[Sam hasn't hunted a wendigo for a pretty damn long time, okay? They seem to be a dying breed; who knew that cannibalism was so last century, right? Splitting up in the middle of a wendigo case isn't always the wisest idea -- it's just, you know. Sometimes you fall down a mine shaft and you end up not with your partner. Whoops. Sam's trying not to focus on that. What matters here is finding the potential food sources of this creature. Three young kids went missing around here, and if they're lucky... they'll find all three, alive and waiting to be eaten.
If not... Sam doesn't like to think of that part of the job, either.
He holds the flare gun low at his side, sneaking around the winding passage ways. It's cold as hell, and it's dark as hell, save for those slivers of moonlight peaking through the boarded up holes far above him. He's trying not to use his flashlight too intensely, but there's only so much you can do before you need that light. He's been known to trip over his own feet.
Just... get this over with, get back to looking for a cure for Dean.
Thank god his shoulder is healed for this shit. Barely even hurts now, and that's only from the cold seeping in.]