SPN FIC: The Gift (Part 6 of 7)
TITLE: The Gift: PART 6
AUTHOR: jackfan2
CATEGORY: Gen
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, Castiel, OC's
WORDS: 3,179
GENRE: Humor/Hurt/Comfort
RATING: T, or PG13 for swearing
TIMELINE: Season 4
BETAS: mad_server & adrenalineshots
SUMMARY: Dean is whisked away by the angels for an urgent rescue mission, leaving Sam clamoring to find him. Between a dubious gift and a bat-shit horse, angelic blessings and hell's curses can sometimes be frighteningly similar, and all disastrous for Dean.
Completed fic. One more chapter to go.
This is a birthday fic written for one of my beta's, the lovely adrenalineshots, without whom I'd not currently be writing. Without whom I'd not have much sanity left. Because, when someone you know is falling apart and that someone's world is massively connected to yours, it's nice to have an anchor to tie to. Natty's a great anchor. A great friend. Period.
Go back to PART 5
-~*~-
THE GIFT: Part 6
-~*~-
Sam shifted from one foot to the other, anxious, barely contained need to shout at the man.
Nathaniel paced around the small cavern, head down, knees bent, never once straightening, choosing instead to sort of crab-walk from one area of ruffled dirt, to the other. The Indian was silent as he moved about, brow drawn in concentration and …bafflement.
They’d moved at a steady pace through the tunnels until this point. Nearly an hour of running, stopping for a quick print read, a clipped discussion, then on again. The signs legible enough to keep them moving.
Until now.
Now, they seemed to be stuck and Nathaniel looked vexed. Sam was both worried and pissed. Deciding he’d waited long enough, Sam had attempted to ask what was wrong, but Nathaniel only answered with a raised hand. A clear request for silence. Sam’s jaw had snapped shut audibly.
In an effort to keep from going mad, Sam had decided to have a look around, because truth be told all this standing and not talking was getting on his nerves. Yet, he wanted to give the Indian the time he needed so he tried to pace, only to hear Nathanial growl at him to hold still. Something about mixing his tracks with the others and how that would make things more difficult.
So Sam held still. For the fifth time he glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes now they’d been there. Twenty minutes and they were no closer to finding Dean.
“Dammit,” Nathaniel said his jaw tight. He straightened, eyes still cast downward. “This makes no sense at all.”
“Ok, man,” Sam chimed in, taking his cue from the Indian that the silence was broken. “What the hell?” He felt his gut churn as he realized the most probable explanation for the baffled guide. “You didn’t lose the trail…?”
“Yes,” Nathaniel sputtered. Sam felt his heart plummet. “And no.”
Sam closed his eyes, frustrated. “Nathaniel -”
“I mean.” He looked up at Sam, eyes wallowing in disappointment and frustration. “There are too many signs.”
“That -” Sam shook his head. “What’re you talking about?”
“Look,” Nathaniel waved Sam over and pointed with the beam of his flashlight at the depressions in the ground. “Those are the tracks - the ones where it’s carrying its prey, right?” Without waiting for acknowledgement, he shifted the beam, indicating more indentations. “Those long, deep striations in the dirt, they’re drag tracks Sam and they were made at the same time.”
Sam ran this new information through his head, trying to get what it meant. “So,” he stared down at the tracks, his jaw ticked at the revelation, “it’s got more than one victim.” He looked up and caught the sense of self-loathing from the Indian. It practically radiated from him. Sam canted his head, suddenly worried about what he might hear next, but he pressed, “Nathaniel, what else aren’t you telling me?”
Nathaniel’s face suddenly tightened; he seemed reluctant to continue. “The wendigo’s tracks, what it’s carrying, the prints aren’t as deep, not like before.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”
“Meaning this is not the trail we were following earlier. Meaning, I - that same reluctance was back - meaning I lost that trail.”
Sam’s mind swirled at the possibilities. “Maybe the person it was dragging…”
Nathaniel was shaking his head. “They're too shallow.” He blew out a frustrated sigh. “Sam, from what you described of your brother, given his muscular build and weight, there’s not enough depth in these tracks. No, these belong to either a small man or a woman... possibly even-”
“How the -?” Sam started to shout, but stopped when Nathaniel flinched. Running a hand through his hair he turned his back on the guide, trying to regain his composure. They’d lost what was potentially Dean’s trail, or so the Indian had said. How the hell…?
“Sam?” Nathaniel’s voice was small, hesitant. Full of regret and apology, all wrapped up in one word.
Didn’t matter, Sam couldn’t bring himself to turn around. Still not sure he wouldn’t hit someone, and given Nathaniel was the only ‘someone’ available, he jammed his fists to his hips, and tried to take a deep breath.
“That’s not all,” Nathaniel continued. When Sam didn’t turn, he seemed fine with talking to his back as he moved to stand by several small indentations in the ground. “These other prints here - they’re too small to be either wendigo or Dean’s. Sam, these tracks belong to a child.”
Sam spun, eyes wide. “What?”
“They’re all over the place here,” Nathaniel continued as Sam moved to stand next to him, staring at the light the Indian to point out every small indentation in the dirt.
They were plain and perfect, child-sized impressions of sneakers by the looks of it. A tracker of more novice means, Sam knew the truth in the evidence. “Crap.”
“Yeah. Crap,” the guide said as he too stared down at the footprints. Nathaniel was taking it hard. Leaning against the cave wall, he looked dejected, angry with himself. “I’m sorry. I dunno, I guess I kinda got excited back there and didn’t really keep as close an eye to the ground as I should’ve.”
Sam wasn’t listening. Instead, he stared at the prints on the ground. Wondered at the child’s terror at being able to walk through this hell, watch his or her parent’s being dragged off mercilessly, to be consumed like a side of beef. They might or might not have lost Dean for the time being, but there were other victims here and if there was a chance to save them at least…
If Dean were there with them, Sam realized, he’d want this too. So he grabbed the Indian by the sleeve and pulled him over to the mess of tracks about the floor. “Ok, look. If we have to we’ll - retrace later, see if we can’t pick up that other trail. Right now, let’s just work with what we’ve got here, now. Ok?”
The guide stared quietly at Sam, brooding, eyes darker with the play of light and shadows in the cavern. This roomier section of the mine was just one of the many large junctures, a meeting point in the caves, where all tunnels fed in and branched out in all directions.
Shifting from foot to foot, staring anxiously at the Indian, Sam tried to be patient about the younger man’s indecision, but when he continued to sulk, Sam snapped. “Nathaniel!”
Sighing, the guide pushed off the cave wall. “Fine,” he said, eyeing the ground, once again studying it.
“Just -” Sam worked to cool the temper flaring in his voice “- just find out which tunnel they headed into and we’ll get moving.”
It hadn’t taken long, though the twenty minutes from earlier was now hitting at forty-five as Nathaniel took his time. Sam thought he knew why too; the guide was still fuming over losing the first trail and wanted to be damn sure this time before they took off.
So, head to the ground, the tracker rounded the small juncture of tunnels, lips pressed into a tight line, eyes serious and searching. The Indian then proceeded to scout each tunnel branch, walking down a few yards, then back. Sam chose to remain at the tunnel entrance, each time adding his flashlight’s beam to Nathaniel’s but keeping an eye and ear out for the wendigo.
Upon each return, the Indian’s face had been a mask of neutrality, until the forth tunnel, that is.
Nathaniel’s face was anxious and set with a kind of grim certainty that Sam was almost afraid to ask how the search was going. But, unlike with the previous tunnels, there was also determination and purpose in the guide's face. Sam's hope raised up a notch.
“They came from the south tunnel,” Nathaniel supplied, gazing down one tunnel, again indicating it with his light, “and headed that way.” He pointed to the tunnel he’d just come from. “It makes sense too…”
“What does?” Sam asked, brow scrunched.
“I’m pretty sure that’s the west tunnel and,” he swung his light down the tunnel from where the tracks lead, apparently getting his bearings, then back again. “There’s a large cavern not far ahead. The mine foreman used to use it to store damaged coal cars until they could be repaired.” Nathaniel was looking at Sam now, their eyes saying exactly what both men suspected.
Sam nodded, the implication unspoken. It was a prime location for a wendigo to store its meat. “C’mon,” he grabbed the Indian’s jacket
The two men edged their way into the west tunnel. Sam, keeping his back to the wall, shuffled sideways and Nathaniel did the same. After a few yards, Sam looked at the guide, face earnest, concerned. “We take this carefully, Nathaniel. Quietly as we can, got it?” The Indian nodded. “Check your weapon and keep it out.”
Both men took a moment to check the loads in their weapons and then, after a brief nod, they were off.
Nathaniel stepped away from the wall to keep his gaze alternating from the ground to the darkness up ahead. Sam, jaw tight, not allowing himself to think he’d find anything less than a whole and hale brother - well, a little banged up but, nothing new really - so long as he found him breathing, he could deal with the rest. He hoped.
Sam slowed and Nathaniel matched his reduced speed. Without a word he tapped the Indian and indicated that he extinguished his light. They were then plunged in the darkest shadows as they moved.
Head canted, listening, Sam suddenly flung a hand out to catch Nathaniel as he too skittered to a halt.
Nathaniel stared askance at Sam but Sam simply pointed at his ear. The request was clear and the Indian turned and stared down the tunnel, head tilted.
Sam saw the moment the Indian heard it. He turned and stared at Sam who leaned in close and whispered, “They mimic voices,” he reminded. “Stay behind me.” Nathaniel bristled; Sam didn’t have to see it to know. Waves of indignation pulsated from the younger man. To his credit, however, the Indian dropped back two steps. But no further.
Closer they could see the void, a shadow deeper and darker than the rest. The cavern Nathaniel had indicated. This time, though, the whimpering was a soft spoken voice... “It’ll … be alright,” the woman’s voice calmed, soft but painfilled. “M-Maggie, just… honey…”
“Mommy…” a smaller voice snuffled. “I’m c-c-cold.”
That was enough for Sam and he sprung forward, flashlight on but pointing down. He heard Nathaniel rush ahead with him as they rounded the corner into the cavern.
There was a momentary gasp of shock. Then realization and the woman’s voice, sobbing, “Oh... Oh my g-god…” she was hanging from a beam, arms bound above her head. Long black hair in tatters, clothes not in much better shape, her voice broke as she pleaded, “Help….h-h-help us…please.”
Sam stared, relief and disappointment coursing through him. Next to the woman was an unconscious man, medium length brownish hair hung in tangled disarray, framing his downturned face, wrists bound above his head, secured just like the woman.
Dean was nowhere in sight and his absence left Sam bitter and angry. Only the man, woman and child, the latter a mess of white-blond hair, the shade visible even in the layers of dirt, blue eyes wide and terrified, she stared back at Sam, trying to make herself smaller against the cave wall.
Nathaniel was first to move. Stepping around Sam, the flare gun jammed back in his jacket pocket, a knife was in his hand as he moved first toward the woman.
“No,” she whined piteously, “my husband first. He hasn’t moved in hours.”
Nathaniel seemed to hesitate at this. Sam put an end to the argument. “Mame’ I don’t think your daughter will let us anywhere near her. It’s best we get you down first so you can see to her. That’ll give us…”
Sam canted his head, sentence trailing off. “You hear that?” Slowly, he turned to look at the exit.
The woman was down, Nathaniel had been in the process of carefully removing the ropes from her damaged wrists then he too froze. “Yea, sounds like… like a… tornado.”
Then, a god-awful growl, more like a shriek cut into the sound. A sound Sam knew too well. Wendigo.
A voice cut in, “DEAN!” one he didn’t recognize, high pitched and panicked.
“Kyle?” the woman asked, her voice weak.
“Ah shit.” another voice growled.
Sam whispered, “Dean.”
It was strained, grating but that was the voice he’d waited to hear; ached to hear. And it had echoed off the not so distant walls outside the cavern.
On autopilot Sam lurched forward, then caught himself. Twisting he held Nathaniel’s gaze, eyes begging for permission he didn’t really need.
Nathaniel, his arms wrapped around the woman’s shoulders, nodded at him. “Go!”
~*~
~*~
“Dean!” Kyle shouted.
In addition to the deafening cacophony of sound, a sudden gust slammed into Dean, buffeting him, nearly knocking him back. Stubbornly he held, leaning into the swirling wind.
Dean ground his teeth against the continued onslaught of pain. Eyes boring into the creature across from him he fought against the mounting agony from the heat and pressure that seemed determined to collide with his very mortality.
Suddenly, the wave, the heat, the pressure, it gathered enormous force and began racing toward his arms, like a million snakes, ignited and slithering, searching for an exit. Dean growled, desperate to ride out the sensation that was destined to drive him insane.
“What’s happening?” Kyle shouted from his left. The boy was at his side, kneeling next to him, eyes wild and uncertain.
Dean knew a moment of real panic and he looked anxiously at the wendigo. “Get ba-back t-to your h-hiding sp-spot,” he gritted out, the pain nearly impossible to talk around.
“No!” Kyle yelled. Dean blinked over at him. “I-I’m scared!”
Ok, scratch that. The roaring sound was not just in his head, it was all around them. Even Kyle was affected as he covered his ears, staring at Dean for answers. The wind too, it kicked up the boy’s hair, twisted and flipped his dark locks.
There was something else; Kyle was sweating. The heat. A sudden panicked thought struck Dean in that moment. This was it! The goddamn weapon that Castiel had told him about. And he had no frigging control over it.
Glaring at the wendigo, Dean reached blindly for Kyle’s arm and shoved him away. “G’back Kyle” he roared. He couldn’t risk the boy being too near when whatever was going to happen, happened.
On hands and knees now, panting, Dean watched as the wendigo walked slowly toward him. Beady, lifeless eyes caught on the miniscule light in the cave, turning an eerie red. Low guttural growls cut through the noise in his head.
It jerked, moved forward a pace, covered half the distance then stopped. Dean blinked in surprise. No matter how long he lived (and if this day got much worse, that wouldn’t be long at all) he’d never get used that. It moved another inch closer then stopped, drool falling from its open maw. It was playing with him.
“Anyone ever tell you,” Dean shouted over the deafening roar, one hand clutching his abdomen, the other fisted as much dirt as it would hold as he slowly working his way back to his feet, “‘s not polite t’play with your food?”
That decide the monster. It lunged at Dean.
It all seemed to happen at the same time, rapid fire, and yet so slowly that it was like each event happened in a lifetime of its own.
Airborne, the wendigo’s scream rent the cave walls. Its face triumphant, menacing, greedily knowing that its prey was done in.
Timing it perfectly, Dean instinctively, threw out the hand full of dirt. The moment his fingers opened, the burning tendrils, the snakes beneath his skin suddenly found their opening. In an explosion of epic pain they surged and swarmed, the pressure propelling them toward his outstretched hand.
Dean shouted himself hoarse as his elbow locked, unable to withdraw.
The sound roared louder, the wind buffeted harder, and in a sudden burst of light, he felt sure his hand would rip open as they exploded. And Dean’s eyes grew wide as flames, not dirt, shot out of his extended palm.
A ball of fire slammed into the wendigo with the force of a rocket, sending it back several yards. It stumbled along the dirt floor before coming to a complete stop.
Except for the consuming fire and the crackling flesh, the silence in the cave was nearly deafening. Eyes wide, Dean stared at the wendigo. For a moment, the creature was too stunned to notice.
Then it looked down at the flame; rapidly it spread, racing upward, across its chest. It knew.
Head back, arms flung wide, the wendigo shrieked. Flames quickly consumed his dry brittle flesh and bones, fast, like a match to dry kindling. The wendigo wilted to the cave floor and in a matter of seconds it was reduced to a small mound of glowing coals and embers, the odd hair igniting, sizzling out to the ends before shriveling and going out.
“Dean!” Sam’s voice shouted over the explosion of sound.
Above the glow of the wendigo’s remains, Dean locked eyes with Sam. It seemed surreal for a moment but he was jogging toward him, flare gun in one hand, flashlight beam pointed at the coals, worry and concern in his tight face.
“Heya Sammy,” Dean grinned, the glow of the fleshy coals illuminating his bloody, dirt-covered face.
Not taking his eyes off his brother, Sam moved around the mound of burning wendigo, eager to reach his side. Because, even from this distance he could hear the rattle of fluid in his chest, could see the struggle it was to breath, the deep seeded lines of exhaustion and the sudden sway that meant only one thing...
“See that? I’m like…friggin’” he coughed, feeling weak and unsteady, “Firestarter, the human torch... which makes you the invisible wom-”
This time he was unable to stop it. It was damn hard to breath and the coughing fit was tearing his chest apart. His knees buckled, eyes watered. The world narrowed and grayed as exhaustion and fatigue sent him angling toward the ground.
“Hey.” Two strong, familiar hands caught and lowered him carefully to the ground. Sam’s voice wavered around him, over him. “I gotcha.”
While more voices floated around him - Sam's, Kyle's and others he didn’t know - both images and sounds started to fade. Through it all, one thing was clear: they’d finally managed to save the day.
Dean grinned as the thought filled his hazy mind. “Finally...” and his world went black.
-~*~-
PART 7
-~*~-
Author’s Notes:
I know. A day late. My apologies.
Well, one more chapter, because Castiel has a lot to answer for, don’t you think? I think. Look for the last part to be up on Wednesday.
Comments are welcome.
AUTHOR: jackfan2
CATEGORY: Gen
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, Castiel, OC's
WORDS: 3,179
GENRE: Humor/Hurt/Comfort
RATING: T, or PG13 for swearing
TIMELINE: Season 4
BETAS: mad_server & adrenalineshots
SUMMARY: Dean is whisked away by the angels for an urgent rescue mission, leaving Sam clamoring to find him. Between a dubious gift and a bat-shit horse, angelic blessings and hell's curses can sometimes be frighteningly similar, and all disastrous for Dean.
Completed fic. One more chapter to go.
This is a birthday fic written for one of my beta's, the lovely adrenalineshots, without whom I'd not currently be writing. Without whom I'd not have much sanity left. Because, when someone you know is falling apart and that someone's world is massively connected to yours, it's nice to have an anchor to tie to. Natty's a great anchor. A great friend. Period.
Go back to PART 5
-~*~-
THE GIFT: Part 6
-~*~-
Sam shifted from one foot to the other, anxious, barely contained need to shout at the man.
Nathaniel paced around the small cavern, head down, knees bent, never once straightening, choosing instead to sort of crab-walk from one area of ruffled dirt, to the other. The Indian was silent as he moved about, brow drawn in concentration and …bafflement.
They’d moved at a steady pace through the tunnels until this point. Nearly an hour of running, stopping for a quick print read, a clipped discussion, then on again. The signs legible enough to keep them moving.
Until now.
Now, they seemed to be stuck and Nathaniel looked vexed. Sam was both worried and pissed. Deciding he’d waited long enough, Sam had attempted to ask what was wrong, but Nathaniel only answered with a raised hand. A clear request for silence. Sam’s jaw had snapped shut audibly.
In an effort to keep from going mad, Sam had decided to have a look around, because truth be told all this standing and not talking was getting on his nerves. Yet, he wanted to give the Indian the time he needed so he tried to pace, only to hear Nathanial growl at him to hold still. Something about mixing his tracks with the others and how that would make things more difficult.
So Sam held still. For the fifth time he glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes now they’d been there. Twenty minutes and they were no closer to finding Dean.
“Dammit,” Nathaniel said his jaw tight. He straightened, eyes still cast downward. “This makes no sense at all.”
“Ok, man,” Sam chimed in, taking his cue from the Indian that the silence was broken. “What the hell?” He felt his gut churn as he realized the most probable explanation for the baffled guide. “You didn’t lose the trail…?”
“Yes,” Nathaniel sputtered. Sam felt his heart plummet. “And no.”
Sam closed his eyes, frustrated. “Nathaniel -”
“I mean.” He looked up at Sam, eyes wallowing in disappointment and frustration. “There are too many signs.”
“That -” Sam shook his head. “What’re you talking about?”
“Look,” Nathaniel waved Sam over and pointed with the beam of his flashlight at the depressions in the ground. “Those are the tracks - the ones where it’s carrying its prey, right?” Without waiting for acknowledgement, he shifted the beam, indicating more indentations. “Those long, deep striations in the dirt, they’re drag tracks Sam and they were made at the same time.”
Sam ran this new information through his head, trying to get what it meant. “So,” he stared down at the tracks, his jaw ticked at the revelation, “it’s got more than one victim.” He looked up and caught the sense of self-loathing from the Indian. It practically radiated from him. Sam canted his head, suddenly worried about what he might hear next, but he pressed, “Nathaniel, what else aren’t you telling me?”
Nathaniel’s face suddenly tightened; he seemed reluctant to continue. “The wendigo’s tracks, what it’s carrying, the prints aren’t as deep, not like before.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”
“Meaning this is not the trail we were following earlier. Meaning, I - that same reluctance was back - meaning I lost that trail.”
Sam’s mind swirled at the possibilities. “Maybe the person it was dragging…”
Nathaniel was shaking his head. “They're too shallow.” He blew out a frustrated sigh. “Sam, from what you described of your brother, given his muscular build and weight, there’s not enough depth in these tracks. No, these belong to either a small man or a woman... possibly even-”
“How the -?” Sam started to shout, but stopped when Nathaniel flinched. Running a hand through his hair he turned his back on the guide, trying to regain his composure. They’d lost what was potentially Dean’s trail, or so the Indian had said. How the hell…?
“Sam?” Nathaniel’s voice was small, hesitant. Full of regret and apology, all wrapped up in one word.
Didn’t matter, Sam couldn’t bring himself to turn around. Still not sure he wouldn’t hit someone, and given Nathaniel was the only ‘someone’ available, he jammed his fists to his hips, and tried to take a deep breath.
“That’s not all,” Nathaniel continued. When Sam didn’t turn, he seemed fine with talking to his back as he moved to stand by several small indentations in the ground. “These other prints here - they’re too small to be either wendigo or Dean’s. Sam, these tracks belong to a child.”
Sam spun, eyes wide. “What?”
“They’re all over the place here,” Nathaniel continued as Sam moved to stand next to him, staring at the light the Indian to point out every small indentation in the dirt.
They were plain and perfect, child-sized impressions of sneakers by the looks of it. A tracker of more novice means, Sam knew the truth in the evidence. “Crap.”
“Yeah. Crap,” the guide said as he too stared down at the footprints. Nathaniel was taking it hard. Leaning against the cave wall, he looked dejected, angry with himself. “I’m sorry. I dunno, I guess I kinda got excited back there and didn’t really keep as close an eye to the ground as I should’ve.”
Sam wasn’t listening. Instead, he stared at the prints on the ground. Wondered at the child’s terror at being able to walk through this hell, watch his or her parent’s being dragged off mercilessly, to be consumed like a side of beef. They might or might not have lost Dean for the time being, but there were other victims here and if there was a chance to save them at least…
If Dean were there with them, Sam realized, he’d want this too. So he grabbed the Indian by the sleeve and pulled him over to the mess of tracks about the floor. “Ok, look. If we have to we’ll - retrace later, see if we can’t pick up that other trail. Right now, let’s just work with what we’ve got here, now. Ok?”
The guide stared quietly at Sam, brooding, eyes darker with the play of light and shadows in the cavern. This roomier section of the mine was just one of the many large junctures, a meeting point in the caves, where all tunnels fed in and branched out in all directions.
Shifting from foot to foot, staring anxiously at the Indian, Sam tried to be patient about the younger man’s indecision, but when he continued to sulk, Sam snapped. “Nathaniel!”
Sighing, the guide pushed off the cave wall. “Fine,” he said, eyeing the ground, once again studying it.
“Just -” Sam worked to cool the temper flaring in his voice “- just find out which tunnel they headed into and we’ll get moving.”
It hadn’t taken long, though the twenty minutes from earlier was now hitting at forty-five as Nathaniel took his time. Sam thought he knew why too; the guide was still fuming over losing the first trail and wanted to be damn sure this time before they took off.
So, head to the ground, the tracker rounded the small juncture of tunnels, lips pressed into a tight line, eyes serious and searching. The Indian then proceeded to scout each tunnel branch, walking down a few yards, then back. Sam chose to remain at the tunnel entrance, each time adding his flashlight’s beam to Nathaniel’s but keeping an eye and ear out for the wendigo.
Upon each return, the Indian’s face had been a mask of neutrality, until the forth tunnel, that is.
Nathaniel’s face was anxious and set with a kind of grim certainty that Sam was almost afraid to ask how the search was going. But, unlike with the previous tunnels, there was also determination and purpose in the guide's face. Sam's hope raised up a notch.
“They came from the south tunnel,” Nathaniel supplied, gazing down one tunnel, again indicating it with his light, “and headed that way.” He pointed to the tunnel he’d just come from. “It makes sense too…”
“What does?” Sam asked, brow scrunched.
“I’m pretty sure that’s the west tunnel and,” he swung his light down the tunnel from where the tracks lead, apparently getting his bearings, then back again. “There’s a large cavern not far ahead. The mine foreman used to use it to store damaged coal cars until they could be repaired.” Nathaniel was looking at Sam now, their eyes saying exactly what both men suspected.
Sam nodded, the implication unspoken. It was a prime location for a wendigo to store its meat. “C’mon,” he grabbed the Indian’s jacket
The two men edged their way into the west tunnel. Sam, keeping his back to the wall, shuffled sideways and Nathaniel did the same. After a few yards, Sam looked at the guide, face earnest, concerned. “We take this carefully, Nathaniel. Quietly as we can, got it?” The Indian nodded. “Check your weapon and keep it out.”
Both men took a moment to check the loads in their weapons and then, after a brief nod, they were off.
Nathaniel stepped away from the wall to keep his gaze alternating from the ground to the darkness up ahead. Sam, jaw tight, not allowing himself to think he’d find anything less than a whole and hale brother - well, a little banged up but, nothing new really - so long as he found him breathing, he could deal with the rest. He hoped.
Sam slowed and Nathaniel matched his reduced speed. Without a word he tapped the Indian and indicated that he extinguished his light. They were then plunged in the darkest shadows as they moved.
Head canted, listening, Sam suddenly flung a hand out to catch Nathaniel as he too skittered to a halt.
Nathaniel stared askance at Sam but Sam simply pointed at his ear. The request was clear and the Indian turned and stared down the tunnel, head tilted.
Sam saw the moment the Indian heard it. He turned and stared at Sam who leaned in close and whispered, “They mimic voices,” he reminded. “Stay behind me.” Nathaniel bristled; Sam didn’t have to see it to know. Waves of indignation pulsated from the younger man. To his credit, however, the Indian dropped back two steps. But no further.
Closer they could see the void, a shadow deeper and darker than the rest. The cavern Nathaniel had indicated. This time, though, the whimpering was a soft spoken voice... “It’ll … be alright,” the woman’s voice calmed, soft but painfilled. “M-Maggie, just… honey…”
“Mommy…” a smaller voice snuffled. “I’m c-c-cold.”
That was enough for Sam and he sprung forward, flashlight on but pointing down. He heard Nathaniel rush ahead with him as they rounded the corner into the cavern.
There was a momentary gasp of shock. Then realization and the woman’s voice, sobbing, “Oh... Oh my g-god…” she was hanging from a beam, arms bound above her head. Long black hair in tatters, clothes not in much better shape, her voice broke as she pleaded, “Help….h-h-help us…please.”
Sam stared, relief and disappointment coursing through him. Next to the woman was an unconscious man, medium length brownish hair hung in tangled disarray, framing his downturned face, wrists bound above his head, secured just like the woman.
Dean was nowhere in sight and his absence left Sam bitter and angry. Only the man, woman and child, the latter a mess of white-blond hair, the shade visible even in the layers of dirt, blue eyes wide and terrified, she stared back at Sam, trying to make herself smaller against the cave wall.
Nathaniel was first to move. Stepping around Sam, the flare gun jammed back in his jacket pocket, a knife was in his hand as he moved first toward the woman.
“No,” she whined piteously, “my husband first. He hasn’t moved in hours.”
Nathaniel seemed to hesitate at this. Sam put an end to the argument. “Mame’ I don’t think your daughter will let us anywhere near her. It’s best we get you down first so you can see to her. That’ll give us…”
Sam canted his head, sentence trailing off. “You hear that?” Slowly, he turned to look at the exit.
The woman was down, Nathaniel had been in the process of carefully removing the ropes from her damaged wrists then he too froze. “Yea, sounds like… like a… tornado.”
Then, a god-awful growl, more like a shriek cut into the sound. A sound Sam knew too well. Wendigo.
A voice cut in, “DEAN!” one he didn’t recognize, high pitched and panicked.
“Kyle?” the woman asked, her voice weak.
“Ah shit.” another voice growled.
Sam whispered, “Dean.”
It was strained, grating but that was the voice he’d waited to hear; ached to hear. And it had echoed off the not so distant walls outside the cavern.
On autopilot Sam lurched forward, then caught himself. Twisting he held Nathaniel’s gaze, eyes begging for permission he didn’t really need.
Nathaniel, his arms wrapped around the woman’s shoulders, nodded at him. “Go!”
~*~
~*~
“Dean!” Kyle shouted.
In addition to the deafening cacophony of sound, a sudden gust slammed into Dean, buffeting him, nearly knocking him back. Stubbornly he held, leaning into the swirling wind.
Dean ground his teeth against the continued onslaught of pain. Eyes boring into the creature across from him he fought against the mounting agony from the heat and pressure that seemed determined to collide with his very mortality.
Suddenly, the wave, the heat, the pressure, it gathered enormous force and began racing toward his arms, like a million snakes, ignited and slithering, searching for an exit. Dean growled, desperate to ride out the sensation that was destined to drive him insane.
“What’s happening?” Kyle shouted from his left. The boy was at his side, kneeling next to him, eyes wild and uncertain.
Dean knew a moment of real panic and he looked anxiously at the wendigo. “Get ba-back t-to your h-hiding sp-spot,” he gritted out, the pain nearly impossible to talk around.
“No!” Kyle yelled. Dean blinked over at him. “I-I’m scared!”
Ok, scratch that. The roaring sound was not just in his head, it was all around them. Even Kyle was affected as he covered his ears, staring at Dean for answers. The wind too, it kicked up the boy’s hair, twisted and flipped his dark locks.
There was something else; Kyle was sweating. The heat. A sudden panicked thought struck Dean in that moment. This was it! The goddamn weapon that Castiel had told him about. And he had no frigging control over it.
Glaring at the wendigo, Dean reached blindly for Kyle’s arm and shoved him away. “G’back Kyle” he roared. He couldn’t risk the boy being too near when whatever was going to happen, happened.
On hands and knees now, panting, Dean watched as the wendigo walked slowly toward him. Beady, lifeless eyes caught on the miniscule light in the cave, turning an eerie red. Low guttural growls cut through the noise in his head.
It jerked, moved forward a pace, covered half the distance then stopped. Dean blinked in surprise. No matter how long he lived (and if this day got much worse, that wouldn’t be long at all) he’d never get used that. It moved another inch closer then stopped, drool falling from its open maw. It was playing with him.
“Anyone ever tell you,” Dean shouted over the deafening roar, one hand clutching his abdomen, the other fisted as much dirt as it would hold as he slowly working his way back to his feet, “‘s not polite t’play with your food?”
That decide the monster. It lunged at Dean.
It all seemed to happen at the same time, rapid fire, and yet so slowly that it was like each event happened in a lifetime of its own.
Airborne, the wendigo’s scream rent the cave walls. Its face triumphant, menacing, greedily knowing that its prey was done in.
Timing it perfectly, Dean instinctively, threw out the hand full of dirt. The moment his fingers opened, the burning tendrils, the snakes beneath his skin suddenly found their opening. In an explosion of epic pain they surged and swarmed, the pressure propelling them toward his outstretched hand.
Dean shouted himself hoarse as his elbow locked, unable to withdraw.
The sound roared louder, the wind buffeted harder, and in a sudden burst of light, he felt sure his hand would rip open as they exploded. And Dean’s eyes grew wide as flames, not dirt, shot out of his extended palm.
A ball of fire slammed into the wendigo with the force of a rocket, sending it back several yards. It stumbled along the dirt floor before coming to a complete stop.
Except for the consuming fire and the crackling flesh, the silence in the cave was nearly deafening. Eyes wide, Dean stared at the wendigo. For a moment, the creature was too stunned to notice.
Then it looked down at the flame; rapidly it spread, racing upward, across its chest. It knew.
Head back, arms flung wide, the wendigo shrieked. Flames quickly consumed his dry brittle flesh and bones, fast, like a match to dry kindling. The wendigo wilted to the cave floor and in a matter of seconds it was reduced to a small mound of glowing coals and embers, the odd hair igniting, sizzling out to the ends before shriveling and going out.
“Dean!” Sam’s voice shouted over the explosion of sound.
Above the glow of the wendigo’s remains, Dean locked eyes with Sam. It seemed surreal for a moment but he was jogging toward him, flare gun in one hand, flashlight beam pointed at the coals, worry and concern in his tight face.
“Heya Sammy,” Dean grinned, the glow of the fleshy coals illuminating his bloody, dirt-covered face.
Not taking his eyes off his brother, Sam moved around the mound of burning wendigo, eager to reach his side. Because, even from this distance he could hear the rattle of fluid in his chest, could see the struggle it was to breath, the deep seeded lines of exhaustion and the sudden sway that meant only one thing...
“See that? I’m like…friggin’” he coughed, feeling weak and unsteady, “Firestarter, the human torch... which makes you the invisible wom-”
This time he was unable to stop it. It was damn hard to breath and the coughing fit was tearing his chest apart. His knees buckled, eyes watered. The world narrowed and grayed as exhaustion and fatigue sent him angling toward the ground.
“Hey.” Two strong, familiar hands caught and lowered him carefully to the ground. Sam’s voice wavered around him, over him. “I gotcha.”
While more voices floated around him - Sam's, Kyle's and others he didn’t know - both images and sounds started to fade. Through it all, one thing was clear: they’d finally managed to save the day.
Dean grinned as the thought filled his hazy mind. “Finally...” and his world went black.
-~*~-
PART 7
-~*~-
Author’s Notes:
I know. A day late. My apologies.
Well, one more chapter, because Castiel has a lot to answer for, don’t you think? I think. Look for the last part to be up on Wednesday.
Comments are welcome.