SPN FIC: The Gift (Part 3 of 7)
TITLE: The Gift: PART 3
AUTHOR: jackfan2
CATEGORY: Gen
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, Castiel, OC's
WORDS: 4,152
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.
-~*~-
THE GIFT: Part 3
-~*~-
Sam supposed he should be impressed; the Willow Creek ranch was beautiful. Nestled in a valley, it was surrounded by mountains, rolling hills and trees, and there was even an actual creek that cut through, lined with Willow Trees.
Sam would have been impressed, but he was consumed with worry. The clock was ticking and he needed to get to Dean. Now.
Arriving at the entrance to the ranch he’d met a half dozen hands, the lead had introduced himself as Tom Pritcher. After stating his business, Tom had quickly agreed to take him to meet with the ranch owner, Hank Culver, though he’d have to leave the Impala behind in favor of the four-wheel drive Jeep. Given the recent rains, he’d explained, the roads were mired in mud and the Impala would never make the hour drive.
“Hour?” Sam chocked in disbelief.
“Yup,” Pritcher said, practically beaming. “Mr. and Mrs. Culver like their privacy. Ease up, it’s only about a fifty mile drive.”
Sam felt his shoulders droop but he followed Tom to the Jeep. This day - in Dean’s words -sucked out loud.
On the veranda of the main house, Sam now stood, working to calm the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. That is, with Hank, because he already knew things were going to shit where Dean was concerned.
Having poured out his heart to Hank Culver, he’d made his plea and it had all seemed to go well. While a hard one to read, the ranch owner had said he’d make some arrangements, and then had disappeared. So, what the Hell was taking so long?
Sam watched the sky anxiously. The weather was worsening and already the freezing rain from earlier was changing to a light snow.
The sound of boots thumping against the wooden planks of the porch announced his hosts return. Sam turned and watched as Hank came up to stand beside him, holding out a steaming mug of coffee.
“Thanks,” Sam nodded taking the proffered cup. Heat collided with cold as steam billowed from the open mug. After a tentative first sip, he took another, allowing it to warm him inside.
“Uh huh,” Hank supplied affably, but with an edge of doubt.
Sam gritted his teeth. That was probably the fiftieth ‘uh huh’ the grizzled old coot - er - cowboy had uttered since he’d arrived. Nope. Make that fifty-first, and it was starting to rankle.
Hank Culver, Sam guessed, was somewhere in his early sixties, though his movements belayed that assessment. The older man possessed a kind of grace and fluidity of movement, a testament to how well this life had agreed with him.
In addition to the nearly constant, condescending ‘uh-huh’s’, Sam fell prey to found his constant, clear, freakishly still, searching gaze, disconcerting. Deep blue eyes set within kind but weathered features, stared holes in him.
Sam was worried. Hank was pleasant enough and seemingly sympathetic to his plight yet, there was just something this side of untrusting in the way the old guy stared and talked, or didn’t talk, to Sam.
Taking a moment, Sam lowered his eyes back to his cup of coffee, mentally recounting the story he’d told, the one he’d practiced on the drive up; to the last detail it was sound. In fact it was SWS - Sam Winchester Solid - as usual.
The delivery was equally theatrical perfection, conveyed with all sincerity and dewy eyed concern. Hank had listened too, though his blue eyes had seemed to look right through him, not suspicious exactly, just…wary - but friendly, of course.
Mostly, however, it was his constant stare. It was unnerving. It had never wavered since he’d arrived. It was all Sam could do not to squirm under the knowing, weathered gaze.
“How much longer?” Sam asked, a bit distracted. His worried gaze kept straying back to the ominous mound to which the map referred as Widow’s Peak. That’s a hill?
“Be ready directly,” the ranch owner said, curt and to the point, just as he had been since Sam’d arrived.
Sam nodded in response. Anxious as he was to get moving, without Castiel’s angelic powers, he needed the mount and guide he’d brokered to get to Dean, so he tamped down his frustration and called on every ounce of patience he could to keep from snapping.
Trying to break the silence Sam offered, “I really appreciate this.”
“So,” the old wrangler said, brushing off Sam’s attempt at thanking him. “About your brother…” It was as much a question as a statement, encouraging Sam to continue.
“Yeah, he… like I said, one of the missing hikers from over a month back, Dean and her,” Sam pretended to choke up. “They had a thing. He was distraught over her not being found.”
“Uh huh.”
Sam’s eyes slammed shut. Swearing mentally, he fought to keep the lines around them sad rather than pissed, and counted backwards from twenty.
“Mind if I see that map you got?”
“No, not at all.” Sam fished the folded paper out of his pocket and handed it over. He watched as the old man unfolded and examined the lines and markings. Silently.
“Where’d you get this?” the old man asked, his eyes not leaving the paper.
“Um…” Caught off guard by the question, Sam struggled to remember the name. “Store in town. I’m afraid I don’t recall-”
“Devlin’s,” another cowboy supplied. Sam had been too busy trying to maintain his temper and frustration to hear the man approach.
“This here’s Pete,” Hank said by way of introduction. “He’s my right hand man, my foreman.” Pete didn’t offer his hand, only crossed his arms over his chest, a clear sign of his distrust. Sam decided to ignore him as best as he could.
“Devlin’s, yeah,” Sam nodded in affirmation to the earlier question. “That sounds right.”
Silence ensued and Sam looked at the two men. The map was now unfolded and they stared at it, murmuring words he couldn’t hear and pointing at some of the markings.
Sam swallowed his irritation, and asked, “What’s going on?”
Pete huffed, “That darn fool never does rotate his stock.” He squinted at Sam’s backpack. "You didn’t happen to buy any of his canned chicken and dumplings, did ya?”
“No…” Sam answered. Just what the hell any of this had to do with him or his brother… If someone didn’t get to the point, and soon, he was going to lose his cool, he could feel it.
Grinning annoyingly, Pete explained, “Just this summer, two hikers who’d bought canned goods from Devlin’s store, got food poisoning, it was the chicken n’dumplings.” Sam failed to see the humor, or the point, but he held still, and quiet. “They got so sick they had to be airlifted out.”
“Son,” Hank put in, realizing Sam’s confusion and waning patience. “This map’s gotta be ten or fifteen years old. Hell, I got hairs on my ass newer than half the crap Devlin stocks.” He extended the map back to him, adding, “in short, it ain’t worth the paper it’s printed on.”
“Wh -” Sam sputtered. But at Pete’s irritating half-smile and Hank’s knowing, ‘you’re a dumbass’ gaze, Sam’s ire increased and his shoulders hunched, tense and angry. “Frank Devlin said he'd been to the mine using this map -”
Both men chuckled, but Pete dissolved into an outright guffaw, eyes watering, holding his sides, the works. Sam’s hands balled into fists.
“Kid," Pete said when he found enough air to talk, "Devlin couldn't find his ass with both hands and an ass-map, which would be a far better map than that piece of kindlin'.”
It was with a supreme effort but Sam managed to push back his anger. "What has that got to do with me finding my brother?"
"Everything, son," Hank said. While Pete had been laughing uproariously, Hank hadn’t. He’d just held his deep blue gaze locked tightly on Sam.
Sam swallowed.
Before answering, Hank spat. A stream of black goop sailed and landed with a squishy splat in the grass beyond. Pete nodded in approval and Sam blanched.
“Well, for one,” the ranch owner said, “it means you don’t need a horse to get to the mines, which is a good thing ‘cuz I doubt very seriously you can ride worth squat.”
Sam swallowed a rebuttal. Hank held out the map, his gaze reassessing, measuring and continued, “Widow’s Peak was re-categorized as a mountain more’n ten years ago. Your map predates that.” Turning the map over, and angling so Sam could see, he pointed at something that wasn’t there. “There’s a road up the back here.”
“A road?” Sam’s voice croaked in a combination of incredulity and disbelief. “Wh -why the hell didn’t you say something sooner?”
“Didn't see any reason to give you any more truth than you’d been givin' me." Sam's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Hank just stared at him, hard. "Son, you don’t get to be my age and not know when you’re being fed a cockamamie story.”
“I-”
“Young man.” Hank held up a staying hand. “My granddaddy advised me when I was young and stupid, and I’ll do the same for you; never miss a good chance to shut up.”
Sam’s mouth closed with an audible click and he crossed his arms. First the townsfolk, now the country bumpkins of Crested River Falls - his last nerve was obliterated. Still, he needed their help, so he took a deep breath.
“Out of that entire load of crap you been feedin’ me since you got here, I didn't get but one iota of truth, and it's that one iota that's stopped me from runnin’ you off with a load of buckshot in your ass.”
“It's my brother," Sam choked, frustration and fear swamping his words.
The ranch owner’s eyes softened. “I know,” he said quietly. “Your brother’s missing an’ you’re worried, that much I got. So, before I offer use of one of my four-wheel vehicles and a guide, s’pose you start there.”
Sam swallowed. “He's up at the Claypool Mines and I gotta find him.” This time, the fear and anxiety in his voice were genuine.
“Alright." Hank nodded. “Mind tellin’ me what the hell he’s doin’ up at Widow’s Peak with a northerly movin’ in?”
“He…we.” Instead of a lie or truth, he decided on vague. “I wasn’t lying when I said he was looking for someone. That’s kinda what we do, look for missing people, try to help them. He hit on a hot lead and when he couldn’t reach me he took off on his own. The idiot.”
It was a harsh thing to say, Sam knew but between selling the reckless actions of his brother, and his own uncertainty at just how much resistance Dean likely had offered the angel at the records office, his assessment had been accurately conveyed within his uncertainty. Until he got Dean back, he wouldn’t know the truth. But he would get him back.
The wrangler studied him a moment. “Well, to get to the mine, if he’s got the same map as you, he’d need either a mountain goat of a horse and the riding skill to stay on the damn thing.”
“Or wings,” Pete quipped. Both men stared at him expectantly, waiting his explanation on just how Dean'd gotten half way up a freakishly steep mountain.
At the mention of wings, however, Sam’s mind stumbled and he saw red. It was bad enough with demons, but now angels - even the things of Heaven were going to get Dean killed. It was so wrong.
Hank mistook Sam’s silence for indecision so he added, “It’s an awful lot to ask to risk a man’s life on a hunch, son.” His blue gaze bore into the taller Winchester. “Guess what I’m getting’ at is, how do you know for sure he even made it up there?”
Because an angel put him there, for some goddam reason, and I’ve got a bad feeling about this…
“Because,” Sam said aloud, his eyes screaming at the man to believe him, “my brother is the single most determined, stubborn, mule-headed people I know and when he sets his mind to something…” his voice choked in a moment of despair. “Look, I know him and he’s up there. I’ve got to get to him. Please.”
Dean froze. There - he canted his head and listened. It was faint, like a small animal but ... not.
Senses alert, Dean quickly killed the flashlight and stilled. Animal or human, he didn’t want to announce his presence in case it was a trick. Taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to what little natural light there was, once shapes took definition, he moved on, steps quickening, one hand skimming the cave wall to keep him oriented.
The closer he got, the less animal-like it sounded. The noise became more defined; like a whine instead of a growl. A lament instead of a menace. It made the fine hair at the back of his neck stand up, chilled him to the core.
Dean remembered all too well how wendigos mimicked human voices to perfection. The memory added caution to his steps, but no less determination. The cries could very well be those of its victims and he had to get close enough to know one way or the other.
God... Dean thought as he stared into the distance, hands fisting, how he longed for a flare-gun, a Molotov cocktail, a lighter, anything!
Just as Dean had feared, the meager light allowed for little reaction time and he nearly stumbled over it. This close, he it was easier to see the outline of a small form, barely five yards ahead. Closer still, he could make out the shape of a…
A small child? Dean blinked but continued forward, faster now.
Like she was trying to disappear she sat there, curled into a tiny ball, head buried in her knees. Violent shivers racked her body, from cold or shock, or both. She was filthy and dirt covered, shocks of white blond hair stuck out all over her head. The clothes she wore were tattered and torn, barely clinging to her too skinny limbs.
A whimper of fear signaled to Dean she was probably aware of his presence.
“Hey…” Dean whispered, crouching. “My name’s Dean.” Needing a better look, and at the same time not wanting to blind the child, he cupped the flashlight before flipping it on. “Don’t be scared now, I’m not gonna hurt ya. Just wanna see if you’re hurt.”
While no expert, Dean estimated her to be no more than seven or eight years old. Lifting her head quickly Dean stopped. Wide terrified eyes locked onto him and she immediately began scuttling back, soundlessly but no less terrified.
“No, no, it’s alright,” Dean placated, patting the space between them. “I’m not going t’hurt you.” Closer still, he crouched down, knees bent, trying to make himself smaller, less imposing. Less frightening.
The child ducked, face hidden in her arms, pressing her side into the wall of the cave. Dean’s hands hovered; he didn’t trust that his touch wouldn’t send her running or worse, screaming and giving up their location.
“Hey there,” he cooed gently, softly. “I’m just here to help you. Don’t be scared.” Dean angled the light to see her wrists; blood and abraded skin showed clearly through the dirt where obviously she’d been bound. “You got loose? You got away, huh?”
Above her folded arms, large, luminescent blue eyes slowly peaked out and met his.
Dean flashed a soft grin, “Yeah, there ya go.” Then, cautiously her head was lifting… “See? Sweetheart, I’m not going to-” her head was completely upright, her large eyes were now impossibly enormous. Instead of small trembles, she now shook so violently that Dean feared she’d rattle apart, fly in every direction, “- to hurt you.”
It dawned on him then; she wasn’t looking at him, but… beyond him. She was bait. And, that meant…
Dean tensed, eyes cutting to the side. “Oh, fu-” then back at the innocent, terrified eyes of the child, “fudge.”
Then, just before the low, rumbly growl, Dean’s palms started to tingle, the sensation increased, burning, painful. Glancing at them quickly, he saw the palms were red, glowing. The gift!
Dean spun, but before he could get his hands up, his world exploded in a white haze of pain. Absolute darkness clouded his thoughts. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
The Jeep Wrangler was still rolling when Sam, anxious to get moving, jumped out. He raced up toward the dark clump ahead before slipping to a stop. Breaths puffing, visible in the cool air, he stared.
In its dilapidated condition, the entrance was almost unrecognizable, however a sign to the right, old and faded, but with the words ‘Claypool Mine’ clearly visible, was enough than enough to be sure they were in the right place. The opening was a mess, covered by years of overgrowth, fallen rock, and uprooted trees, but even with the rotten planks that fruitlessly boarded the way, it was still accessible.
Having arrived at the mine, there should have been some sense of relief knowing he was yet a step closer to finding his brother, but there wasn’t. Only aggravation. It would take time to clear the entrance, time, he felt with a panicked certainty, that Dean did not have.
Sam felt the reassuring lump on his right side; the flare gun pressed at his right hip, just inside his waistband and the less effective colt tucked safely away on the other side. As a precaution, he’d stuffed their second flare gun in the pocket of his coat, along with extra ammunition.
Shivering into the cold, Sam realized the temperature had dropped, yet again. The air was wet, heavy and smelled of snow; that was the last thing they needed now. Drawing the down jacket closer, he turned and headed back to the Jeep where his guide, Nathaniel waited quietly outside.
A Native American had proudly introduced himself as half Cherokee and the best all-around guide on the ranch. Long hair was gathered at the nape of his neck by a leather thong making the colorful beaded choker with its bone carved amulet centerpiece easy to see.
Standing outside, next to the Jeep, the young Indian held in his arms another jacket, several blankets, a first aid kit and two flashlights. Sam looked at him questioningly.
“Ranch rules,” he supplied with a shrug, “each of the Jeeps is loaded with supplies at all times.”
“And the coat?” Sam arched one brow.
“Oh,” Nathaniel ducked his head, “that I threw in, ya know, just in case your brother was dressed as poorly as you.”
“Thanks,” Sam nodded. He turned and stared at the boarded entrance. It would take some work but he should be able to clear it out and get underway in an hour or less. He felt a presence and glanced over.
Nathaniel, supplies in his arms, had moved up to stand next to him. No more than twenty-three, Sam guessed, the guide seemed capable enough. However, other than transportation and someone to guide him to the mine, this was where they parted company.
Fine by Sam, really, because another civilian along meant awkward conversations about what it was they might see, and more worry. The younger Winchester had had enough of that, thankyouverymuch.
Sam tugged at the thick leather gloves, also on loan from Hank, and prepared to tell Nathaniel to stay put. Dean would want it this way- less civilian involvement.
“A dark evil haunts that mine.”
The warning caught Sam by surprised and he turned to look at his guide.
Nathaniel stood just back a few feet, dark eyes glittering as he stared at the mine. Nervous fingers moved over the medallion at his neck. “You should not go in there. It’s dangerous.”
“Yeah, well,” Sam said as he walked determinedly up to the entrance. Grabbing the first board he continued, “You’re probably right about that, so,” he grunted and pulled hard. “All the more reason why you should stay here-” the rotted wood practically disintegrated in his hands. “-but my brother is in there.” He reached for another, “And I need to get to him. So, you-”
A second set of hands appeared next to his and Sam stepped back in surprise.
“I meant,” Nathaniel said as he yanked at the next plank and it too came away with ease. “You should not go in alone.” The Native American grabbed the next board and pulled, “If you want to reach your brother,” he looked at Sam, panting, “you should get back to work Sam Winchester... instead of wasting time conjuring useless reasons to go alone.”
The final board was down and both men stood just inside the entrance, breathing hard from exertion. Flashlight in hand Sam carefully scanned the way ahead before taking his first tentative steps forward.
The ground angled down and the dirt floor muffled footsteps but not much else. It was then he realized that while his own labored breathing, a combination of elevation and the earlier exertions to clear the debris, filled the cavern, it was far too loud for one person.
He wasn’t alone.
“Your brother must’ve come in the west entrance.”
Sam spun. The .45 was in his hand when he rounded and had his target in his sights. Nathaniel’s face, eyes wide and pale with fear, stared back at him.
“Dammit,” Sam sighed, he slumped, lowering the weapon.
“I -,” Nathaniel stammered, “I didn’t mean -”
Sam wasn’t listening, Nathaniel’s previous comment filtered back to him and he straightened. “Wait… west entrance?”
Nathaniel eyed Sam warily. “Um, yeah,” he said, hand shaking as he pointed at the blocked mine. “The boards on this side weren’t down, so I just figured…”
“No, no,” Sam said shaking his head, tucking the .45 back in its spot at his left hip. “I mean, there’s another entrance?”
“Sure. The tunnels run all through this mountain but there is a cut through to the west side of the mountain.” The Indian chuckled, “Man, if your brother came up that way, he either had wings or he must be one hell of a rider.”
It was the second mention of wings in reference to Dean reaching the mine, and Sam clenched his fists at his side. Not for the first time either he wished badly that Castiel was within reach; the younger Winchester would find a way to choke the life - or whatever it was angels existed with - out of him.
“Look, I appreciate your help, I do.” Sam pulled his flare gun, noting how Nathaniel stepped back, and checked the load before pocketing it. “But you’re right. There is something evil in these caves but it’s what my brother and I do so you should wait here.”
“No.” Nathaniel said in no uncertain terms. Sam’s brow arched in question. “As a small boy, I used to play in these caves - I know them like the back of my hand.” He stepped up to Sam pressing his point. “And, I’m a good tracker. If we find your brother’s tracks, I could help.” Sam opened his mouth, about to argue. “I want to help.”
It was Sam's turn now to stare at Nathaniel. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Call it curiosity.”
That was exactly the truth. The Indian’s earlier warning about a dark evil haunting the mines, Sam hadn’t missed the tone, and he’d seen the intensity of his gaze, simmering just below the surface. There was a haunted look. Remorse. No, it wasn’t just curiosity.
Sam didn’t move; he stood and stared, measuring the young Indian. Nathaniel, to his credit, held his ground, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.
After several seconds Sam made up his mind. On nothing more than instinct alone, he’d trust the young Indian, and protect him if necessary. Later, if Dean ever found out, Sam would catch hell - knowledge of the ribbing he’d get made Sam grin. The sobering fact that he was still a long way from actually finding Dean, made him resolute.
Nathaniel possessed firsthand knowledge of the tunnels; this was a form of help he couldn't bring himself to turn down.
“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. "But stay close and you do whatever I say whenever I say it. Got it?"
Nathaniel smirked. “You got it chief.”
-~*~-
PART 4
-~*~-
~ * ~ * ~ o ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ O ~ * ~ o ~ * ~ * ~
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Am I late? I feel late. I said two days at the end of the 2nd part, but since it was so late when I posted it - like near midnight or maybe after, I wasn’t sure of my deadline.
Anyway, I was going to post earlier during the day yesterday but Thanksgiving, and the hours leading up to it, were a bit insane - sick dogs, sick kids, puppy sitting for neighbors who’d left town. Yup, total insanity. Don’t know what possessed me to think it would be anything but.
If anyone’s reading, hope ya’ll had a Happy Thanksgiving! I’ll post again Sunday, God willing. Again, this fic is done. Just weeding out the stuff my beta wanted out, rewording some bits that she suggested I reword.
‘Til next time…
AUTHOR: jackfan2
CATEGORY: Gen
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, Castiel, OC's
WORDS: 4,152
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.
-~*~-
THE GIFT: Part 3
-~*~-
Sam supposed he should be impressed; the Willow Creek ranch was beautiful. Nestled in a valley, it was surrounded by mountains, rolling hills and trees, and there was even an actual creek that cut through, lined with Willow Trees.
Sam would have been impressed, but he was consumed with worry. The clock was ticking and he needed to get to Dean. Now.
Arriving at the entrance to the ranch he’d met a half dozen hands, the lead had introduced himself as Tom Pritcher. After stating his business, Tom had quickly agreed to take him to meet with the ranch owner, Hank Culver, though he’d have to leave the Impala behind in favor of the four-wheel drive Jeep. Given the recent rains, he’d explained, the roads were mired in mud and the Impala would never make the hour drive.
“Hour?” Sam chocked in disbelief.
“Yup,” Pritcher said, practically beaming. “Mr. and Mrs. Culver like their privacy. Ease up, it’s only about a fifty mile drive.”
Sam felt his shoulders droop but he followed Tom to the Jeep. This day - in Dean’s words -sucked out loud.
On the veranda of the main house, Sam now stood, working to calm the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. That is, with Hank, because he already knew things were going to shit where Dean was concerned.
Having poured out his heart to Hank Culver, he’d made his plea and it had all seemed to go well. While a hard one to read, the ranch owner had said he’d make some arrangements, and then had disappeared. So, what the Hell was taking so long?
Sam watched the sky anxiously. The weather was worsening and already the freezing rain from earlier was changing to a light snow.
The sound of boots thumping against the wooden planks of the porch announced his hosts return. Sam turned and watched as Hank came up to stand beside him, holding out a steaming mug of coffee.
“Thanks,” Sam nodded taking the proffered cup. Heat collided with cold as steam billowed from the open mug. After a tentative first sip, he took another, allowing it to warm him inside.
“Uh huh,” Hank supplied affably, but with an edge of doubt.
Sam gritted his teeth. That was probably the fiftieth ‘uh huh’ the grizzled old coot - er - cowboy had uttered since he’d arrived. Nope. Make that fifty-first, and it was starting to rankle.
Hank Culver, Sam guessed, was somewhere in his early sixties, though his movements belayed that assessment. The older man possessed a kind of grace and fluidity of movement, a testament to how well this life had agreed with him.
In addition to the nearly constant, condescending ‘uh-huh’s’, Sam fell prey to found his constant, clear, freakishly still, searching gaze, disconcerting. Deep blue eyes set within kind but weathered features, stared holes in him.
Sam was worried. Hank was pleasant enough and seemingly sympathetic to his plight yet, there was just something this side of untrusting in the way the old guy stared and talked, or didn’t talk, to Sam.
Taking a moment, Sam lowered his eyes back to his cup of coffee, mentally recounting the story he’d told, the one he’d practiced on the drive up; to the last detail it was sound. In fact it was SWS - Sam Winchester Solid - as usual.
The delivery was equally theatrical perfection, conveyed with all sincerity and dewy eyed concern. Hank had listened too, though his blue eyes had seemed to look right through him, not suspicious exactly, just…wary - but friendly, of course.
Mostly, however, it was his constant stare. It was unnerving. It had never wavered since he’d arrived. It was all Sam could do not to squirm under the knowing, weathered gaze.
“How much longer?” Sam asked, a bit distracted. His worried gaze kept straying back to the ominous mound to which the map referred as Widow’s Peak. That’s a hill?
“Be ready directly,” the ranch owner said, curt and to the point, just as he had been since Sam’d arrived.
Sam nodded in response. Anxious as he was to get moving, without Castiel’s angelic powers, he needed the mount and guide he’d brokered to get to Dean, so he tamped down his frustration and called on every ounce of patience he could to keep from snapping.
Trying to break the silence Sam offered, “I really appreciate this.”
“So,” the old wrangler said, brushing off Sam’s attempt at thanking him. “About your brother…” It was as much a question as a statement, encouraging Sam to continue.
“Yeah, he… like I said, one of the missing hikers from over a month back, Dean and her,” Sam pretended to choke up. “They had a thing. He was distraught over her not being found.”
“Uh huh.”
Sam’s eyes slammed shut. Swearing mentally, he fought to keep the lines around them sad rather than pissed, and counted backwards from twenty.
“Mind if I see that map you got?”
“No, not at all.” Sam fished the folded paper out of his pocket and handed it over. He watched as the old man unfolded and examined the lines and markings. Silently.
“Where’d you get this?” the old man asked, his eyes not leaving the paper.
“Um…” Caught off guard by the question, Sam struggled to remember the name. “Store in town. I’m afraid I don’t recall-”
“Devlin’s,” another cowboy supplied. Sam had been too busy trying to maintain his temper and frustration to hear the man approach.
“This here’s Pete,” Hank said by way of introduction. “He’s my right hand man, my foreman.” Pete didn’t offer his hand, only crossed his arms over his chest, a clear sign of his distrust. Sam decided to ignore him as best as he could.
“Devlin’s, yeah,” Sam nodded in affirmation to the earlier question. “That sounds right.”
Silence ensued and Sam looked at the two men. The map was now unfolded and they stared at it, murmuring words he couldn’t hear and pointing at some of the markings.
Sam swallowed his irritation, and asked, “What’s going on?”
Pete huffed, “That darn fool never does rotate his stock.” He squinted at Sam’s backpack. "You didn’t happen to buy any of his canned chicken and dumplings, did ya?”
“No…” Sam answered. Just what the hell any of this had to do with him or his brother… If someone didn’t get to the point, and soon, he was going to lose his cool, he could feel it.
Grinning annoyingly, Pete explained, “Just this summer, two hikers who’d bought canned goods from Devlin’s store, got food poisoning, it was the chicken n’dumplings.” Sam failed to see the humor, or the point, but he held still, and quiet. “They got so sick they had to be airlifted out.”
“Son,” Hank put in, realizing Sam’s confusion and waning patience. “This map’s gotta be ten or fifteen years old. Hell, I got hairs on my ass newer than half the crap Devlin stocks.” He extended the map back to him, adding, “in short, it ain’t worth the paper it’s printed on.”
“Wh -” Sam sputtered. But at Pete’s irritating half-smile and Hank’s knowing, ‘you’re a dumbass’ gaze, Sam’s ire increased and his shoulders hunched, tense and angry. “Frank Devlin said he'd been to the mine using this map -”
Both men chuckled, but Pete dissolved into an outright guffaw, eyes watering, holding his sides, the works. Sam’s hands balled into fists.
“Kid," Pete said when he found enough air to talk, "Devlin couldn't find his ass with both hands and an ass-map, which would be a far better map than that piece of kindlin'.”
It was with a supreme effort but Sam managed to push back his anger. "What has that got to do with me finding my brother?"
"Everything, son," Hank said. While Pete had been laughing uproariously, Hank hadn’t. He’d just held his deep blue gaze locked tightly on Sam.
Sam swallowed.
Before answering, Hank spat. A stream of black goop sailed and landed with a squishy splat in the grass beyond. Pete nodded in approval and Sam blanched.
“Well, for one,” the ranch owner said, “it means you don’t need a horse to get to the mines, which is a good thing ‘cuz I doubt very seriously you can ride worth squat.”
Sam swallowed a rebuttal. Hank held out the map, his gaze reassessing, measuring and continued, “Widow’s Peak was re-categorized as a mountain more’n ten years ago. Your map predates that.” Turning the map over, and angling so Sam could see, he pointed at something that wasn’t there. “There’s a road up the back here.”
“A road?” Sam’s voice croaked in a combination of incredulity and disbelief. “Wh -why the hell didn’t you say something sooner?”
“Didn't see any reason to give you any more truth than you’d been givin' me." Sam's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Hank just stared at him, hard. "Son, you don’t get to be my age and not know when you’re being fed a cockamamie story.”
“I-”
“Young man.” Hank held up a staying hand. “My granddaddy advised me when I was young and stupid, and I’ll do the same for you; never miss a good chance to shut up.”
Sam’s mouth closed with an audible click and he crossed his arms. First the townsfolk, now the country bumpkins of Crested River Falls - his last nerve was obliterated. Still, he needed their help, so he took a deep breath.
“Out of that entire load of crap you been feedin’ me since you got here, I didn't get but one iota of truth, and it's that one iota that's stopped me from runnin’ you off with a load of buckshot in your ass.”
“It's my brother," Sam choked, frustration and fear swamping his words.
The ranch owner’s eyes softened. “I know,” he said quietly. “Your brother’s missing an’ you’re worried, that much I got. So, before I offer use of one of my four-wheel vehicles and a guide, s’pose you start there.”
Sam swallowed. “He's up at the Claypool Mines and I gotta find him.” This time, the fear and anxiety in his voice were genuine.
“Alright." Hank nodded. “Mind tellin’ me what the hell he’s doin’ up at Widow’s Peak with a northerly movin’ in?”
“He…we.” Instead of a lie or truth, he decided on vague. “I wasn’t lying when I said he was looking for someone. That’s kinda what we do, look for missing people, try to help them. He hit on a hot lead and when he couldn’t reach me he took off on his own. The idiot.”
It was a harsh thing to say, Sam knew but between selling the reckless actions of his brother, and his own uncertainty at just how much resistance Dean likely had offered the angel at the records office, his assessment had been accurately conveyed within his uncertainty. Until he got Dean back, he wouldn’t know the truth. But he would get him back.
The wrangler studied him a moment. “Well, to get to the mine, if he’s got the same map as you, he’d need either a mountain goat of a horse and the riding skill to stay on the damn thing.”
“Or wings,” Pete quipped. Both men stared at him expectantly, waiting his explanation on just how Dean'd gotten half way up a freakishly steep mountain.
At the mention of wings, however, Sam’s mind stumbled and he saw red. It was bad enough with demons, but now angels - even the things of Heaven were going to get Dean killed. It was so wrong.
Hank mistook Sam’s silence for indecision so he added, “It’s an awful lot to ask to risk a man’s life on a hunch, son.” His blue gaze bore into the taller Winchester. “Guess what I’m getting’ at is, how do you know for sure he even made it up there?”
Because an angel put him there, for some goddam reason, and I’ve got a bad feeling about this…
“Because,” Sam said aloud, his eyes screaming at the man to believe him, “my brother is the single most determined, stubborn, mule-headed people I know and when he sets his mind to something…” his voice choked in a moment of despair. “Look, I know him and he’s up there. I’ve got to get to him. Please.”
Dean froze. There - he canted his head and listened. It was faint, like a small animal but ... not.
Senses alert, Dean quickly killed the flashlight and stilled. Animal or human, he didn’t want to announce his presence in case it was a trick. Taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to what little natural light there was, once shapes took definition, he moved on, steps quickening, one hand skimming the cave wall to keep him oriented.
The closer he got, the less animal-like it sounded. The noise became more defined; like a whine instead of a growl. A lament instead of a menace. It made the fine hair at the back of his neck stand up, chilled him to the core.
Dean remembered all too well how wendigos mimicked human voices to perfection. The memory added caution to his steps, but no less determination. The cries could very well be those of its victims and he had to get close enough to know one way or the other.
God... Dean thought as he stared into the distance, hands fisting, how he longed for a flare-gun, a Molotov cocktail, a lighter, anything!
Just as Dean had feared, the meager light allowed for little reaction time and he nearly stumbled over it. This close, he it was easier to see the outline of a small form, barely five yards ahead. Closer still, he could make out the shape of a…
A small child? Dean blinked but continued forward, faster now.
Like she was trying to disappear she sat there, curled into a tiny ball, head buried in her knees. Violent shivers racked her body, from cold or shock, or both. She was filthy and dirt covered, shocks of white blond hair stuck out all over her head. The clothes she wore were tattered and torn, barely clinging to her too skinny limbs.
A whimper of fear signaled to Dean she was probably aware of his presence.
“Hey…” Dean whispered, crouching. “My name’s Dean.” Needing a better look, and at the same time not wanting to blind the child, he cupped the flashlight before flipping it on. “Don’t be scared now, I’m not gonna hurt ya. Just wanna see if you’re hurt.”
While no expert, Dean estimated her to be no more than seven or eight years old. Lifting her head quickly Dean stopped. Wide terrified eyes locked onto him and she immediately began scuttling back, soundlessly but no less terrified.
“No, no, it’s alright,” Dean placated, patting the space between them. “I’m not going t’hurt you.” Closer still, he crouched down, knees bent, trying to make himself smaller, less imposing. Less frightening.
The child ducked, face hidden in her arms, pressing her side into the wall of the cave. Dean’s hands hovered; he didn’t trust that his touch wouldn’t send her running or worse, screaming and giving up their location.
“Hey there,” he cooed gently, softly. “I’m just here to help you. Don’t be scared.” Dean angled the light to see her wrists; blood and abraded skin showed clearly through the dirt where obviously she’d been bound. “You got loose? You got away, huh?”
Above her folded arms, large, luminescent blue eyes slowly peaked out and met his.
Dean flashed a soft grin, “Yeah, there ya go.” Then, cautiously her head was lifting… “See? Sweetheart, I’m not going to-” her head was completely upright, her large eyes were now impossibly enormous. Instead of small trembles, she now shook so violently that Dean feared she’d rattle apart, fly in every direction, “- to hurt you.”
It dawned on him then; she wasn’t looking at him, but… beyond him. She was bait. And, that meant…
Dean tensed, eyes cutting to the side. “Oh, fu-” then back at the innocent, terrified eyes of the child, “fudge.”
Then, just before the low, rumbly growl, Dean’s palms started to tingle, the sensation increased, burning, painful. Glancing at them quickly, he saw the palms were red, glowing. The gift!
Dean spun, but before he could get his hands up, his world exploded in a white haze of pain. Absolute darkness clouded his thoughts. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
The Jeep Wrangler was still rolling when Sam, anxious to get moving, jumped out. He raced up toward the dark clump ahead before slipping to a stop. Breaths puffing, visible in the cool air, he stared.
In its dilapidated condition, the entrance was almost unrecognizable, however a sign to the right, old and faded, but with the words ‘Claypool Mine’ clearly visible, was enough than enough to be sure they were in the right place. The opening was a mess, covered by years of overgrowth, fallen rock, and uprooted trees, but even with the rotten planks that fruitlessly boarded the way, it was still accessible.
Having arrived at the mine, there should have been some sense of relief knowing he was yet a step closer to finding his brother, but there wasn’t. Only aggravation. It would take time to clear the entrance, time, he felt with a panicked certainty, that Dean did not have.
Sam felt the reassuring lump on his right side; the flare gun pressed at his right hip, just inside his waistband and the less effective colt tucked safely away on the other side. As a precaution, he’d stuffed their second flare gun in the pocket of his coat, along with extra ammunition.
Shivering into the cold, Sam realized the temperature had dropped, yet again. The air was wet, heavy and smelled of snow; that was the last thing they needed now. Drawing the down jacket closer, he turned and headed back to the Jeep where his guide, Nathaniel waited quietly outside.
A Native American had proudly introduced himself as half Cherokee and the best all-around guide on the ranch. Long hair was gathered at the nape of his neck by a leather thong making the colorful beaded choker with its bone carved amulet centerpiece easy to see.
Standing outside, next to the Jeep, the young Indian held in his arms another jacket, several blankets, a first aid kit and two flashlights. Sam looked at him questioningly.
“Ranch rules,” he supplied with a shrug, “each of the Jeeps is loaded with supplies at all times.”
“And the coat?” Sam arched one brow.
“Oh,” Nathaniel ducked his head, “that I threw in, ya know, just in case your brother was dressed as poorly as you.”
“Thanks,” Sam nodded. He turned and stared at the boarded entrance. It would take some work but he should be able to clear it out and get underway in an hour or less. He felt a presence and glanced over.
Nathaniel, supplies in his arms, had moved up to stand next to him. No more than twenty-three, Sam guessed, the guide seemed capable enough. However, other than transportation and someone to guide him to the mine, this was where they parted company.
Fine by Sam, really, because another civilian along meant awkward conversations about what it was they might see, and more worry. The younger Winchester had had enough of that, thankyouverymuch.
Sam tugged at the thick leather gloves, also on loan from Hank, and prepared to tell Nathaniel to stay put. Dean would want it this way- less civilian involvement.
“A dark evil haunts that mine.”
The warning caught Sam by surprised and he turned to look at his guide.
Nathaniel stood just back a few feet, dark eyes glittering as he stared at the mine. Nervous fingers moved over the medallion at his neck. “You should not go in there. It’s dangerous.”
“Yeah, well,” Sam said as he walked determinedly up to the entrance. Grabbing the first board he continued, “You’re probably right about that, so,” he grunted and pulled hard. “All the more reason why you should stay here-” the rotted wood practically disintegrated in his hands. “-but my brother is in there.” He reached for another, “And I need to get to him. So, you-”
A second set of hands appeared next to his and Sam stepped back in surprise.
“I meant,” Nathaniel said as he yanked at the next plank and it too came away with ease. “You should not go in alone.” The Native American grabbed the next board and pulled, “If you want to reach your brother,” he looked at Sam, panting, “you should get back to work Sam Winchester... instead of wasting time conjuring useless reasons to go alone.”
The final board was down and both men stood just inside the entrance, breathing hard from exertion. Flashlight in hand Sam carefully scanned the way ahead before taking his first tentative steps forward.
The ground angled down and the dirt floor muffled footsteps but not much else. It was then he realized that while his own labored breathing, a combination of elevation and the earlier exertions to clear the debris, filled the cavern, it was far too loud for one person.
He wasn’t alone.
“Your brother must’ve come in the west entrance.”
Sam spun. The .45 was in his hand when he rounded and had his target in his sights. Nathaniel’s face, eyes wide and pale with fear, stared back at him.
“Dammit,” Sam sighed, he slumped, lowering the weapon.
“I -,” Nathaniel stammered, “I didn’t mean -”
Sam wasn’t listening, Nathaniel’s previous comment filtered back to him and he straightened. “Wait… west entrance?”
Nathaniel eyed Sam warily. “Um, yeah,” he said, hand shaking as he pointed at the blocked mine. “The boards on this side weren’t down, so I just figured…”
“No, no,” Sam said shaking his head, tucking the .45 back in its spot at his left hip. “I mean, there’s another entrance?”
“Sure. The tunnels run all through this mountain but there is a cut through to the west side of the mountain.” The Indian chuckled, “Man, if your brother came up that way, he either had wings or he must be one hell of a rider.”
It was the second mention of wings in reference to Dean reaching the mine, and Sam clenched his fists at his side. Not for the first time either he wished badly that Castiel was within reach; the younger Winchester would find a way to choke the life - or whatever it was angels existed with - out of him.
“Look, I appreciate your help, I do.” Sam pulled his flare gun, noting how Nathaniel stepped back, and checked the load before pocketing it. “But you’re right. There is something evil in these caves but it’s what my brother and I do so you should wait here.”
“No.” Nathaniel said in no uncertain terms. Sam’s brow arched in question. “As a small boy, I used to play in these caves - I know them like the back of my hand.” He stepped up to Sam pressing his point. “And, I’m a good tracker. If we find your brother’s tracks, I could help.” Sam opened his mouth, about to argue. “I want to help.”
It was Sam's turn now to stare at Nathaniel. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Call it curiosity.”
That was exactly the truth. The Indian’s earlier warning about a dark evil haunting the mines, Sam hadn’t missed the tone, and he’d seen the intensity of his gaze, simmering just below the surface. There was a haunted look. Remorse. No, it wasn’t just curiosity.
Sam didn’t move; he stood and stared, measuring the young Indian. Nathaniel, to his credit, held his ground, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.
After several seconds Sam made up his mind. On nothing more than instinct alone, he’d trust the young Indian, and protect him if necessary. Later, if Dean ever found out, Sam would catch hell - knowledge of the ribbing he’d get made Sam grin. The sobering fact that he was still a long way from actually finding Dean, made him resolute.
Nathaniel possessed firsthand knowledge of the tunnels; this was a form of help he couldn't bring himself to turn down.
“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. "But stay close and you do whatever I say whenever I say it. Got it?"
Nathaniel smirked. “You got it chief.”
-~*~-
PART 4
-~*~-
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AUTHOR’S NOTE: Am I late? I feel late. I said two days at the end of the 2nd part, but since it was so late when I posted it - like near midnight or maybe after, I wasn’t sure of my deadline.
Anyway, I was going to post earlier during the day yesterday but Thanksgiving, and the hours leading up to it, were a bit insane - sick dogs, sick kids, puppy sitting for neighbors who’d left town. Yup, total insanity. Don’t know what possessed me to think it would be anything but.
If anyone’s reading, hope ya’ll had a Happy Thanksgiving! I’ll post again Sunday, God willing. Again, this fic is done. Just weeding out the stuff my beta wanted out, rewording some bits that she suggested I reword.
‘Til next time…