The evaporating
water made the humidity in the canyon rise.
Dean was still damp from his time in the waters, and the humidity was
making him sweat profusely. The sun was
almost overhead and beating down upon injured man. The hunter wiped the sweat from his eyes,
and missing a step, he fell to the ground with a loud moan.
“Damn it,”
the older Winchester choked out as he tried to get a deep breath. He finally managed to stumble to his feet and
keep going. In Dean’s mind was the picture
of Sam on the top of the large rock, holding onto a mesquite branch, one leg in
a splint, and no way down.
The heat
from the sun caused the remaining water to evaporate. The hunter felt as if he were in a steam
room. It made breathing more
difficult. Stumbling again, Dean was
unable to catch himself as he fell.
Raising his head, the injured man had a bad coughing fit, doubled up,
and held his chest in agony. The last
cough brought up blood. Dean looked at
it and wondered if it was his throat or his lungs.
The hunter
rolled onto his back to try to ease his breathing. He saw the Shaman on the canyon’s edge. Anger gave him the strength he needed to
stand up, and he did so, defiantly.
“You may
think you’re winning, but I’m not dead!
I won’t die easily,” he shouted to the old man. Dean had a sporadic burst of coughing. He stood straight again and yelled, “I’ll get
my brother out of here. Then, I’m coming
for you!”
He heard
the echoing laughter of the Shaman and the man disappeared.
“Damn,”
Dean muttered, wiping blood drops from his mouth and chin.
He looked
up at the sun and searched for a walking stick.
The waters had taken anything loose with them. Shaking his head, the hunter resumed his slow
tread towards the large boulder and Sam.
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