripped Dean's arm in silent warning as the two men they'd seen earlier stepped into the clearing, talking. No, arguing.
Dean strained, but he couldn't quite hear what the men were arguing about. A stray word here and there. A lot of angry back and forthing.
After a couple of minutes, Sam stirred impatiently.
"You stay here," he whispered. "I'm gonna work my way around behind them."
Dean's jaw dropped. "What? No, stay here!" he whispered.
Sam squeezed Dean's arm, trying for reassurance. "Don't worry, I'll be okay." He put the backpack down and started to move away.
Panicking, Dean grabbed him. The two had a brief, silent, very tense standoff, then Dean reluctantly released him.
"Just don't fucking die!" he whispered fiercely.
Sam stared at him, a curious expression in his hazel eyes. Then he turned and disappeared into the surrounding trees, gun in hand.
Cursing Florida, the heat, the gunmen, and Sam for being an heroic asshole, Dean put the lid back on the bottle of water and hunkered down to wait. He kept a cautious eye on the two gunmen, whose argument seemed to be escalating. Heh. Maybe he'd get lucky and the assholes would shoot each other.
Nope, no such luck. After a few minutes, the two men stopped arguing and stood stiffly facing away from each other, whatever argument they'd been having clearly not resolved.
Skin crawling with nerves, Dean studied the trees around the clearing, straining for any sign of Sam, but there was nothing.
Good. If he couldn't, chances were the douche bags wouldn't either. Sam could sneak up on them and – what? Disarm them? Take them prisoner?
Shoot them?
Dean examined that possibility, found he was cool with it.
But if, when, Sam did make his move, how could Dean help? Rush them? Or just stay out of the way? He was no soldier, ex or otherwise. Definitely not a fighter. What help could he be?
Dean looked again at the men in the clearing, at their guns. He was afraid. But if Sam needed him, he'd find a way.
Suddenly something hard jabbed him in the back.
"Don't you fuckin' move." The voice was harsh, angry.
Dean froze, shoulders hunched, anticipating a bullet. Seconds later a boot caught him in the back. He fell forward with a gasp of pain; caught another boot, this time in the side, and rolled over onto his back, hands raised defensively.
A thickset man dressed in filthy camos and a double-brimmed safari hat stood over him, pointing a very big gun at Dean.
Drawn by the noise, the other two men bulled through the bushes and now Dean had all three standing over him in a threatening circle.
"Where's your friend?" Camo Man had the red-veined nose of a heavy drinker and a supremely pissed off look on his face.
Dean managed not to look around for Sam. He kept his mouth shut.
"God damn it, where is he?" The muzzle of Camo Man's rifle was about an inch from Dean's nose. His finger twitched on the trigger like he was dying to pull it.
It had been a long day.
Dean had taken his first helicopter ride, been shot out of the sky in that helicopter and had almost (possibly) been eaten by a snake. He was starving, exhausted, and itching like crazy from all the mosquito bites the lovely state of Florida had bestowed on him.
And now, in addition to all that craptastic crazy, he was about to be murdered by someone who looked like he was auditioning for the cast of Deliverance.
Dean lost it.
"Who are you supposed to be, the great white hunter?" he blurted out.
Camo Man looked confused. "What?"
"You look like you've seen ten too many jungle movies," Dean babbled on, unable to stop himself. "Is that the hat Stewart Granger wore in King Solomon's Mines? I love that movie!"
"Shut up!"
But there was just no way. Dean had kept his fear in lockdown for far too long. It needed a way out and inappropriate bibble-babble was it.
"Granger was hot," Dean babbled on. "But if you want the real jungle hottie, you gotta go for Johnny Weismuller's Tarzan. He was super hot, so long as he kept his mouth shut."
"Shut up!"
"That dude really knew how to rock a loin cloth!"
The big man cocked his rifle and Dean clapped his hands over his mouth.
When Camo Man was sure his prisoner's verbal diarrhea had ended, he jabbed the muzzle of his rifle into Dean's stomach. "Last chance. Where's your friend?"
Hopefully getting ready to shoot you. Dean just managed not to say it out loud.
Silence was apparently not an appropriate response. The big man glared at him, then jerked his head at the two goons. "Get him up."
The goons dragged him up, holding him between them.
Camo Man stared at Dean for one long, fraught minute, then said to the second man, "Hank. Start cutting."
With a wide grin, Hank released his hold on Dean and slung his rifle over his shoulder. Pulling out a wicked-looking blade, he waved it suggestively in Dean's face. "My pleasure, Boss."
Inspiration, or possibly lunacy, struck.
"The tiger!" Dean gasped out, shrinking back from the knife. "The tiger got him!"
Camo Man lowered his gun. "Bullshit!" he scoffed.
The other two apparently didn't share his opinion. Both men looked around nervously. Hank tucked away his knife and unslung his rifle.
"Don't you know bullshit when you hear it?" Camo Man said contemptuously. "That cat was raised in a cage! The only thing it knows how to do is run!"
Not knowing what else to do, Dean held on tight to his bullshit. "It was the tiger!"
"Damn it!" Frustrated, Camo Man released Dean. "We don't have time for this shit. You two, go find him. He's got to be around here somewhere!"
His underlings hesitated, looking from Dean to their boss, then nervously at the jungle around them.
"It's gettin' dark," Felix protested weakly. "Besides, the tiger –"
"Fuck the tiger." Camo Man growled. "Now get your asses out there and find that guy. Dead or alive, I don't give a shit."
Without another word, but clearly very unhappy, the two men moved off into the trees.
With an ugly look, Camo Man hit Dean with the rifle butt in the stomach, hard. "Asshole."
The blow sent Dean to the ground, gagging and trying not to puke. Once he got his breath back, he cast a wary eye up at his captor.
Camo Man gave him a cold stare. "Stay down there."
Dean stayed down, belly aching and mind racing. Damn it, he wasn't some tinsel town damsel in distress, waiting for a rescue. He had to come up with a plan!
Fifteen or so minutes later, brain still fruitlessly churning, Dean heard a rustle from somewhere nearby.
Sam?
Despite his non-damsel status, Dean's heart leapt.
Another rustle, this one louder.
Camo Man heard it, too. He started to look around and Dean said hastily, "Why'd you shoot us down, anyway? Did you think we were cops or something?"
The man didn't answer, just glared at him.
"Guess you were wrong, huh?" Dean's smirk was a little shaky. "Shot us down, lost your tiger –"
"Shut up," the man gritted.
Sam was nearby. Dean could feel it. He had to give him this chance, had to keep this bastard's attention on him.
"Or what, you'll kill me?" Dean sneered. "You're gonna do that anyway! At least this way I get to tell you what a moron you are!"
The man opened his mouth but whatever he was going to say was lost in the crash of a large body coming through a thicket just a few feet away.
Both men turned to see not Sam - no, not freaking Sam - the freaking tiger moving in a silent rush, fangs bared, a wild mélange of color and motion bleeding into the air.
"Oh, shit!" Camo Man turned the rifle toward the tiger, but it was way too late. The big cat slammed into him, taking him to the ground and knocking Dean, who'd stumbled halfway to his feet, several feet away in the process.
Stunned from the impact, breath and terror caught in his throat, Dean scrambled away on hands and knees as Camo Man's frenzied screams tore the twilight apart. He made it about twenty feet before he ran into a group of thorn-thick bushes. Forcing himself into the middle of the bushes, he collapsed into the dirt.
Horror-struck, mind shorting out, he heard a thunderous torrent of gunshots and shouted curses. The tiger roared, rage incandescent, and then there was a last scream from Camo Man, trailing off into a wet, choking gurgle.
Silence.
Curled up in a tight little ball, Dean stayed where he was.
He didn't care that he was bleeding in about a million places from the thorns. Didn't care he was sharing space with a smallish snake and what looked a lot like poison ivy.
He was staying right the fuck here until Hell, or Florida, froze over.