Supernatural: A Long Winter's Night 4/5
In anticipation for tomorrow's premiere (and God help those boys across the hall if they decide to start their loud shenanigans between 9 and 10 tomorrow, so terrible will be my wrath) here's the next chapter for "A Long Winter's Night."
Title: A Long Winter's Night
Author: Ada
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Season One.
Characters: Dean
Disclaimer: I make no claims to owning anything except the original content of this story.
Note: This is the sequel to The Art of Walking Away. This story is finished, I wrote it almost a year ago and it is part two in the trilogy.
Summary: Sequel to The Art of Walking Away. Two years, seven months, and 48 states he had searched for Sam. But he had no luck. After all, Sam was a Winchester, a hunter, and if he did not want to be found, then no one could find him.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
A Long Winter’s Night
By: Ada C. Eliana
Chapter 4
To all the fights I've conquered and beyond
The times have changed and I will now move over slowly...
But through it all I still feel lost without you
Hard to find a new soul
The silence takes its toll
-“Sway” Lostprophets
Dean wandered through the Northwoods shovel and sawed off shotgun in hand and a bag of miscellaneous hunting supplies slung over his shoulder. The air felt colder than the day before. It wasn’t snowing anymore, but Dean had a sinking suspicion that it had something to do with it being too damn cold to snow. “Whatever happened to global warming anyway?” he asked no one in particular. “Cause I could really use some of that about now.”
His head was pounding; the unfortunate consequence of a night of drinking. He tried to forget about the little freak-out he’d had back at the motel room. If anything, the hunt was good for him in one way; it got his mind off of everything else. Now all he had to do was find the stupid hut and hope there were bones somewhere easily accessible. Then he could move on to the next fight. Personally, he hoped it would be something interesting; a real adrenaline rushing fight with something he could touch; like a werewolf or a wendigo or something.
“God it is so frickin’ cold!” he shouted as he walked through a row of pines, trying to keep to the snow-buried trail. This was exactly why he always found an excuse to be on hunts in Texas and the Deep South during the winter.
Not watching his footing, he tripped over a fallen log, crashing to the ground face-first. He swore, knowing there would be a bruise on his hip from the way he fell onto everything he was holding. The shovel alone was bound to leave a mark. Stumbling to his feet and sliding in the snow, Dean leaned against a tree to get his bearings. He brushed the snow off of his clothes, which was pretty useless at this point as his jeans were already soaked through. “I hate the woods!” he shouted. Then he shut up, worried that someone might actually hear him and come to investigate why a crazy guy was shouting in the woods with a gun in his hands. The last thing he needed today would be to be arrested.
He followed Tessa’s directions towards the hut, hoping he could actually see it even if it were covered in snow. The woods were filled with pine trees, all green beneath a thick layer of white. The branches bent towards the ground, and as he walked by he idly brushed some snow off, watching as they shot back up, littering the air with errant snowflakes. He looked up, staring at the cloud-covered sky through the opening in the copse of trees, the pine branches obscuring his view. At least it was still light out, but it was that hazy sort of light that lingers all day during winters in the north. The sun was hidden and the dull glow that reached the Earth didn’t seem like enough. But Dean was used to working at night, so even this was a step up.
Being a Midwest boy he had spent very few winters in the northeast corner of the country. Now he could see where some of the Christmas clichés came from - the lit up cities covered in snow with huge pine trees and frosted windows. Maybe in a different lifetime he could have appreciated all of that - enjoyed it even - in the life he lost when his mother died he probably would have.
He could remember very little about the time before then, but he had seen some of the pictures. His parents had strived hard to make Christmas special, but once his mother died it became just one more unnecessary distraction. More often than not John would just become so overly involved in something; whether it be hunting or wallowing in grief, and just completely forget about it. He supposed maybe all of that “good will towards man” stuff didn’t mean a whole hell of a lot when someone had lost someone so important; when they knew what was lurking in the dark. It was hard to think of peace and joy when evil slaughtered people daily.
A shadow moved in the corner of his vision. He spun, searching it out, but it was off of the trail and hidden by the trees. Senses heightened; he stared about him, moving slowly and purposefully with the gun out in front of him. He saw it again; the shadowed form of a man, staggering out in front of him on the trail. He seemed to pause, and then turned to face Dean.
He was almost six feet tall, but standing with his shoulder’s stooped. His stomach bulged in the classic beer belly, and the shadow flannel he wore looked old and tattered. This guy was definitely David Bennett. His mouth was moving and Dean heard a whisper on the air but he could not make out what the man was trying to say to him. And considering how many people had disappeared in these woods he was lax to go the route they had gone at the Roosevelt Asylum and listen to the spirit.
He took careful aim on Bennett as the ghost advanced, flailing his arms and now audibly shouting completely nonsense as he trudged forward. As he neared, Dean saw the splash of blood across the front of David’s flannel; probably the killing blow. He wondered idly if the first in the now long string of Skidmore students who went missing had done that. But he pushed the thought away, it didn’t matter how the angry spirits came to be, or what they did when they were alive so long as he got rid of them.
David stumbled towards Dean, looking very drunk and out of it as he rambled on unintelligibly. He neared and Dean fired; rock salt bursting through the spirit’s form. David vanished in a wisp of gray smoke, and Dean took off towards the direction David had come from; hoping to find the bones before he regained his strength and returned.
As he hurried down the trail, Dean thought he heard footsteps crunching the snow behind him. He spun to face the person, but no one was there. Shaking it off as paranoia, Dean continued.
He had just spotted David again when he took an unexpected turn through the woods and saw the hut. When first built it must have looked like a kid’s playhouse, just about 6 square feet in size - just big enough to sleep in mostly. The deteriorated walls that had survived showed that the ceiling must have been only about four feet high. The whole structure was built out of badly nailed-together two-by-fours and the cracks between boards must have been there from the start. However, the roof had folded in, the consequences of years of weather and exposure taking its toll.
It was half-hidden by the snow, and as Dean approached it he noticed the misty particles in the air before him coalescing into the spirit of David Bennett. Wondering if he should have thought up a better plan first, he shot at the spirit, and then scrambled to the hut; kneeling down next to the structure.
He dug through the snow covering it until he reached the wood. Frequently glancing up for any signs of spiritual activity, Dean stood and bent down to lift the broken roof. Using his shovel for leverage, he braced his legs and then managed to pull the roof fragment up just enough to shove it aside. It had begun to snow, thick heavy flakes rushed down at him.
David suddenly appeared in front of him, a club in his hands. He swung it at Dean, hitting him hard in his right shoulder and knocking him backwards onto the snow. Dean ignored the burning pain in his shoulder as he forced himself to his feet. He lifted the sawed-off shotgun to shoot some more rock salt, but the ghost had disappeared already.
Not wasting any time, Dean returned to the hut, hoping his hunch that the bones were under the roof there was correct. He lifted the stray boards that remained on top; remnants of the roof and walls, tossing them as best he could with his busted arm. Rotting leaves and layers of pine needles were revealed once the wood had been moved. He reached dirt and wondered if it were possible that someone had buried the bodies. But when he broke it up with his hands, it only amounted to a thin layer, just a collection of dirt from years of neglect. He dug through the dirt and felt bone beneath his gloved hands. He worked quickly; brushing the dirt off and revealing two skeletons lying next to each other on an old tattered red blanket.
“Alright,” Dean sighed, reaching into the bag to pull out the gas can. He had just closed his hands around it when something heavy and hard struck his upper back. “Son of bitch!” He cried out in pain and fell forward. He put the gun over his shoulder and fired again, hearing a high pitched shriek as David disappeared. He lay in the snow, panting, his back throbbing terribly. He gazed out at the bodies again, and saw that the one had shattered bones; he must have been the college student, bludgeoned to death. The other body was on its side, curled in towards the stomach, with a knife lying between its ribs. That one had to be David. The other guy must have stabbed him just before he died.
Dean grabbed the gas and the salt out of the bag, and doused the bones with both. Then he pulled the lighter from his pocket and was about to set them on fire when he was suddenly flying through the air. The lighter fell from his hand, landing next to the hut as Dean’s back and head collided painfully with a tree, and he collapsed to the ground dazed. There was a bruise forming on his lower back, where David had hit him to throw him from the bones.
Dark spots were forming at the corners of his vision as he watched David approaching. He couldn’t move; his body jarred and in pain. He just couldn’t believe he was going to be killed by some middle-aged ghost with a club in the middle of the freaking woods on Christmas Eve. Wow, his dad would be so disappointed if he ever found out. How humiliating that would be for him, to know that his oldest son got killed on a routine salt and burn. Well that would prove Sam’s theory; that John was just stubborn enough to outlive both of them. What a legacy for John Winchester to leave; one son disappearing and never heard from again for the family crusade, and the other clubbed to death by an angry spirit. What a joke they were. What a frickin’ joke.
David was staring at him, taking slow calculated steps towards him; showing the killer he had been when he was alive; wanting to make Dean sweat, let him know he was about to die.
Dean heard a crunch of boots on the snow behind David. He tried to move to see who it was, but he all he could make out were a pair of dark boots and jeans. The man, whoever he was, leaned down, long graceful fingers reaching for the silver lighter. Dean felt a flash of recognition as he trained his eyes on the pale hand, and his heart beat wildly as he strained to see his face. With practiced motions the man ignited the lighter and tossed it on the bones. The flames rose quickly, and then all Dean could see was David’s body roiling and writhing as the fire ate at his bones. In a flash of light he began to disappear. However, at the same moment, even though he tried valiantly to stay awake, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of the man before him, the darkness at the borders of his vision expanded and he felt himself plunge into darkness.
-------------------------
Dean awoke to the feeling of someone lightly running a hand through his hair in a comforting motion. His eyes were still closed, and his head still spinning, He was cold except for the warm body that he was slightly leaning against. It took him a moment to realize that he was not in some hot girl’s bedroom and that he had not passed out with his father or brother close by.
Then he remembered the ghost that almost killed him, and the slender hand of the man who saved him; a man wearing a wristband that matched his own. He would know that person anywhere.
Sam.
It could only have been Sam.
He stirred slightly as he tried to pry his eyes open, and abruptly felt the person cut off their movements, only to sense the person standing and hurrying away. As his eyes flickered open he found himself staring up at the darkening sky. He turned his head slightly to the side, just in time to catch a glimpse of the shadow the figure made as he disappeared into the trees.
“Sammy!” he called out as he struggled to fully regain consciousness.
By the time he regained his bearings and managed to stand Sam was gone and whatever trail he might have left had been covered by snow.
Title: A Long Winter's Night
Author: Ada
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Season One.
Characters: Dean
Disclaimer: I make no claims to owning anything except the original content of this story.
Note: This is the sequel to The Art of Walking Away. This story is finished, I wrote it almost a year ago and it is part two in the trilogy.
Summary: Sequel to The Art of Walking Away. Two years, seven months, and 48 states he had searched for Sam. But he had no luck. After all, Sam was a Winchester, a hunter, and if he did not want to be found, then no one could find him.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
A Long Winter’s Night
By: Ada C. Eliana
Chapter 4
To all the fights I've conquered and beyond
The times have changed and I will now move over slowly...
But through it all I still feel lost without you
Hard to find a new soul
The silence takes its toll
-“Sway” Lostprophets
Dean wandered through the Northwoods shovel and sawed off shotgun in hand and a bag of miscellaneous hunting supplies slung over his shoulder. The air felt colder than the day before. It wasn’t snowing anymore, but Dean had a sinking suspicion that it had something to do with it being too damn cold to snow. “Whatever happened to global warming anyway?” he asked no one in particular. “Cause I could really use some of that about now.”
His head was pounding; the unfortunate consequence of a night of drinking. He tried to forget about the little freak-out he’d had back at the motel room. If anything, the hunt was good for him in one way; it got his mind off of everything else. Now all he had to do was find the stupid hut and hope there were bones somewhere easily accessible. Then he could move on to the next fight. Personally, he hoped it would be something interesting; a real adrenaline rushing fight with something he could touch; like a werewolf or a wendigo or something.
“God it is so frickin’ cold!” he shouted as he walked through a row of pines, trying to keep to the snow-buried trail. This was exactly why he always found an excuse to be on hunts in Texas and the Deep South during the winter.
Not watching his footing, he tripped over a fallen log, crashing to the ground face-first. He swore, knowing there would be a bruise on his hip from the way he fell onto everything he was holding. The shovel alone was bound to leave a mark. Stumbling to his feet and sliding in the snow, Dean leaned against a tree to get his bearings. He brushed the snow off of his clothes, which was pretty useless at this point as his jeans were already soaked through. “I hate the woods!” he shouted. Then he shut up, worried that someone might actually hear him and come to investigate why a crazy guy was shouting in the woods with a gun in his hands. The last thing he needed today would be to be arrested.
He followed Tessa’s directions towards the hut, hoping he could actually see it even if it were covered in snow. The woods were filled with pine trees, all green beneath a thick layer of white. The branches bent towards the ground, and as he walked by he idly brushed some snow off, watching as they shot back up, littering the air with errant snowflakes. He looked up, staring at the cloud-covered sky through the opening in the copse of trees, the pine branches obscuring his view. At least it was still light out, but it was that hazy sort of light that lingers all day during winters in the north. The sun was hidden and the dull glow that reached the Earth didn’t seem like enough. But Dean was used to working at night, so even this was a step up.
Being a Midwest boy he had spent very few winters in the northeast corner of the country. Now he could see where some of the Christmas clichés came from - the lit up cities covered in snow with huge pine trees and frosted windows. Maybe in a different lifetime he could have appreciated all of that - enjoyed it even - in the life he lost when his mother died he probably would have.
He could remember very little about the time before then, but he had seen some of the pictures. His parents had strived hard to make Christmas special, but once his mother died it became just one more unnecessary distraction. More often than not John would just become so overly involved in something; whether it be hunting or wallowing in grief, and just completely forget about it. He supposed maybe all of that “good will towards man” stuff didn’t mean a whole hell of a lot when someone had lost someone so important; when they knew what was lurking in the dark. It was hard to think of peace and joy when evil slaughtered people daily.
A shadow moved in the corner of his vision. He spun, searching it out, but it was off of the trail and hidden by the trees. Senses heightened; he stared about him, moving slowly and purposefully with the gun out in front of him. He saw it again; the shadowed form of a man, staggering out in front of him on the trail. He seemed to pause, and then turned to face Dean.
He was almost six feet tall, but standing with his shoulder’s stooped. His stomach bulged in the classic beer belly, and the shadow flannel he wore looked old and tattered. This guy was definitely David Bennett. His mouth was moving and Dean heard a whisper on the air but he could not make out what the man was trying to say to him. And considering how many people had disappeared in these woods he was lax to go the route they had gone at the Roosevelt Asylum and listen to the spirit.
He took careful aim on Bennett as the ghost advanced, flailing his arms and now audibly shouting completely nonsense as he trudged forward. As he neared, Dean saw the splash of blood across the front of David’s flannel; probably the killing blow. He wondered idly if the first in the now long string of Skidmore students who went missing had done that. But he pushed the thought away, it didn’t matter how the angry spirits came to be, or what they did when they were alive so long as he got rid of them.
David stumbled towards Dean, looking very drunk and out of it as he rambled on unintelligibly. He neared and Dean fired; rock salt bursting through the spirit’s form. David vanished in a wisp of gray smoke, and Dean took off towards the direction David had come from; hoping to find the bones before he regained his strength and returned.
As he hurried down the trail, Dean thought he heard footsteps crunching the snow behind him. He spun to face the person, but no one was there. Shaking it off as paranoia, Dean continued.
He had just spotted David again when he took an unexpected turn through the woods and saw the hut. When first built it must have looked like a kid’s playhouse, just about 6 square feet in size - just big enough to sleep in mostly. The deteriorated walls that had survived showed that the ceiling must have been only about four feet high. The whole structure was built out of badly nailed-together two-by-fours and the cracks between boards must have been there from the start. However, the roof had folded in, the consequences of years of weather and exposure taking its toll.
It was half-hidden by the snow, and as Dean approached it he noticed the misty particles in the air before him coalescing into the spirit of David Bennett. Wondering if he should have thought up a better plan first, he shot at the spirit, and then scrambled to the hut; kneeling down next to the structure.
He dug through the snow covering it until he reached the wood. Frequently glancing up for any signs of spiritual activity, Dean stood and bent down to lift the broken roof. Using his shovel for leverage, he braced his legs and then managed to pull the roof fragment up just enough to shove it aside. It had begun to snow, thick heavy flakes rushed down at him.
David suddenly appeared in front of him, a club in his hands. He swung it at Dean, hitting him hard in his right shoulder and knocking him backwards onto the snow. Dean ignored the burning pain in his shoulder as he forced himself to his feet. He lifted the sawed-off shotgun to shoot some more rock salt, but the ghost had disappeared already.
Not wasting any time, Dean returned to the hut, hoping his hunch that the bones were under the roof there was correct. He lifted the stray boards that remained on top; remnants of the roof and walls, tossing them as best he could with his busted arm. Rotting leaves and layers of pine needles were revealed once the wood had been moved. He reached dirt and wondered if it were possible that someone had buried the bodies. But when he broke it up with his hands, it only amounted to a thin layer, just a collection of dirt from years of neglect. He dug through the dirt and felt bone beneath his gloved hands. He worked quickly; brushing the dirt off and revealing two skeletons lying next to each other on an old tattered red blanket.
“Alright,” Dean sighed, reaching into the bag to pull out the gas can. He had just closed his hands around it when something heavy and hard struck his upper back. “Son of bitch!” He cried out in pain and fell forward. He put the gun over his shoulder and fired again, hearing a high pitched shriek as David disappeared. He lay in the snow, panting, his back throbbing terribly. He gazed out at the bodies again, and saw that the one had shattered bones; he must have been the college student, bludgeoned to death. The other body was on its side, curled in towards the stomach, with a knife lying between its ribs. That one had to be David. The other guy must have stabbed him just before he died.
Dean grabbed the gas and the salt out of the bag, and doused the bones with both. Then he pulled the lighter from his pocket and was about to set them on fire when he was suddenly flying through the air. The lighter fell from his hand, landing next to the hut as Dean’s back and head collided painfully with a tree, and he collapsed to the ground dazed. There was a bruise forming on his lower back, where David had hit him to throw him from the bones.
Dark spots were forming at the corners of his vision as he watched David approaching. He couldn’t move; his body jarred and in pain. He just couldn’t believe he was going to be killed by some middle-aged ghost with a club in the middle of the freaking woods on Christmas Eve. Wow, his dad would be so disappointed if he ever found out. How humiliating that would be for him, to know that his oldest son got killed on a routine salt and burn. Well that would prove Sam’s theory; that John was just stubborn enough to outlive both of them. What a legacy for John Winchester to leave; one son disappearing and never heard from again for the family crusade, and the other clubbed to death by an angry spirit. What a joke they were. What a frickin’ joke.
David was staring at him, taking slow calculated steps towards him; showing the killer he had been when he was alive; wanting to make Dean sweat, let him know he was about to die.
Dean heard a crunch of boots on the snow behind David. He tried to move to see who it was, but he all he could make out were a pair of dark boots and jeans. The man, whoever he was, leaned down, long graceful fingers reaching for the silver lighter. Dean felt a flash of recognition as he trained his eyes on the pale hand, and his heart beat wildly as he strained to see his face. With practiced motions the man ignited the lighter and tossed it on the bones. The flames rose quickly, and then all Dean could see was David’s body roiling and writhing as the fire ate at his bones. In a flash of light he began to disappear. However, at the same moment, even though he tried valiantly to stay awake, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of the man before him, the darkness at the borders of his vision expanded and he felt himself plunge into darkness.
-------------------------
Dean awoke to the feeling of someone lightly running a hand through his hair in a comforting motion. His eyes were still closed, and his head still spinning, He was cold except for the warm body that he was slightly leaning against. It took him a moment to realize that he was not in some hot girl’s bedroom and that he had not passed out with his father or brother close by.
Then he remembered the ghost that almost killed him, and the slender hand of the man who saved him; a man wearing a wristband that matched his own. He would know that person anywhere.
Sam.
It could only have been Sam.
He stirred slightly as he tried to pry his eyes open, and abruptly felt the person cut off their movements, only to sense the person standing and hurrying away. As his eyes flickered open he found himself staring up at the darkening sky. He turned his head slightly to the side, just in time to catch a glimpse of the shadow the figure made as he disappeared into the trees.
“Sammy!” he called out as he struggled to fully regain consciousness.
By the time he regained his bearings and managed to stand Sam was gone and whatever trail he might have left had been covered by snow.