SPN FIC: The Gift (Part 2 of 7)
TITLE: The Gift: PART 2
AUTHOR: jackfan2
CATEGORY: Gen
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, Castiel, OC's
WORDS: 4,769
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.
This this fic is complete. Just posting as I go through the finished parts. One part should go up every 1-2 days as I sort through the edits. But it's done *breaths sigh of relief*
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THE GIFT: Part 2
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Shocked, Frank Devlin, owner of Devlin’s Drygoods, stared in open-mouthed amazement at Sam. In turn, Sam shifted anxiously under his gaze.
“Lemme get this straight,” Devlin said pulling the toothpick he’d been rolling around in his mouth and pointing it at the taller Winchester. “You’re goin’ up to the Claypool mines. In this weather?”
Sam glanced outside the store window; frozen beads of rain pelted noisily against the glass. What had started as a light mist when he'd left the city records office was now coming down in solid sheets of ice. Dean was out there somewhere, tracking a wendigo or, worse, fighting it. Alone.
Dean’s physical condition was also a concern to Sam. Only a week ago he’d come off the flu and still wasn’t one hundred percent. No way being out in this weather could be good for him. He hadn’t actually dressed for this - hell, neither of them had. This weather system had moved in from nowhere.
“Yes,” Sam said through gritted teeth. “Now, can I please just get another copy of that map? I’m in hurry.” The quaint, quirkiness of the local color had long since lost its appeal and Sam's patience was at an end.
The proprietor raised his brow leaving little doubt he expected more information but Sam didn’t bite. He stared back, jaw clenched, unflinching in his resolve. Town’s this small lived on gossip and he’d be damned if his life, and the life of his brother would become fodder for their idle chatter.
Practically sulking, Frank shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he dismissed. Packing Sam’s purchases into a paper bag he sent a pointed gaze over his specs to the Impala parked at the curb. “Makes no never-mind to me but you ain’t getting there in that.”
“What?” Sam’s brow furrowed. Worried something had happened to the car in the short time since he’d arrived at the store, he glanced out the window - it was fine, just as he’d left it - then back at Frank. “Why?”
“Ain’t no roads passable by car going up to that mine,” the old storekeeper said as he pushed the fully loaded bag on the counter toward Sam along with the receipt and change. “Leastways, none on the map.”
The bag of purchased items and change sat on the counter, untouched as Sam worked through this newest information. “Then how…?” he asked, arms spread.
“Well,” Devlin gestured with the toothpick, “a skilled rider, one who knows the area, can make it up there on horseback. Or, you could hike up, but either way, I’m talking ‘bout good weather.”
“But -” Sam sputtered, “either of those could take hours!”
Devlin shrugged again - Sam was really beginning to hate that shrug. “The Claypools have been closed going on twenty years. All that’s left of the roads now are some narrow trails, lots of rocks, trees and gullies. Ain’t nothin’ you could drive up.”
Sam swallowed. “And horseback is the fastest way up?”
Frank affirmed with a nod. “One hell of a hard ride, but yeah.”
Horseback, Sam thought as he picked up the bag and tucked it under one arm. The last time he and Dean had ridden, out of necessity of course, had been on a job up in Wyoming. They'd been teenagers and the terrain had been relatively flat, open ground. Widow's Peak was anything but that.
They’d come away from that hunt relatively unscathed, except for the saddle sores. After spending hours jostled and bounced on the hard, unforgiving surfaces, neither brother had been able to sit without a pillow under their asses for a week.
Still, with few options at this point, Sam set his chin and looked Devlin square in the eye. “Any idea where I can get a horse?”
Devlin grinned almost piously. He grabbed yet another copy of the map, unfolded it and pointed. “Willow Creek Ranch. Ask for Pete Phillips, the ranch foreman, he’ll rent you a horse and tack, a guide too if you’re of a need. Ranch is about an hour and a-half, though in this weather, more like two and a-half hour drive. Mind the roads; they’ll be slick.”
“Thanks,” Sam nodded. Then, without further comment he scrambled out into the cool air. Moments later he was on the way out of town, feeling the tires not quite grip the road.
The roar of the engine was a perfect match with Sam’s mood. Angry. Worried. Scared. His death grip on the steering wheel, tense shoulders and white knuckles all echoed his conflicting emotions.
The contents of the note he’d found in the research room at the records office played over and over in his mind. The handwriting was unmistakably Dean’s and the scrap of paper had been left atop the mess of papers, undoubtedly written in haste, before Castiel had yanked him away.
Clearly, it read: Wendigo. Widow’s Peak. Claypool Mine.
There’d been no why’s, how’s, or come-and-meet-me's, just those five words that, for all the information they provided, might as well have been one of dad's cryptic coordinates messages. Sam felt all of nine years old again, left behind while the 'adults' dealt with 'stuff'.
Each discovery had shifted Sam’s anger, ricocheting wildly from Dean’s overactive libido, to a small town full of nosey, busy bodies, to hill with no easy access and finally, landing squarely on overly pushy angels and their self-important notions.
What right did the angels, or more specifically, trench coat-wearing angles, have to think that their agendas were at all times more important than anything else?
More than anything Sam was completely baffled by this move on Castiel’s part. Short of Sam, he more than anyone knew the tenuous nature of Dean’s state of mind; he’d come back less than he had been before. All pieces and parts. All uncertainty and indecision.
Dean alone against a wendigo? Hell, Dean alone against anything nowadays wasn’t a good idea. Yes, Sam would definitely have words with the angel when this was all over, when Dean was safe and sound, when the wendigo, or whatever, was dead.
Sam glanced up at the dark shadow of Widow’s Peak where it lay ahead of him. Impressive enough in size to cut through the din of low-hanging, weather heavy clouds, Sam realized just how daunting his quest was. It would take forever by horseback and the thought did nothing to quell his mounting trepidation and frustration.
Dropping his head, he glared at the road and punched the accelerator. The Impala lurched, fishtailed a bit, then pushed forcefully ahead. The treacherous roads would not be denied and nearly two hours later, he arrived at the Willow Creek ranch.
In a hail of rattling brush and shouted epithets, somewhere about halfway up the no-fucking-way-it’s-a-hill, horse and rider burst through thick underbrush and tree cover to a small clearing. Dean nearly went ass-over-tea-kettle when the animal came to an abrupt stop.
Breathing hard, eyes wide, Dean blinking owlishly at the surroundings.
“Tired, huh?” he asked the horse, listening to his own lungs wheeze fretfully. “Ok. Take… five.” He finished with an attempt to pat the animal’s neck. But even that simple effort eluded him as his aim strayed and the hand ended up flapping ineffectively into empty air. “I’ll just… just wait. Here.”
A wave of dizziness washed over him and he slammed his eyes shut. Grappling to maintain his tenuous balance in the saddle, he reached out for anything that might steady him and abort what was looking like a headfirst collision with the ground. When he opened his eyes he found fists full of horse’s mane wrapped tightly in his fingers.
This close to the animal’s coat, he was suddenly grateful for the fact that his nose refused to take in air. From what he remembered, horses stunk.
Maybe it was the altitude, maybe it was the sudden stop, or the fact that he felt like crap and it was really hard to breathe. In any case, he wasn’t going to move any time real soon, so he closed his eyes again to rest a moment.
“This…sucks… out loud…” he breathed, wincing at the knife-like pain in his throat. When the darkness spun and churned behind his closed eyes, his stomach flip flopped. “Ugh," Dean swallowed bile or snot or both, "hate you so much Cas.”
After a moment Dean felt somewhat steadier and risked another upward glance, and even went so far as to straighten. It was more hunched than he’d have liked but at least it was a start.
It was then that he realized that he was no longer shivering. Dean smiled in relief, because it was about goddamn time that something good came from that vertical ascent and ensuing terror; the combination seemed to have driven off all thoughts of the cold.
Something wet dripped into his eyes and, certain it was blood, he reached up to swipe at it. What he got back was not quite blood but a mixture; sweat and blood. “Huh,” he huffed, then wiped more wetness that trickled down his nose.
This substance we thicker, and he examined his hand again. Snot. “Eh,” he blinked wearily at the substance. Much farther from caring than he had been hours ago, he wiped it on his torn and ripped jeans without a second thought.
Mind mired in misery, he thought a moment; sweating, but not shivering? Something sluggishly warned him this was not a good thing, but he couldn’t think for the life of him what that was. Then he started coughing.
When he finally stopped, and caught his breath, he looked around and wondered a bit dazedly why they still hadn’t moved. Other than a few less trees and rocks, and some slightly level ground, nothing here looked any different from the rest of this damn hill-
“Hill my ass,” he rasped, breaths coming out in rapid puffs. The coughing started again, this time worse than before.
When that finally subsided, he let loose several explosive sneezes. Each one echoed off the surrounding rock and sheer walls and just when he thought they’d never end, they did.
“Shit…” he groaned, lowering his throbbing head to rest on the horse’s mane while he struggled to catch his breath. “Son of a-” More coughing interrupted him.
Each rattled, ragged, wet cough made his head throb harder. If he didn’t stop coughing soon he felt quite certain his head would detach, roll off his shoulders and tumble back down the way he’d just come. And wouldn’t that be a fitting end to a fittingly-fucked up day?
It did stop and he sat there, focusing on the pain. He hurt. Every damn inch of him. It hurt to think, to blink, to breathe, to sit... god only knew the agony that awaited him when he tried to stand.
Of course, even a brief respite, a moment to wallow in self pity didn't last long - the horse shifted restlessly beneath him. Even this stupid animal was telling him to get his ass in gear.
“Oh, c'mon,” Dean complained, the air in his chest sawing nosily through his taxed lungs. “Just gimme a goddamn minute will ya?” Even as the words left his mouth, Dean braced for some sort of equestrian retribution.
When it didn’t come, Dean peeked down suspiciously at what appeared to be a rather calm, complacent, disinterested horse. But Dean knew better.
It had to be a trick. Since that little angel-to-horse-mind-meld Castiel had delivered earlier, the animal had seemed driven with some kind of autopilot, complete with GPS knowledge of where it was going, and how it would get there. Rider be damned.
Worst of all, Dean suspected Castiel had given the horse some kind of Narnia-like-power, like those stupid animals in that Witch in a Closet book Sam liked when he was a kid.
During the long, painful ride, Dean, with good reason - well, reason enough for him, anyway - had been less than kind and more than a little verbal in his lack of love for Bat-shit. Disparaging remarks included barbs about its bastard bloodline, knock-knees, and choppy ride to its dull, ratty coat, complete with mange and flees.
Dean could almost smile at the thought. Almost.
The horse, Dean later realized, seemed to possess an almost sentient understanding of every slanderous remark. And, he seemed to take it quite personally.
It wasn’t, however, until Dean’s vehement, heart-felt guarantee of a painful castration followed by a promised, celebratory bullet to the brain, that Demon Spawn’s understanding became apparent. And deadly.
Dean had missed the smaller, earlier warnings to shut the fuck up. The close brushes near trees and tall shrubs apparently weren’t enough. However, when he threatened to deliver Hell’s Offspring to the nearest glue factory, that was the final straw.
In a vicious act, purely premeditated and retaliatory, one that promised pain, the horse took immediate action. Head down, it began charging straight at thick, low hanging, trunk-like branches.
The branches whipped at him, one right after another. Tearing, thrashing, pounding, pulling at his head, arms, legs, chest. There was never any chance to catch his breath; every harrowing moment was spent dodging those he could, but the onslaught was too much.
Assessing the damage, he saw it was mostly just cuts and abrasions, the worst being two deep, good sized gashes. One was on his upper thigh - damn thing would probably need stitches - and the other began at his left ear and ended mid forehead, at his hairline. Whether from cold or the lack of any serious depth, both had stopped bleeding, but he could feel the sticky blood coagulating under his jeans and over one side of his face.
Then there was the deep, abiding muscle pain. Dean had been tossed into enough trees, headstones and walls to know what he’d find later; a myriad of colorful bruises all about the rest of his upper body and arms.
God, what was Cas thinking giving him some sentient beast to ride? During the long arduous trek upward, the damn thing had taken every opportunity to pummel him against any low hanging tree, bush or shrub it could find.
It wasn’t necessarily Dean’s fault that he didn’t like horse’s, nor was it his fault that he couldn’t shut up about it. Thinking back, though, to the earlier stages of their trip, all the tell-tale signs to keep his big mouth shut, had been there.
Early on, not long after they’d left Castiel, and arrived at the foot of the definitely-not-a-hill and the first landmark the angel had called Mason’s Gorge.
Drawing close enough to get a good look, Dean’s eyes had widened in fear. “Shit!” He’d sawed furiously at the reins, but to no avail.
The horse, heedless of any danger, had continued, thundering headlong toward the enormous, gaping hole.
For a split second Dean had considered diving off, but the speed at which the ground rushed by gave him pause. Instead he redoubled his efforts.
“Hey!” he shouted. “I said stop goddammit!” and yanked the reins with all his might.
Finally, Bat-shit had planted his back legs into the dirt and brought them to a sliding halt.
“The fuck!” Dean shouted furiously. “You deaf as well as dumb?” When his racing heart had calmed enough, he leaned forward to get a better look at the opening in the ground.
Mason’s Gorge, as it turned out, was actually a massive crater - the very one Bat-shit horse had nearly run right into - and it was huge. “Son of a…”
Angels, Dean decided, weren't worth shit when it came to details. Just like the details of the Gift, Cas seemed to have omitted such facts as... oh, the gorge being roughly the width of the Grand-fucking-Canyon.
Dean leaned over and studied the walls of the gorge, hoping for a way down and back out the other side. It was a sheer drop on this side and a more than sheer climb on the other, not to mention the appearance of less than stable loose dirt and gravel that would offer too little purchase for the horse’s hooves.
“Ok. Definitely not happening,” Dean muttered and sat back in the saddle.
While Satan’s Spawn danced eagerly beneath him, Dean, still thinking that he could exhibit any sort of control over the horse, had just turned his head to scan the area for an alternate route when Demon Spawn took matters into his own… hooves.
The horse began to back up.
Confused, Dean had looked around. “Hey, what…” It was moving them away from the edge. While on the one hand this appeared to be a good thing, Dean had a bad feeling about this. “What’re you doing?”
After another yard or two it stopped; the gorge maybe ten yards ahead.
“Okay, so, we’re going to think this over…” he’d said nervously. That sick feeling of terror exploded in his heart when he felt the muscles of the horse’s back legs bunch and coil. “Oh… no, no, no,” the lack of control was horrifying. “What’re you doing?”
Without hesitation - and without any sort of consent or encouragement from its rider - the animal had simply shot forward.
The ground blurring past, and before Dean knew it, they were airborne. Bat-shit had actually pulled an Evel Knievel and jumped the friggin’ gorge!
The flight, Dean had soon realized, hadn’t been near as bad as the landing. The collision with the inclined ground nearly bounced Dean out of the saddle. Arms flailing, he rocked forward and hung on for dear life.
Finding purchase Bat-shit didn't miss a beat. Legs churning it wasn't long before his hooves grabbed onto the slippery surface and with that, Dean's nightmare ascent had begun.
Now, having come to a stop he felt beaten. For the first time in what felt like hours, Dean sat, unwilling - or unable - to move. Exhausted and whipped, he tried for a deeper breath only to be wracked by a series of deep coughs that shook his entire body. The little bits of rock hard ice bounced off his jacket went unnoticed.
It passed but fear of more pain kept him glued to the saddle because, after having spent so long with his entire body tensed and every muscle fighting to stay attached to the saddle was certain that dismounting was going to be a bitch. Bat-shit horse, however, seemed to be growing more impatient; he stomped one foot anxiously in the ground and snorted.
“Fine, fine,” Dean grumbled gravely. “Geez, bossy much?”
Taking a deep breath, Dean made an attempt to straighten. And regretted it instantly.
“Guh.” he froze. Razor-like agony shot up his spine, radiating through every nerve ending and snaking outward. It was everywhere; his arms, legs and up through his neck to his head.
Then, a sudden, tremulous chill shot up his back, leaving his body jerking in a staccato and shuddering motion. The unrelenting shivering missing moments ago, whether from elevated core body temperature or adrenaline rush, was back now.
“Aw, c’mon,” Dean whined. The tremors pushed his already taut and sore muscles further into the shit-storm that still raged up his back.
According to the map - the same map that confused hills with mountains - this was where the mine tunnel was, or should be because to his observant eye, there was nothing but a bunch of fucking overgrowth, trees, rocks… and more overgrowth, trees and rocks.
When it became apparent that the only way to get a better look would be on foot, Dean groaned. Dismounting, he surmised as he wiggled feet he could no longer feel, would be a bitch.
“Dammit,” he snapped. Bat-shit seemed to think that was his cue and lurched forward.
“Hey.” Dean fumbled numb fingers to gather up the reins. “I know you’re p-pissed and all - I get that but…” Bat-shit went only a few yards then stopped at a tall clump of rock, tree and brush standing directly ahead.
Dean gazed at it, and then looked around. Arms out, he shouted at the horse, “What?!” He let them slap to his thighs in frustration. Bat-shit shook his head several times then moved closer to the large clump of debris.
“Hey!” Dean tried to steer it but to no avail. “Listen, I don’t - ” The horse spun, nearly unseating his rider yet again.
“Cut it out!” Dean shouted uselessly. Before he could contemplate bailing from the saddle, he felt the muscles in the animal’s hind legs bunch. “Ah hell,” he moaned and grabbed onto the knob at the base of the saddle.
Bat-shit suddenly tipped forward, its back legs shot out and collided with the large mass. Dean felt it and grunted. The impact sent small and medium sized rocks rolling from the mound, and Bat-shit spun again to face the aftermath.
That hadn’t been as bad as he’d feared and he watched as several rocks dislodged and rolled free, followed by more. Soon, enough debris had fallen and Dean could just make out an aged wooden sign. On it, the words Claypool Mining Co. were clearly distinguishable.
Reclined in the saddle, Dean stared. “Well, I’ll be d-” A series of rapid-fire sneezes ended the sentence.
When he was done, Dean brushed at the sweat trickling into his eyes, sucked in the loosened snot, then swallowed. “I wonder if Batman had days like these,” he groused.
Rubbing at his pounding temple, he eyed the entrance to the cave behind the brush and sighed. “Well,” he shifted his weight forward to dismount, “let’s get this shit over with.”
It took a great deal of effort to lift his leg over the rump of the horse. The pain it ignited left him holding his breath and gritting his teeth. Before his feet hit the ground, too late Dean wondered if he might be incapable of standing.
"Dammit." Cold-numbed feet refused to support him and he clutched the saddle for dear life. To his credit, Satan's Spawn held absolutely still.
Dean grimaced as he reached down and rubbed at his legs, anxious to restore blood flow, get feeling back in his lower extremities and get moving. It wasn't long before he wished he'd not been so anxious.
Pins and needles. The relentless electrical current of agony flooded his feet and calves. Dean gritted his teeth, stomped his feet, anything to get this over with. The First step he took - his first step in two hours - he crumpled to his hands and knees.
“Mother - ” Dean pounded a frustrated fist into the ground, “fucker!”
The horse came up behind Dean and nudged the hunter with his nose, and Dean flipped over. Bat shit now stood beside him, patiently, the foot thingy - what Castiel called a stirrup? - dangled loosely before him.
Dean glared up at the animal. “You’re not forgiven you know.” He looped a hand into the stirrup and used it to pull himself up. This time, when he got to his feet he locked his legs and stood, albeit unsteadily. After several hesitant steps he was moving forward, eyes surveying the area.
“Still hate you, fucking horse,” Dean murmured angrily. In response, Bat-shit tossed his head indignantly and stomped the ground.
“Yeah, well.” Dean tossed his own head, mimicking the animal - he stopped short of stomping because he was pretty sure the movement would fell him like a tree - “screw you and the horse you rode in on.”
“Ha,” Dean shouted triumphantly over his own joke. “Still g-got it Winches-ster…” A vicious twang shot up his back, the sensation not unlike a hot knife lancing his spinal cord and he froze. “Dammit.” He clutched at the muscles, arched his back and groaned. “Gettin’ too old for this shit.
Bat-shit’s kick had been enough to knock a few rocks free, but giant clumps of brush, large limbs and some larger rocks still blocked the tunnel entrance. Faced now with the daunting task of what looked like hours of backbreaking work to access the mine, Dean sighed.
“Maaaan,” Dean whined in a rare moment of self-pity. “Really Cas?” he questioned the absent angel.
A shrill whinny cut the frigid air. Dean could swear the thing was telling him to get a move-on.
“Hey.” He turned and glared at the horse. “Nobody asked you!” he shouted angrily at the horse.
Hands bracing his aching back, he walked stiff legged toward the cave, back aching, arms throbbing, feet still crawling with remnants of pins and needles the entire way. All the while he cursed horses, mountains, maps, forests, wendigos, gifts, angels and… anything else he could think of.
This time, when the horse whinnied, Dean swore it was laughing at him.
Angry now, Dean turned and fixed his gaze on the animal. “You know,” he ground out angrily and patted his empty pocket. “It’s a really bad idea to laugh at the one guy who hates your guts and just happens to have a loaded .45 in his pocket!”
In response, the horse lowered its head and began chomping casually at the grass.
“Yeah,” Dean coughed into his fist, not at all ready to accept how insane he sounded having bluffed a horse. Taking a breath to deliver a triumphant rejoinder he was cut off by a series of harsh, deep-chested coughs.
Doubled over and gasping, Dean wheezed, “Put the…,” he choked on a series of smaller coughs then, “fear of Winchester into… ya." No longer able to keep them back he succumbed to another round of forceful coughing that nearly sent him to his knees.
While he’d managed to stay on his feet, his hands were braced on his thighs and the bout left him breathless and his eyes brimming with tears. Watery vision focused on Son of Satan who just stared, waiting, and he flapped a hand at the horse, relenting. “Ah forget it…”
After what felt like forever, the coughing subsided enough for him to move. Straightening, he turned and continued his sore jointed trek into the old mining tunnel, promising some serious angel beat-down for this crappy day.
Much as he wanted to drag his feet just to piss the angel off, fear for that family, and anyone else he might find alive, or dead, drove him faster. In less than thirty minutes the entrance was cleared enough and Dean scrambled inside.
Flashlight in hand, he moved forward quickly and cautiously, adrenaline pushing aside any lingering soreness. Even with the gift, and all the vague assurances it offered, Dean felt his palms sweat in anticipation of his run-in with the creature.
Dean stopped and stared at the palm of his left hand. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea how sweaty palms would affect the use of the gift so as he moved along, he constantly alternated his hold on the light to dry his palms on his jeans. There was no point in risking the damn thing backfiring on his ass.
As a seasoned hunter, Dean knew instinct and training were far better than anything his eyes and ears could reveal. So, he forced his breathing to slow so as not to interfere with his hearing and allowed his sight to slide out of the flashlight beam to search the shadows beyond.
Still, as he neared each turn or bend, he couldn’t help but will the beam of light to bend the corner, allow him greater knowledge of the things he couldn’t see or sense. Why couldn’t the damn angels have given him a wendigo detector or something? That would’ve been handy.
The deeper he got into the cave, the darker it became. The word ‘absolute’ took on a whole new meaning. With nothing more than his smaller mag-lite, Dean was ill prepared for, well anything.
That wasn’t exactly true, he thought, there was always the very ambiguous gift. A weapon of which he had very little clue as to how it even worked…
“… As soon as the family is safe, and the creature-dispensed…” Castiel’s words filtered into his thoughts.
“Dammit,” Dean murmured, moving quiet and quick, eyes large and searching. “Now I got angels insta-replay in my head?”
Dean took the angel’s words to mean that he had to be in the immediate presence of the wendigo for the gift to work. Years of hunting told him that this was a bad idea all around; taking an untested 'weapon' in a dark environment, against one of the quickest creatures on earth…
“Fuck.”
-~*~-
PART 3
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back to PART 1
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AUTHOR’S NOTE:
This fic is complete. I got the full doc back yesterday from my beta and if all goes according to plan, I’ll post each part as I finish editing the beta’d bits. Next part should be up within a day or two, and again every 24-48 hours ‘til I get it’s all up.
AUTHOR: jackfan2
CATEGORY: Gen
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, Castiel, OC's
WORDS: 4,769
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.
This this fic is complete. Just posting as I go through the finished parts. One part should go up every 1-2 days as I sort through the edits. But it's done *breaths sigh of relief*
-~*~-
THE GIFT: Part 2
-~*~-
Shocked, Frank Devlin, owner of Devlin’s Drygoods, stared in open-mouthed amazement at Sam. In turn, Sam shifted anxiously under his gaze.
“Lemme get this straight,” Devlin said pulling the toothpick he’d been rolling around in his mouth and pointing it at the taller Winchester. “You’re goin’ up to the Claypool mines. In this weather?”
Sam glanced outside the store window; frozen beads of rain pelted noisily against the glass. What had started as a light mist when he'd left the city records office was now coming down in solid sheets of ice. Dean was out there somewhere, tracking a wendigo or, worse, fighting it. Alone.
Dean’s physical condition was also a concern to Sam. Only a week ago he’d come off the flu and still wasn’t one hundred percent. No way being out in this weather could be good for him. He hadn’t actually dressed for this - hell, neither of them had. This weather system had moved in from nowhere.
“Yes,” Sam said through gritted teeth. “Now, can I please just get another copy of that map? I’m in hurry.” The quaint, quirkiness of the local color had long since lost its appeal and Sam's patience was at an end.
The proprietor raised his brow leaving little doubt he expected more information but Sam didn’t bite. He stared back, jaw clenched, unflinching in his resolve. Town’s this small lived on gossip and he’d be damned if his life, and the life of his brother would become fodder for their idle chatter.
Practically sulking, Frank shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he dismissed. Packing Sam’s purchases into a paper bag he sent a pointed gaze over his specs to the Impala parked at the curb. “Makes no never-mind to me but you ain’t getting there in that.”
“What?” Sam’s brow furrowed. Worried something had happened to the car in the short time since he’d arrived at the store, he glanced out the window - it was fine, just as he’d left it - then back at Frank. “Why?”
“Ain’t no roads passable by car going up to that mine,” the old storekeeper said as he pushed the fully loaded bag on the counter toward Sam along with the receipt and change. “Leastways, none on the map.”
The bag of purchased items and change sat on the counter, untouched as Sam worked through this newest information. “Then how…?” he asked, arms spread.
“Well,” Devlin gestured with the toothpick, “a skilled rider, one who knows the area, can make it up there on horseback. Or, you could hike up, but either way, I’m talking ‘bout good weather.”
“But -” Sam sputtered, “either of those could take hours!”
Devlin shrugged again - Sam was really beginning to hate that shrug. “The Claypools have been closed going on twenty years. All that’s left of the roads now are some narrow trails, lots of rocks, trees and gullies. Ain’t nothin’ you could drive up.”
Sam swallowed. “And horseback is the fastest way up?”
Frank affirmed with a nod. “One hell of a hard ride, but yeah.”
Horseback, Sam thought as he picked up the bag and tucked it under one arm. The last time he and Dean had ridden, out of necessity of course, had been on a job up in Wyoming. They'd been teenagers and the terrain had been relatively flat, open ground. Widow's Peak was anything but that.
They’d come away from that hunt relatively unscathed, except for the saddle sores. After spending hours jostled and bounced on the hard, unforgiving surfaces, neither brother had been able to sit without a pillow under their asses for a week.
Still, with few options at this point, Sam set his chin and looked Devlin square in the eye. “Any idea where I can get a horse?”
Devlin grinned almost piously. He grabbed yet another copy of the map, unfolded it and pointed. “Willow Creek Ranch. Ask for Pete Phillips, the ranch foreman, he’ll rent you a horse and tack, a guide too if you’re of a need. Ranch is about an hour and a-half, though in this weather, more like two and a-half hour drive. Mind the roads; they’ll be slick.”
“Thanks,” Sam nodded. Then, without further comment he scrambled out into the cool air. Moments later he was on the way out of town, feeling the tires not quite grip the road.
The roar of the engine was a perfect match with Sam’s mood. Angry. Worried. Scared. His death grip on the steering wheel, tense shoulders and white knuckles all echoed his conflicting emotions.
The contents of the note he’d found in the research room at the records office played over and over in his mind. The handwriting was unmistakably Dean’s and the scrap of paper had been left atop the mess of papers, undoubtedly written in haste, before Castiel had yanked him away.
Clearly, it read: Wendigo. Widow’s Peak. Claypool Mine.
There’d been no why’s, how’s, or come-and-meet-me's, just those five words that, for all the information they provided, might as well have been one of dad's cryptic coordinates messages. Sam felt all of nine years old again, left behind while the 'adults' dealt with 'stuff'.
Each discovery had shifted Sam’s anger, ricocheting wildly from Dean’s overactive libido, to a small town full of nosey, busy bodies, to hill with no easy access and finally, landing squarely on overly pushy angels and their self-important notions.
What right did the angels, or more specifically, trench coat-wearing angles, have to think that their agendas were at all times more important than anything else?
More than anything Sam was completely baffled by this move on Castiel’s part. Short of Sam, he more than anyone knew the tenuous nature of Dean’s state of mind; he’d come back less than he had been before. All pieces and parts. All uncertainty and indecision.
Dean alone against a wendigo? Hell, Dean alone against anything nowadays wasn’t a good idea. Yes, Sam would definitely have words with the angel when this was all over, when Dean was safe and sound, when the wendigo, or whatever, was dead.
Sam glanced up at the dark shadow of Widow’s Peak where it lay ahead of him. Impressive enough in size to cut through the din of low-hanging, weather heavy clouds, Sam realized just how daunting his quest was. It would take forever by horseback and the thought did nothing to quell his mounting trepidation and frustration.
Dropping his head, he glared at the road and punched the accelerator. The Impala lurched, fishtailed a bit, then pushed forcefully ahead. The treacherous roads would not be denied and nearly two hours later, he arrived at the Willow Creek ranch.
In a hail of rattling brush and shouted epithets, somewhere about halfway up the no-fucking-way-it’s-a-hill, horse and rider burst through thick underbrush and tree cover to a small clearing. Dean nearly went ass-over-tea-kettle when the animal came to an abrupt stop.
Breathing hard, eyes wide, Dean blinking owlishly at the surroundings.
“Tired, huh?” he asked the horse, listening to his own lungs wheeze fretfully. “Ok. Take… five.” He finished with an attempt to pat the animal’s neck. But even that simple effort eluded him as his aim strayed and the hand ended up flapping ineffectively into empty air. “I’ll just… just wait. Here.”
A wave of dizziness washed over him and he slammed his eyes shut. Grappling to maintain his tenuous balance in the saddle, he reached out for anything that might steady him and abort what was looking like a headfirst collision with the ground. When he opened his eyes he found fists full of horse’s mane wrapped tightly in his fingers.
This close to the animal’s coat, he was suddenly grateful for the fact that his nose refused to take in air. From what he remembered, horses stunk.
Maybe it was the altitude, maybe it was the sudden stop, or the fact that he felt like crap and it was really hard to breathe. In any case, he wasn’t going to move any time real soon, so he closed his eyes again to rest a moment.
“This…sucks… out loud…” he breathed, wincing at the knife-like pain in his throat. When the darkness spun and churned behind his closed eyes, his stomach flip flopped. “Ugh," Dean swallowed bile or snot or both, "hate you so much Cas.”
After a moment Dean felt somewhat steadier and risked another upward glance, and even went so far as to straighten. It was more hunched than he’d have liked but at least it was a start.
It was then that he realized that he was no longer shivering. Dean smiled in relief, because it was about goddamn time that something good came from that vertical ascent and ensuing terror; the combination seemed to have driven off all thoughts of the cold.
Something wet dripped into his eyes and, certain it was blood, he reached up to swipe at it. What he got back was not quite blood but a mixture; sweat and blood. “Huh,” he huffed, then wiped more wetness that trickled down his nose.
This substance we thicker, and he examined his hand again. Snot. “Eh,” he blinked wearily at the substance. Much farther from caring than he had been hours ago, he wiped it on his torn and ripped jeans without a second thought.
Mind mired in misery, he thought a moment; sweating, but not shivering? Something sluggishly warned him this was not a good thing, but he couldn’t think for the life of him what that was. Then he started coughing.
When he finally stopped, and caught his breath, he looked around and wondered a bit dazedly why they still hadn’t moved. Other than a few less trees and rocks, and some slightly level ground, nothing here looked any different from the rest of this damn hill-
“Hill my ass,” he rasped, breaths coming out in rapid puffs. The coughing started again, this time worse than before.
When that finally subsided, he let loose several explosive sneezes. Each one echoed off the surrounding rock and sheer walls and just when he thought they’d never end, they did.
“Shit…” he groaned, lowering his throbbing head to rest on the horse’s mane while he struggled to catch his breath. “Son of a-” More coughing interrupted him.
Each rattled, ragged, wet cough made his head throb harder. If he didn’t stop coughing soon he felt quite certain his head would detach, roll off his shoulders and tumble back down the way he’d just come. And wouldn’t that be a fitting end to a fittingly-fucked up day?
It did stop and he sat there, focusing on the pain. He hurt. Every damn inch of him. It hurt to think, to blink, to breathe, to sit... god only knew the agony that awaited him when he tried to stand.
Of course, even a brief respite, a moment to wallow in self pity didn't last long - the horse shifted restlessly beneath him. Even this stupid animal was telling him to get his ass in gear.
“Oh, c'mon,” Dean complained, the air in his chest sawing nosily through his taxed lungs. “Just gimme a goddamn minute will ya?” Even as the words left his mouth, Dean braced for some sort of equestrian retribution.
When it didn’t come, Dean peeked down suspiciously at what appeared to be a rather calm, complacent, disinterested horse. But Dean knew better.
It had to be a trick. Since that little angel-to-horse-mind-meld Castiel had delivered earlier, the animal had seemed driven with some kind of autopilot, complete with GPS knowledge of where it was going, and how it would get there. Rider be damned.
Worst of all, Dean suspected Castiel had given the horse some kind of Narnia-like-power, like those stupid animals in that Witch in a Closet book Sam liked when he was a kid.
During the long, painful ride, Dean, with good reason - well, reason enough for him, anyway - had been less than kind and more than a little verbal in his lack of love for Bat-shit. Disparaging remarks included barbs about its bastard bloodline, knock-knees, and choppy ride to its dull, ratty coat, complete with mange and flees.
Dean could almost smile at the thought. Almost.
The horse, Dean later realized, seemed to possess an almost sentient understanding of every slanderous remark. And, he seemed to take it quite personally.
It wasn’t, however, until Dean’s vehement, heart-felt guarantee of a painful castration followed by a promised, celebratory bullet to the brain, that Demon Spawn’s understanding became apparent. And deadly.
Dean had missed the smaller, earlier warnings to shut the fuck up. The close brushes near trees and tall shrubs apparently weren’t enough. However, when he threatened to deliver Hell’s Offspring to the nearest glue factory, that was the final straw.
In a vicious act, purely premeditated and retaliatory, one that promised pain, the horse took immediate action. Head down, it began charging straight at thick, low hanging, trunk-like branches.
The branches whipped at him, one right after another. Tearing, thrashing, pounding, pulling at his head, arms, legs, chest. There was never any chance to catch his breath; every harrowing moment was spent dodging those he could, but the onslaught was too much.
Assessing the damage, he saw it was mostly just cuts and abrasions, the worst being two deep, good sized gashes. One was on his upper thigh - damn thing would probably need stitches - and the other began at his left ear and ended mid forehead, at his hairline. Whether from cold or the lack of any serious depth, both had stopped bleeding, but he could feel the sticky blood coagulating under his jeans and over one side of his face.
Then there was the deep, abiding muscle pain. Dean had been tossed into enough trees, headstones and walls to know what he’d find later; a myriad of colorful bruises all about the rest of his upper body and arms.
God, what was Cas thinking giving him some sentient beast to ride? During the long arduous trek upward, the damn thing had taken every opportunity to pummel him against any low hanging tree, bush or shrub it could find.
It wasn’t necessarily Dean’s fault that he didn’t like horse’s, nor was it his fault that he couldn’t shut up about it. Thinking back, though, to the earlier stages of their trip, all the tell-tale signs to keep his big mouth shut, had been there.
Early on, not long after they’d left Castiel, and arrived at the foot of the definitely-not-a-hill and the first landmark the angel had called Mason’s Gorge.
Drawing close enough to get a good look, Dean’s eyes had widened in fear. “Shit!” He’d sawed furiously at the reins, but to no avail.
The horse, heedless of any danger, had continued, thundering headlong toward the enormous, gaping hole.
For a split second Dean had considered diving off, but the speed at which the ground rushed by gave him pause. Instead he redoubled his efforts.
“Hey!” he shouted. “I said stop goddammit!” and yanked the reins with all his might.
Finally, Bat-shit had planted his back legs into the dirt and brought them to a sliding halt.
“The fuck!” Dean shouted furiously. “You deaf as well as dumb?” When his racing heart had calmed enough, he leaned forward to get a better look at the opening in the ground.
Mason’s Gorge, as it turned out, was actually a massive crater - the very one Bat-shit horse had nearly run right into - and it was huge. “Son of a…”
Angels, Dean decided, weren't worth shit when it came to details. Just like the details of the Gift, Cas seemed to have omitted such facts as... oh, the gorge being roughly the width of the Grand-fucking-Canyon.
Dean leaned over and studied the walls of the gorge, hoping for a way down and back out the other side. It was a sheer drop on this side and a more than sheer climb on the other, not to mention the appearance of less than stable loose dirt and gravel that would offer too little purchase for the horse’s hooves.
“Ok. Definitely not happening,” Dean muttered and sat back in the saddle.
While Satan’s Spawn danced eagerly beneath him, Dean, still thinking that he could exhibit any sort of control over the horse, had just turned his head to scan the area for an alternate route when Demon Spawn took matters into his own… hooves.
The horse began to back up.
Confused, Dean had looked around. “Hey, what…” It was moving them away from the edge. While on the one hand this appeared to be a good thing, Dean had a bad feeling about this. “What’re you doing?”
After another yard or two it stopped; the gorge maybe ten yards ahead.
“Okay, so, we’re going to think this over…” he’d said nervously. That sick feeling of terror exploded in his heart when he felt the muscles of the horse’s back legs bunch and coil. “Oh… no, no, no,” the lack of control was horrifying. “What’re you doing?”
Without hesitation - and without any sort of consent or encouragement from its rider - the animal had simply shot forward.
The ground blurring past, and before Dean knew it, they were airborne. Bat-shit had actually pulled an Evel Knievel and jumped the friggin’ gorge!
The flight, Dean had soon realized, hadn’t been near as bad as the landing. The collision with the inclined ground nearly bounced Dean out of the saddle. Arms flailing, he rocked forward and hung on for dear life.
Finding purchase Bat-shit didn't miss a beat. Legs churning it wasn't long before his hooves grabbed onto the slippery surface and with that, Dean's nightmare ascent had begun.
Now, having come to a stop he felt beaten. For the first time in what felt like hours, Dean sat, unwilling - or unable - to move. Exhausted and whipped, he tried for a deeper breath only to be wracked by a series of deep coughs that shook his entire body. The little bits of rock hard ice bounced off his jacket went unnoticed.
It passed but fear of more pain kept him glued to the saddle because, after having spent so long with his entire body tensed and every muscle fighting to stay attached to the saddle was certain that dismounting was going to be a bitch. Bat-shit horse, however, seemed to be growing more impatient; he stomped one foot anxiously in the ground and snorted.
“Fine, fine,” Dean grumbled gravely. “Geez, bossy much?”
Taking a deep breath, Dean made an attempt to straighten. And regretted it instantly.
“Guh.” he froze. Razor-like agony shot up his spine, radiating through every nerve ending and snaking outward. It was everywhere; his arms, legs and up through his neck to his head.
Then, a sudden, tremulous chill shot up his back, leaving his body jerking in a staccato and shuddering motion. The unrelenting shivering missing moments ago, whether from elevated core body temperature or adrenaline rush, was back now.
“Aw, c’mon,” Dean whined. The tremors pushed his already taut and sore muscles further into the shit-storm that still raged up his back.
According to the map - the same map that confused hills with mountains - this was where the mine tunnel was, or should be because to his observant eye, there was nothing but a bunch of fucking overgrowth, trees, rocks… and more overgrowth, trees and rocks.
When it became apparent that the only way to get a better look would be on foot, Dean groaned. Dismounting, he surmised as he wiggled feet he could no longer feel, would be a bitch.
“Dammit,” he snapped. Bat-shit seemed to think that was his cue and lurched forward.
“Hey.” Dean fumbled numb fingers to gather up the reins. “I know you’re p-pissed and all - I get that but…” Bat-shit went only a few yards then stopped at a tall clump of rock, tree and brush standing directly ahead.
Dean gazed at it, and then looked around. Arms out, he shouted at the horse, “What?!” He let them slap to his thighs in frustration. Bat-shit shook his head several times then moved closer to the large clump of debris.
“Hey!” Dean tried to steer it but to no avail. “Listen, I don’t - ” The horse spun, nearly unseating his rider yet again.
“Cut it out!” Dean shouted uselessly. Before he could contemplate bailing from the saddle, he felt the muscles in the animal’s hind legs bunch. “Ah hell,” he moaned and grabbed onto the knob at the base of the saddle.
Bat-shit suddenly tipped forward, its back legs shot out and collided with the large mass. Dean felt it and grunted. The impact sent small and medium sized rocks rolling from the mound, and Bat-shit spun again to face the aftermath.
That hadn’t been as bad as he’d feared and he watched as several rocks dislodged and rolled free, followed by more. Soon, enough debris had fallen and Dean could just make out an aged wooden sign. On it, the words Claypool Mining Co. were clearly distinguishable.
Reclined in the saddle, Dean stared. “Well, I’ll be d-” A series of rapid-fire sneezes ended the sentence.
When he was done, Dean brushed at the sweat trickling into his eyes, sucked in the loosened snot, then swallowed. “I wonder if Batman had days like these,” he groused.
Rubbing at his pounding temple, he eyed the entrance to the cave behind the brush and sighed. “Well,” he shifted his weight forward to dismount, “let’s get this shit over with.”
It took a great deal of effort to lift his leg over the rump of the horse. The pain it ignited left him holding his breath and gritting his teeth. Before his feet hit the ground, too late Dean wondered if he might be incapable of standing.
"Dammit." Cold-numbed feet refused to support him and he clutched the saddle for dear life. To his credit, Satan's Spawn held absolutely still.
Dean grimaced as he reached down and rubbed at his legs, anxious to restore blood flow, get feeling back in his lower extremities and get moving. It wasn't long before he wished he'd not been so anxious.
Pins and needles. The relentless electrical current of agony flooded his feet and calves. Dean gritted his teeth, stomped his feet, anything to get this over with. The First step he took - his first step in two hours - he crumpled to his hands and knees.
“Mother - ” Dean pounded a frustrated fist into the ground, “fucker!”
The horse came up behind Dean and nudged the hunter with his nose, and Dean flipped over. Bat shit now stood beside him, patiently, the foot thingy - what Castiel called a stirrup? - dangled loosely before him.
Dean glared up at the animal. “You’re not forgiven you know.” He looped a hand into the stirrup and used it to pull himself up. This time, when he got to his feet he locked his legs and stood, albeit unsteadily. After several hesitant steps he was moving forward, eyes surveying the area.
“Still hate you, fucking horse,” Dean murmured angrily. In response, Bat-shit tossed his head indignantly and stomped the ground.
“Yeah, well.” Dean tossed his own head, mimicking the animal - he stopped short of stomping because he was pretty sure the movement would fell him like a tree - “screw you and the horse you rode in on.”
“Ha,” Dean shouted triumphantly over his own joke. “Still g-got it Winches-ster…” A vicious twang shot up his back, the sensation not unlike a hot knife lancing his spinal cord and he froze. “Dammit.” He clutched at the muscles, arched his back and groaned. “Gettin’ too old for this shit.
Bat-shit’s kick had been enough to knock a few rocks free, but giant clumps of brush, large limbs and some larger rocks still blocked the tunnel entrance. Faced now with the daunting task of what looked like hours of backbreaking work to access the mine, Dean sighed.
“Maaaan,” Dean whined in a rare moment of self-pity. “Really Cas?” he questioned the absent angel.
A shrill whinny cut the frigid air. Dean could swear the thing was telling him to get a move-on.
“Hey.” He turned and glared at the horse. “Nobody asked you!” he shouted angrily at the horse.
Hands bracing his aching back, he walked stiff legged toward the cave, back aching, arms throbbing, feet still crawling with remnants of pins and needles the entire way. All the while he cursed horses, mountains, maps, forests, wendigos, gifts, angels and… anything else he could think of.
This time, when the horse whinnied, Dean swore it was laughing at him.
Angry now, Dean turned and fixed his gaze on the animal. “You know,” he ground out angrily and patted his empty pocket. “It’s a really bad idea to laugh at the one guy who hates your guts and just happens to have a loaded .45 in his pocket!”
In response, the horse lowered its head and began chomping casually at the grass.
“Yeah,” Dean coughed into his fist, not at all ready to accept how insane he sounded having bluffed a horse. Taking a breath to deliver a triumphant rejoinder he was cut off by a series of harsh, deep-chested coughs.
Doubled over and gasping, Dean wheezed, “Put the…,” he choked on a series of smaller coughs then, “fear of Winchester into… ya." No longer able to keep them back he succumbed to another round of forceful coughing that nearly sent him to his knees.
While he’d managed to stay on his feet, his hands were braced on his thighs and the bout left him breathless and his eyes brimming with tears. Watery vision focused on Son of Satan who just stared, waiting, and he flapped a hand at the horse, relenting. “Ah forget it…”
After what felt like forever, the coughing subsided enough for him to move. Straightening, he turned and continued his sore jointed trek into the old mining tunnel, promising some serious angel beat-down for this crappy day.
Much as he wanted to drag his feet just to piss the angel off, fear for that family, and anyone else he might find alive, or dead, drove him faster. In less than thirty minutes the entrance was cleared enough and Dean scrambled inside.
Flashlight in hand, he moved forward quickly and cautiously, adrenaline pushing aside any lingering soreness. Even with the gift, and all the vague assurances it offered, Dean felt his palms sweat in anticipation of his run-in with the creature.
Dean stopped and stared at the palm of his left hand. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea how sweaty palms would affect the use of the gift so as he moved along, he constantly alternated his hold on the light to dry his palms on his jeans. There was no point in risking the damn thing backfiring on his ass.
As a seasoned hunter, Dean knew instinct and training were far better than anything his eyes and ears could reveal. So, he forced his breathing to slow so as not to interfere with his hearing and allowed his sight to slide out of the flashlight beam to search the shadows beyond.
Still, as he neared each turn or bend, he couldn’t help but will the beam of light to bend the corner, allow him greater knowledge of the things he couldn’t see or sense. Why couldn’t the damn angels have given him a wendigo detector or something? That would’ve been handy.
The deeper he got into the cave, the darker it became. The word ‘absolute’ took on a whole new meaning. With nothing more than his smaller mag-lite, Dean was ill prepared for, well anything.
That wasn’t exactly true, he thought, there was always the very ambiguous gift. A weapon of which he had very little clue as to how it even worked…
“… As soon as the family is safe, and the creature-dispensed…” Castiel’s words filtered into his thoughts.
“Dammit,” Dean murmured, moving quiet and quick, eyes large and searching. “Now I got angels insta-replay in my head?”
Dean took the angel’s words to mean that he had to be in the immediate presence of the wendigo for the gift to work. Years of hunting told him that this was a bad idea all around; taking an untested 'weapon' in a dark environment, against one of the quickest creatures on earth…
“Fuck.”
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PART 3
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back to PART 1
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AUTHOR’S NOTE:
This fic is complete. I got the full doc back yesterday from my beta and if all goes according to plan, I’ll post each part as I finish editing the beta’d bits. Next part should be up within a day or two, and again every 24-48 hours ‘til I get it’s all up.