SPN FIC: The Gift (Part 5 of 7)
TITLE: The Gift: PART 5
AUTHOR: jackfan2
CATEGORY: Gen
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, Castiel, OC's
WORDS: 4,440
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 is a birthday fic written for one of my beta's, the lovely adrenalineshots, without whom I'd not currently be writing. Without whom I'd not have much sanity left. Because, when someone you know is falling apart and that someone's world is massively connected to yours, it's nice to have an anchor to tie to. Natty's a great anchor. A great friend. Period.
Back to PART 4
-~*~-
THE GIFT: Part 5
-~*~-
“These tracks," Nathaniel said, crouched, fingers ghosting over odd shaped footprints in the dirt floor. “They're deeper. The wendigo's carrying his prey now.” He straightened and looked at Sam, eyes brimming with something akin to excitement.
“What'd you just say?” Sam asked, suspicion narrowing his gaze.
Nathaniel grinned. “We haven't lost their trail, Sam. That's what I'm saying. C'mon!” When he turned to bolt Sam snaked out a hand and caught the Indian by one sleeve, keeping him in place.
“You...” Sam studied his Indian companion's face, sure now that he heard him correctly. “You called it...a wendigo.”
“What -?” Nathaniel seemed prepared to bluff, but thought better of it. His face fell just for a second before impassiveness shut him off. “Does it really matter?” His shoulders were squared, challenging.
“It might." Sam showed his own defiance, but he kept it cool, calm. “How do you know about wendigos Nathaniel? And how long have you known about this particular wendigo?”
The Indian's chin notched up. “You want my help or not?”
Sam did, and he wanted to find Dean, and Nathaniel had proved over the course of their journey that he knew the mines, as he’d said. Before that, though, from the time they’d reached the mine entrance, there’d been something a little… off about the young Indian guide. Something Sam couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Nathaniel, armed with an impeccable sense of direction, facilitated by familiarity with numerous landmarks and signs along the way, pointed out things Sam would’ve thought insignificant. As a result, they’d found evidence of recent human activity in the caves. But, Sam reasoned, what good was knowledge without trust?
That little slip, Sam couldn’t overlook. It was time to learn more about his guide. Revelation, however, often came with a price, so Sam steeled one hand to the small of his back and wrapped his hand carefully around the hilt of his silver knife, hidden safely beneath the waist of his jeans.
“I do want your help, but you see,” Sam gripped the knife hilt tight, tensing; “I just don’t have a lot of trust for people who aren’t straight with me. Like say, a tracker that all of a sudden knows a hell of a lot more about things that go bump in the night than they led others to believe.”
Nathaniel yanked his arm out of Sam’s grasp and walked sideways, never offering the hunter his back. This posture telegraphed plainly that the Indian knew perfectly well what Sam had hidden behind his back.
The Indian guide studied Sam. The coiled set of his broad shoulders, ready to attack with lethal precision, the angry light in his glittering stare. It occurred to Nathaniel then how he might have made a mistake in trying to fool this man.
After only a second’s hesitation, Nathaniel said, “When I was a kid my friends and I found these old mines, played in them every day for nearly three weeks.”
Nathaniel clenched his fists, his eyes far away. He swallowed around a painful memory. “Until our parents found out and put a stop to it. You know, all the 'you'll get hurt' and shit."
Gazing down at his feet, the Indian took a breath before continuing. “So we did what any kid would do.”
“You went anyway.”
“We went anyway,” Nathaniel echoed, his words filled with regret. “Before we could, one of the old tribal elders overheard us planning our secret trip and told us a story that we thought was just to frighten us.”
Sam swallowed. “Did it have anything to do with an Indian turning to cannibalism to survive?”
Nathaniel blinked in surprise. “You - he also told us about men like you.”
“Men like me?” Sam asked curiously. The awe and fear in the gaze Nathaniel leveled at him was making him uncomfortable.
“Yes,” Nathaniel nodded, “hunters of evil and darkness.” The next words were spoken like a retelling a story from his youth. “Even in the old days of men and horses, they walked the wicked land, destroying that which would destroy. Your brother, he is one too? A hunter?”
This was getting really uncomfortable, but Sam nodded anyway. “Yeah, that’s what we do.”
“Man,” Nathaniel huffed and shook his head in disbelief. “I never did believe a damn thing that old geezer told me, guess I should’ve huh?”
Sam shrugged, “Maybe.” Before they got too far off track, and because the topic of what he and Dean did for a living from the perspective of an outsider was just too… weird, Sam redirected. “Nathaniel, what was the story the elder told?”
“You think it’ll help?” There was a look of reluctance in the Indian’s eyes.
“The more I know,” Sam persisted, “the better.”
Nathaniel nodded. “There was this old shaman, a medicine man and in 1863, in the middle of the coldest winter this area’d ever seen, got lost in the mountains. Half starved to death, he happened upon some trappers, mountain men.”
A shiver raced along Nathaniel’s back and his voice took on a distant, ancient tone. “Half crazy but holding to the old Indian faith, he caught one of them off alone, slaughtered him, drank his blood. The blood offered enough strength for him to drag the body off and later that night, he ate the man’s flesh and became immortal.”
“Wendigo.” Sam said in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.
Nathaniel huffed, “A monster. But yeah," he nodded, “that's what the elder called him. Or it."
Sam studied his face. There was so much pain there, so much... loss. There was more to the story and he had a feeling he already knew. “So, what happened next?"
“We were stupid, that's what,” he answered, voice edged with bitterness. “Like most stupid kids, me and my friends, we all thought it was all a load of crap. So, we went ahead with our plans and sneaked back to the mines that night. A little scared but not willing to admit it, we had to prove ourselves both brave and grown up. Inside the mines we split up to explore. Then we heard it.” He stilled. “This… growl. Then there was this... inhuman scream.”
“Crap,” Sam murmured understandingly. A vicious tremble shuddered through the younger man’s body, visible, laden with fear and guilt. He knew those emotions like he knew his own childhood fears, his and Dean's.
“Then there was more screaming, this time, all of it human.”
“I'm sorry.” And he was. It was not a flippant declaration on Sam’s part. No child should be subjected to such evil.
“I saw it.” The flat declaration brought Sam's head up quickly.
Nathaniel met Sam's gaze. “We went to help our friends and I was the first one to arrive and - I’ll never forget what I saw. Or - thought I saw. I mean it was there one second and gone the next. So fast.” The guide’s voice held equal measures fear and awe. “Eight of us went in that night, only four of us left.”
“You ever come back before tonight?”
Nathaniel shook his head. “I'm a coward."
Sam thought for a moment. “Tell me something." He rummaged around in his coat pocket. "That tribal elder ever tell you how to kill a wendigo?"
“No. I was too scared to face him again and he died a week after the deaths.” He looked at Sam now, his eyes filled with determination and rage. “But now, if need be, I’ll rip that thing apart with my bare hands.”
Not for the first time, Nathaniel fingered the amulet around his neck and Sam finally asked, “What's that?”
Nathaniel looked down in surprise, like he hadn’t realized what he was doing and dropped his hand. Pressing, Sam added, “Looks like some sort of totem.”
The Indian nodded. “Afterward, when no one would believe an eleven year old kid, and when the nightmares kept me awake for months, my grandfather gave me this amulet for protection.”
“Nathaniel,” Sam said, waiting until the young man's wild eyes were fixed on his. It was time to give this young man some peace. “You’re not a coward. If you’d tried to go in after that wendigo without an inkling of how to kill it? The only thing you'd have achieved would’ve been a quick and fairly messy death.”
“But the wendigo killed my friends and now others...” A muscle jumped in the Native American’s jaw. “I tried to find out how to kill it, you know. Couldn’t find anything. But I never should’ve allowed it to live for this long. I should’ve tried-”
“Tried what? The bare hands thing again? A shot gun?” Sam shook his head sympathetically because he understood the need for revenge all too well. “You would’ve failed and wouldn’t have changed anything.”
Nathaniel looked long and hard at Sam and came to a conclusion. “You know how to kill it.” It wasn’t a question.
“I know what will kill it,” Sam echoed. He rummaged in his coat pocket and pulled out their spare flare gun. Handing it to Nathaniel.
Brow arched in surprise, the Indian stared at the proffered weapon. “A flare gun?”
“Bare hands, guns, knives, they won’t do the job, but that will. Guaranteed.” Sam turned and pointed the beam of his flashlight into the darkness. “Fire’s the only way to kill it and it mimics voices perfectly, so be on your guard.”
Dean couldn't say for sure how long they'd been walking, but he could say with utter certainty that he was ready for them to stop moving. In his condition, he was well aware that while it felt like miles to him, it was probably, in reality, only a few yards.
His reality, he decided, sucked ass. Totally.
Kyle and he made a good team. When Dean's vision faded in and out of focus, he'd talk to Kyle, tell him what he was looking for on the ground around them. Scared shitless, the kid kept his feedback brief and only stated exactly what Dean asked for.
"There's lots of dirt inside the footprint, yes."
"Dammit."
"Why? What's that mean?"
"Means the print's more than a few hours old. Means the wendigo hasn't been down this way in a good while."
"Mean's we're going the wrong way?"
"Probably." Dean nodded, looking around. At the sight of Kyle's crestfallen face, he felt his gut twist but he refused to add to the boys' sense of defeat, or to allow the boy to believe there was no hope. "Hey, we only just started. Don't get all down in the mouth on me now."
"I know, but.... it took us so long just to get this far."
"Dude, why didn't you say something then?" Oh geez, he was so going to regret this. "Let’s pick up the pace. C'mon." Dean was angling his body to head back the way they'd come, but as he turned the cave turned faster, and flipped... and lunged. He threw a hand out to catch one wall and closed his eyes.
"You're a sucky liar."
Head bowed, Dean husked, "cut me some slack, kid." After a moment, when the room no longer danced he gave Kyle’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze and righted himself once more. "This isn't shaping up to be one of my better days."
Dean's lungs grated and rattled into the silence, but he managed to get a better pace this time. Though, breathing was getting harder - he attributed that to the faster pace.
"What's a..." Kyle started hesitantly, "wendigo? Is it human?"
Dean eyed him a second, not at all sure he wanted to be the one to give names to the boy’s future nightmares. Still, he had the right to know. "Far from it now, but at one time it probably was."
Dean kept the flashlight trained on the ground and the two ate up the ground, or at least it felt like that. Any other day he’d leave some nine year old kid trailing far behind but today, he found Kyle easily matching his speed. Dammit.
When the flashlight caught on something shiny Dean stopped short. “Huh…” He squinted, looking at the object. Fully intent on kneeling down to get a better look, he noticed Kyle out of his periphery moving past him.
The boy examined the folded leather, opening up to the contents. It was a wallet. “It’s my dad’s.” His head was dipped down and Dean didn’t realize he was crying until a tear slapped against the driver’s license.
“Hey.” Dean moved painfully to stand next to the boy. “This is actually a good thing.” Shining the flashlight further into the tunnel, gazing at the prints. “Means we’re going the right way.”
It was then Dean heard it. A sound. Something other than the damn sawing of his lungs. Squinting, Dean moved ahead further. The sounds got closer as he moved.
Kyle heard it too. “What-?”
“Shhhh…” Dean held up a hand. He cut his eyes left. “You hear that?” When Kyle nodded silently, he added, “Yeah, me too.”
Until they knew who or what that was, Dean chose to err on the side of caution and covered the end of the flashlight, minimizing the intensity of the ray. The sound seemed to be coming from the direction he and Kyle had been heading so he turned and made his way slowly back.
It was a particularly dark part of the cave, bordering on pitch black, so rather than risk running into a wall or a wendigo, he uncovered just enough of the beam to illuminate the ground. Sure enough, the wendigo’s footprints coincided with the direction of the sounds, which, as they drew closer, were more and more… human.
“Sounds like…” Kyle’s voice trembled in the dark.
Dean stopped and turned toward the boy. “Listen to me. Wendigo’s know how to imitate human voices. Perfectly. You got it?”
“I know.” Kyle’s brow scrunched and his breathing increased speed, like he was trying very hard to control himself. “I was behind a rock when it was trying to lure me out, it didn’t know I saw it. Sounded like m-my mo-mom.”
The hitch in the boy’s voice left Dean hollowed, but it wasn’t time to give into the sympathy so instead, he gave a curt nod. “Ok. So you know to just play it cool ‘til we know what’s what. Right?”
Dean didn’t wait this time to see the look of acceptance. After the hell Kyle’d been through, surviving despite it all, he knew. Turning back toward the sounds, he began moving once more. The cave seemed to bend and fork up ahead. Stopping at the juncture he listened.
A voice called from the right tunnel, far ahead: “…ase help us!”
“That’s my mom’s voice,” Kyle sniffed, passing a sleeve under his nose.
Dean glanced down at Kyle. He stared down the passage way, eyes filling with unshed tears. Gently he pressed a trembling hand against the boy’s chest and pushed him behind his legs. “Stay behind me Kyle, just in case.”
They drew further in and this time they heard more voices. Anxious. Relieved. Worried. One, however sounded… familiar. Sam.
Dean drew to a stop and grinned. “’Bout friggin' time,” he murmured and turned to Kyle. “That’s my brother, Kyle, and I think he might’ve found your family.”
“But … but how can you be sure? You said-”
“They can only mimic one voice at a time. That’s way too many up ahead.” Dean opened the beam up on the flashlight and pointed toward the bend in the cave ahead. “Still, gotta watch our back though. C’mon.”
Dean motioned Kyle ahead and they both moved off again, faster now. The closer they got, the more real the words became, more distinguishable. Dean counted at least three separate voices. One was definitely Sam’s and it was all he could do not to call out to him.
They were nearly at the opening to the cavern where the voices were echoing in hushed tones. Lights danced about inside where the wendigo had obviously been keeping Kyle’s family. Sam was probably right now cutting them down-
“Shit,” Dean winced, pressing a hand to his chest.
“What?” Kyle looked at him worriedly.
Dean shook his head, “Just… god, the worst heartburn I’ve ever had.” And yet it was unlike any heartburn he’d ever had. This was a pressure, building deep in his chest until it suddenly started to course through his body. Everything tingled and burned at the same time.
Something dropped from the ceiling. Dean skittered to a halt, at the same time throwing out a protective hand, making sure Kyle was well behind him.
The bulk took shape, knobby knees nearly pencil thin, long arms with tapered fingers hosting razor-like claws, flexing and unfurling, eager for its prey. The wendigo. It wasn’t headed for them, though - it was crawling away from them, in the direction they were going.
The cache. Kyle’s family. Sam. “Dammit.”
Dean quickly grabbed Kyle and pressed the boy back against the cave wall, one finger on his mouth, whispering a quiet, “Ssshhhh…” When Kyle nodded his understanding, Dean looked back to make sure it hadn’t heard them, it was still moving toward the voices.
“Wh-?”
Dean shot out his hand and clapped it over Kyle’s mouth. Leaning, he whispered close to his ear, “Stay. Very quiet. And stay here.”
Before Dean let him go he felt a series of violent shivers race up and down the boy’s body. Judging by his large, terror filled eyes, the kid had seen it too - the wendigo that was now walking into the tunnel, just a few yards from where they were. The wendigo that was, for the moment, completely unaware of their presence.
Not yet assured that the kid wouldn’t totally freak out, Dean kept his hand in place and leaned in close to Kyle’s ear. “Hey,” he whispered harshly. The boy looked at him again. “I’m serious. Stay here. Stay quiet. Can you do that for me?”
The abject fear was edged with a kind of trust that Dean hadn’t known in a long while. A trust he was damn sure not going to fail. When the boy nodded vehemently, Dean lowered his hand.
The wendigo was still only a few yards away - far too close for Dean’s liking, given how fast these things moved - body crouched like it was trying to be… sneaky. For a second Dean couldn’t get over how weird a ‘sneaky’ wendigo looked.
The monster reached out and long razor sharp, claw like nails raked the wall, carving shallow groves into the solid rock. The sound made Dean’s side twitched. He knew all too well how that felt - no thankyouverymuch, he did not want a repeat performance of earlier.
Deeming the distance far enough, Dean dropped into his own quiet gait and, after casting one final glace at Kyle to reassure himself the kid stayed put, he followed. Careful to keep his distance, but not far enough to lose sight, he stayed as close to the shadows as he could, nearest the cave wall.
Adrenaline rushed through his body, chasing away the cold. His side still ached abysmally with each step and that damn pressure in his gut was back, though this time with a fiery edge. Dean made a mental note to cut back on those microwave burritos from now on.
Confrontation was imminent and Dean had yet to give any serious thought to the question ‘what next?’ when he came face to face with this damn thing. No need, according to Castiel’s promises, he had the answer; the gift.
Problem was, there’d been no ‘how to’ manual, only Castiel’s cryptic,‘… When in the presence of a supernatural evil, it will smite it completely…’ to guide him. Well, where the hell had the gift been when bits of Dean’s flesh and blood had been dripping off its gnarled claws, he wanted to know?
Before this whole shit-fest had started, but after he’d been unceremoniously plunked down in the middle of nature lover’s Hell - somewhere between ‘you’ve got to save the family’ and ‘why me’ - the horse appeared. Dean, hunter of all things evil and eager to kill his ass, momentarily forgot his own name.
It was with the most sickening display of angel awe, complete with sweeping hand flourishes and the exact words, ‘fine, noble steed’, (which was actually angel code for ‘this animal will fuck your ass five times from Sunday’ and ‘no, we don’t like you anymore, Dean’), indicated that this was to be his transportation to the mine.
Gone was the snarky, ‘you two need to get a room’ and all questions pertaining to specific gift usage had gone south.
Now, here he was, following a monster as it headed toward the cache, toward Kyle’s family. Toward Sam, and while Sam likely had both their flare guns, Dean had… bumpkis - aka, the ambiguous gift - and the wendigo, complete with blinding speed and razor-sharp claws, was bearing down on an unsuspecting prey.
Well, not if Dean Winchester had anything to say about it…
Okay, bumpkis wasn’t much to work with but he could improvise. Maybe if he got close enough, just before it reached the main cavern, he could distract it. Long enough, hopefully, for Sam to shoot it. It’d be risky-
Without warning the pressure in his gut erupted. A wave of intense, razor-like pain shot up and out, from his stomach to his chest. Dean gasped and stumbled. Dirt and rock scattered and rustled, noisily.
Eyes wide, Dean froze. Licking dry lips he looked up; the creature’s back still to him. He watched. Anxiously.
Standing stock still, the wendigo canted his head. Listening. Then its bony shoulders turned, ever so slightly…
“Fuck,” Dean mouthed. Twisting, he slammed his back against the cave wall. Hoping that the darkest shadows swallowed him up.
The wendigo turned sharply. Dean held his breath, hoping he’d been fast enough.
Gaze narrowed in suspicion, body still, its empty eyes moved, searching for the source of the sound. The monster sniffed the air, like it was looking for scent. And waited.
Back pressed to the wall, Dean pushed a hand at his torso. It was like thousands smoldering rivulets coursing through his body. Maybe the ride up, the buffeting he’d received, or maybe the wendigo’s claw had done internal damage…
Whatever it was, Dean was well and truly screwed. The bleeding had slowed from the gash in his side; he was able to control his breathing, keeping the grating sound to a minimum, but this? Sonofabitch…
After what had seemed like an eternity, the wendigo, with an angry grunt, turned and continued toward its original destination. The fading sound of the creature’s snuffles and grunts told Dean as much. He nearly sagged in relief.
Dean out peered cautiously, just to be sure… Edging soundlessly from the darkness he too was on on the move. Following.
The razor-like pain hadn’t stopped. If anything it had increased. Dean attributed the increase to the constant movement - it couldn’t be good for internal injuries and infections. Forearm drawn tight to his side, he rubbed ineffectually, almost unconsciously at the pain.
It was building. Just below his skin. Like red-hot coals blown about, being fanned to life, lifting and scattering in the wind it moved. Spreading like wildfire on kindling. No longer located only in his torso, it seemed to be moving… everywhere. Spreading. Gaining momentum.
Something triggered in Dean’s memory and he almost stopped.
This wasn’t the first time he’d felt this… sensation. Two other times he’d felt this, but circumstances had blotted the memory. Now he remembered; both times the wendigo had been close enough for Dean to feel its foul breathe.
Maybe Castiel's heavenly gift was set off by really bad acid reflux?
The hunter shook his head at the thought, almost smiling. He was sweating again; he brushed at the dampness on his forehead. God the fever was making him loopy.
Almost too late he realized he’d gained too quickly on the wendigo, he began to slow -
The earlier sensations, suddenly lurched and twisted. Swirled, drawing down, and coiling in his gut. Dean stopped. Vision blurred, the room tilted but his legs held, locked at the knees.
Without warning the coil of heat exploded. The force rocked him back a step. Deep inside, the angry, hot needles of pain shot out, splintering, angling out in every direction under his skin.
Shaking, Dean bit his tongue, tasting blood as he fought to silence the curse of pain and surprise.
Then, the hot coil became an enormous surge of heat. It knifed through his insides, the intensity excruciating. The edge quickly spreading. Soon it undulated like waves of molten lave crashing beneath flesh and muscle.
So this was what it was like to have your insides melt… Dean though as he bowed his head against the pain. He clutched at his chest, trying to stave off the panic at what this could possibly mean. That’s when he noticed his hand.
The burning sensation followed his sight and shot up his forearm and pooled. Through watering eyes, Dean stared at it. The center of his palm was glowing! Pulsing. Turning a deep, angry red.
“The hell…?” Dean breathed. It made his skin sizzle and he hissed at the burn.
Then the pressure hit. And fuck! It hurt!
Unable to help himself he grunted. Gray spots blotted his sight and when his legs gave, he dropped to his knees, gasping. The pain was intense and he gritted his teeth so tight he thought they’d shatter. It was all funneling, twisting inside him, like millions of ants racing under his skin and muscle, infusing his organs.
Too much. The sensation was swallowing him, growing, pulsating. Building with each heartbeat. Pounding out a rhythm all its own. A tsunami crushed his resolve and he cried out in pain.
The gift!
“Seriously?” Dean hissed through clenched jaw. The roaring in his ears was new and growing, like a locomotive pounding in his head.
The sound got louder. Dean looked up and locked eyes with the wendigo. It’s mouth open, drool dripped and splattered in the dirt of the cave. Its claws flexed anxiously at its side. The thing let out a shriek so awful Dean felt his skin crawl.
“Ah shit.” Well. So much for stealth and distractions.
-~*~-
PART 6
-~*~-
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
AUTHOR’S NOTES:
I see the end in sight :D It might be this next part, or there might an epilogue. Still mulling that over as I work through the edits from my beta. The next part should post by Friday. If not, Saturday at the latest.
AUTHOR: jackfan2
CATEGORY: Gen
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, Castiel, OC's
WORDS: 4,440
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 is a birthday fic written for one of my beta's, the lovely adrenalineshots, without whom I'd not currently be writing. Without whom I'd not have much sanity left. Because, when someone you know is falling apart and that someone's world is massively connected to yours, it's nice to have an anchor to tie to. Natty's a great anchor. A great friend. Period.
Back to PART 4
-~*~-
THE GIFT: Part 5
-~*~-
“These tracks," Nathaniel said, crouched, fingers ghosting over odd shaped footprints in the dirt floor. “They're deeper. The wendigo's carrying his prey now.” He straightened and looked at Sam, eyes brimming with something akin to excitement.
“What'd you just say?” Sam asked, suspicion narrowing his gaze.
Nathaniel grinned. “We haven't lost their trail, Sam. That's what I'm saying. C'mon!” When he turned to bolt Sam snaked out a hand and caught the Indian by one sleeve, keeping him in place.
“You...” Sam studied his Indian companion's face, sure now that he heard him correctly. “You called it...a wendigo.”
“What -?” Nathaniel seemed prepared to bluff, but thought better of it. His face fell just for a second before impassiveness shut him off. “Does it really matter?” His shoulders were squared, challenging.
“It might." Sam showed his own defiance, but he kept it cool, calm. “How do you know about wendigos Nathaniel? And how long have you known about this particular wendigo?”
The Indian's chin notched up. “You want my help or not?”
Sam did, and he wanted to find Dean, and Nathaniel had proved over the course of their journey that he knew the mines, as he’d said. Before that, though, from the time they’d reached the mine entrance, there’d been something a little… off about the young Indian guide. Something Sam couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Nathaniel, armed with an impeccable sense of direction, facilitated by familiarity with numerous landmarks and signs along the way, pointed out things Sam would’ve thought insignificant. As a result, they’d found evidence of recent human activity in the caves. But, Sam reasoned, what good was knowledge without trust?
That little slip, Sam couldn’t overlook. It was time to learn more about his guide. Revelation, however, often came with a price, so Sam steeled one hand to the small of his back and wrapped his hand carefully around the hilt of his silver knife, hidden safely beneath the waist of his jeans.
“I do want your help, but you see,” Sam gripped the knife hilt tight, tensing; “I just don’t have a lot of trust for people who aren’t straight with me. Like say, a tracker that all of a sudden knows a hell of a lot more about things that go bump in the night than they led others to believe.”
Nathaniel yanked his arm out of Sam’s grasp and walked sideways, never offering the hunter his back. This posture telegraphed plainly that the Indian knew perfectly well what Sam had hidden behind his back.
The Indian guide studied Sam. The coiled set of his broad shoulders, ready to attack with lethal precision, the angry light in his glittering stare. It occurred to Nathaniel then how he might have made a mistake in trying to fool this man.
After only a second’s hesitation, Nathaniel said, “When I was a kid my friends and I found these old mines, played in them every day for nearly three weeks.”
Nathaniel clenched his fists, his eyes far away. He swallowed around a painful memory. “Until our parents found out and put a stop to it. You know, all the 'you'll get hurt' and shit."
Gazing down at his feet, the Indian took a breath before continuing. “So we did what any kid would do.”
“You went anyway.”
“We went anyway,” Nathaniel echoed, his words filled with regret. “Before we could, one of the old tribal elders overheard us planning our secret trip and told us a story that we thought was just to frighten us.”
Sam swallowed. “Did it have anything to do with an Indian turning to cannibalism to survive?”
Nathaniel blinked in surprise. “You - he also told us about men like you.”
“Men like me?” Sam asked curiously. The awe and fear in the gaze Nathaniel leveled at him was making him uncomfortable.
“Yes,” Nathaniel nodded, “hunters of evil and darkness.” The next words were spoken like a retelling a story from his youth. “Even in the old days of men and horses, they walked the wicked land, destroying that which would destroy. Your brother, he is one too? A hunter?”
This was getting really uncomfortable, but Sam nodded anyway. “Yeah, that’s what we do.”
“Man,” Nathaniel huffed and shook his head in disbelief. “I never did believe a damn thing that old geezer told me, guess I should’ve huh?”
Sam shrugged, “Maybe.” Before they got too far off track, and because the topic of what he and Dean did for a living from the perspective of an outsider was just too… weird, Sam redirected. “Nathaniel, what was the story the elder told?”
“You think it’ll help?” There was a look of reluctance in the Indian’s eyes.
“The more I know,” Sam persisted, “the better.”
Nathaniel nodded. “There was this old shaman, a medicine man and in 1863, in the middle of the coldest winter this area’d ever seen, got lost in the mountains. Half starved to death, he happened upon some trappers, mountain men.”
A shiver raced along Nathaniel’s back and his voice took on a distant, ancient tone. “Half crazy but holding to the old Indian faith, he caught one of them off alone, slaughtered him, drank his blood. The blood offered enough strength for him to drag the body off and later that night, he ate the man’s flesh and became immortal.”
“Wendigo.” Sam said in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.
Nathaniel huffed, “A monster. But yeah," he nodded, “that's what the elder called him. Or it."
Sam studied his face. There was so much pain there, so much... loss. There was more to the story and he had a feeling he already knew. “So, what happened next?"
“We were stupid, that's what,” he answered, voice edged with bitterness. “Like most stupid kids, me and my friends, we all thought it was all a load of crap. So, we went ahead with our plans and sneaked back to the mines that night. A little scared but not willing to admit it, we had to prove ourselves both brave and grown up. Inside the mines we split up to explore. Then we heard it.” He stilled. “This… growl. Then there was this... inhuman scream.”
“Crap,” Sam murmured understandingly. A vicious tremble shuddered through the younger man’s body, visible, laden with fear and guilt. He knew those emotions like he knew his own childhood fears, his and Dean's.
“Then there was more screaming, this time, all of it human.”
“I'm sorry.” And he was. It was not a flippant declaration on Sam’s part. No child should be subjected to such evil.
“I saw it.” The flat declaration brought Sam's head up quickly.
Nathaniel met Sam's gaze. “We went to help our friends and I was the first one to arrive and - I’ll never forget what I saw. Or - thought I saw. I mean it was there one second and gone the next. So fast.” The guide’s voice held equal measures fear and awe. “Eight of us went in that night, only four of us left.”
“You ever come back before tonight?”
Nathaniel shook his head. “I'm a coward."
Sam thought for a moment. “Tell me something." He rummaged around in his coat pocket. "That tribal elder ever tell you how to kill a wendigo?"
“No. I was too scared to face him again and he died a week after the deaths.” He looked at Sam now, his eyes filled with determination and rage. “But now, if need be, I’ll rip that thing apart with my bare hands.”
Not for the first time, Nathaniel fingered the amulet around his neck and Sam finally asked, “What's that?”
Nathaniel looked down in surprise, like he hadn’t realized what he was doing and dropped his hand. Pressing, Sam added, “Looks like some sort of totem.”
The Indian nodded. “Afterward, when no one would believe an eleven year old kid, and when the nightmares kept me awake for months, my grandfather gave me this amulet for protection.”
“Nathaniel,” Sam said, waiting until the young man's wild eyes were fixed on his. It was time to give this young man some peace. “You’re not a coward. If you’d tried to go in after that wendigo without an inkling of how to kill it? The only thing you'd have achieved would’ve been a quick and fairly messy death.”
“But the wendigo killed my friends and now others...” A muscle jumped in the Native American’s jaw. “I tried to find out how to kill it, you know. Couldn’t find anything. But I never should’ve allowed it to live for this long. I should’ve tried-”
“Tried what? The bare hands thing again? A shot gun?” Sam shook his head sympathetically because he understood the need for revenge all too well. “You would’ve failed and wouldn’t have changed anything.”
Nathaniel looked long and hard at Sam and came to a conclusion. “You know how to kill it.” It wasn’t a question.
“I know what will kill it,” Sam echoed. He rummaged in his coat pocket and pulled out their spare flare gun. Handing it to Nathaniel.
Brow arched in surprise, the Indian stared at the proffered weapon. “A flare gun?”
“Bare hands, guns, knives, they won’t do the job, but that will. Guaranteed.” Sam turned and pointed the beam of his flashlight into the darkness. “Fire’s the only way to kill it and it mimics voices perfectly, so be on your guard.”
Dean couldn't say for sure how long they'd been walking, but he could say with utter certainty that he was ready for them to stop moving. In his condition, he was well aware that while it felt like miles to him, it was probably, in reality, only a few yards.
His reality, he decided, sucked ass. Totally.
Kyle and he made a good team. When Dean's vision faded in and out of focus, he'd talk to Kyle, tell him what he was looking for on the ground around them. Scared shitless, the kid kept his feedback brief and only stated exactly what Dean asked for.
"There's lots of dirt inside the footprint, yes."
"Dammit."
"Why? What's that mean?"
"Means the print's more than a few hours old. Means the wendigo hasn't been down this way in a good while."
"Mean's we're going the wrong way?"
"Probably." Dean nodded, looking around. At the sight of Kyle's crestfallen face, he felt his gut twist but he refused to add to the boys' sense of defeat, or to allow the boy to believe there was no hope. "Hey, we only just started. Don't get all down in the mouth on me now."
"I know, but.... it took us so long just to get this far."
"Dude, why didn't you say something then?" Oh geez, he was so going to regret this. "Let’s pick up the pace. C'mon." Dean was angling his body to head back the way they'd come, but as he turned the cave turned faster, and flipped... and lunged. He threw a hand out to catch one wall and closed his eyes.
"You're a sucky liar."
Head bowed, Dean husked, "cut me some slack, kid." After a moment, when the room no longer danced he gave Kyle’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze and righted himself once more. "This isn't shaping up to be one of my better days."
Dean's lungs grated and rattled into the silence, but he managed to get a better pace this time. Though, breathing was getting harder - he attributed that to the faster pace.
"What's a..." Kyle started hesitantly, "wendigo? Is it human?"
Dean eyed him a second, not at all sure he wanted to be the one to give names to the boy’s future nightmares. Still, he had the right to know. "Far from it now, but at one time it probably was."
Dean kept the flashlight trained on the ground and the two ate up the ground, or at least it felt like that. Any other day he’d leave some nine year old kid trailing far behind but today, he found Kyle easily matching his speed. Dammit.
When the flashlight caught on something shiny Dean stopped short. “Huh…” He squinted, looking at the object. Fully intent on kneeling down to get a better look, he noticed Kyle out of his periphery moving past him.
The boy examined the folded leather, opening up to the contents. It was a wallet. “It’s my dad’s.” His head was dipped down and Dean didn’t realize he was crying until a tear slapped against the driver’s license.
“Hey.” Dean moved painfully to stand next to the boy. “This is actually a good thing.” Shining the flashlight further into the tunnel, gazing at the prints. “Means we’re going the right way.”
It was then Dean heard it. A sound. Something other than the damn sawing of his lungs. Squinting, Dean moved ahead further. The sounds got closer as he moved.
Kyle heard it too. “What-?”
“Shhhh…” Dean held up a hand. He cut his eyes left. “You hear that?” When Kyle nodded silently, he added, “Yeah, me too.”
Until they knew who or what that was, Dean chose to err on the side of caution and covered the end of the flashlight, minimizing the intensity of the ray. The sound seemed to be coming from the direction he and Kyle had been heading so he turned and made his way slowly back.
It was a particularly dark part of the cave, bordering on pitch black, so rather than risk running into a wall or a wendigo, he uncovered just enough of the beam to illuminate the ground. Sure enough, the wendigo’s footprints coincided with the direction of the sounds, which, as they drew closer, were more and more… human.
“Sounds like…” Kyle’s voice trembled in the dark.
Dean stopped and turned toward the boy. “Listen to me. Wendigo’s know how to imitate human voices. Perfectly. You got it?”
“I know.” Kyle’s brow scrunched and his breathing increased speed, like he was trying very hard to control himself. “I was behind a rock when it was trying to lure me out, it didn’t know I saw it. Sounded like m-my mo-mom.”
The hitch in the boy’s voice left Dean hollowed, but it wasn’t time to give into the sympathy so instead, he gave a curt nod. “Ok. So you know to just play it cool ‘til we know what’s what. Right?”
Dean didn’t wait this time to see the look of acceptance. After the hell Kyle’d been through, surviving despite it all, he knew. Turning back toward the sounds, he began moving once more. The cave seemed to bend and fork up ahead. Stopping at the juncture he listened.
A voice called from the right tunnel, far ahead: “…ase help us!”
“That’s my mom’s voice,” Kyle sniffed, passing a sleeve under his nose.
Dean glanced down at Kyle. He stared down the passage way, eyes filling with unshed tears. Gently he pressed a trembling hand against the boy’s chest and pushed him behind his legs. “Stay behind me Kyle, just in case.”
They drew further in and this time they heard more voices. Anxious. Relieved. Worried. One, however sounded… familiar. Sam.
Dean drew to a stop and grinned. “’Bout friggin' time,” he murmured and turned to Kyle. “That’s my brother, Kyle, and I think he might’ve found your family.”
“But … but how can you be sure? You said-”
“They can only mimic one voice at a time. That’s way too many up ahead.” Dean opened the beam up on the flashlight and pointed toward the bend in the cave ahead. “Still, gotta watch our back though. C’mon.”
Dean motioned Kyle ahead and they both moved off again, faster now. The closer they got, the more real the words became, more distinguishable. Dean counted at least three separate voices. One was definitely Sam’s and it was all he could do not to call out to him.
They were nearly at the opening to the cavern where the voices were echoing in hushed tones. Lights danced about inside where the wendigo had obviously been keeping Kyle’s family. Sam was probably right now cutting them down-
“Shit,” Dean winced, pressing a hand to his chest.
“What?” Kyle looked at him worriedly.
Dean shook his head, “Just… god, the worst heartburn I’ve ever had.” And yet it was unlike any heartburn he’d ever had. This was a pressure, building deep in his chest until it suddenly started to course through his body. Everything tingled and burned at the same time.
Something dropped from the ceiling. Dean skittered to a halt, at the same time throwing out a protective hand, making sure Kyle was well behind him.
The bulk took shape, knobby knees nearly pencil thin, long arms with tapered fingers hosting razor-like claws, flexing and unfurling, eager for its prey. The wendigo. It wasn’t headed for them, though - it was crawling away from them, in the direction they were going.
The cache. Kyle’s family. Sam. “Dammit.”
Dean quickly grabbed Kyle and pressed the boy back against the cave wall, one finger on his mouth, whispering a quiet, “Ssshhhh…” When Kyle nodded his understanding, Dean looked back to make sure it hadn’t heard them, it was still moving toward the voices.
“Wh-?”
Dean shot out his hand and clapped it over Kyle’s mouth. Leaning, he whispered close to his ear, “Stay. Very quiet. And stay here.”
Before Dean let him go he felt a series of violent shivers race up and down the boy’s body. Judging by his large, terror filled eyes, the kid had seen it too - the wendigo that was now walking into the tunnel, just a few yards from where they were. The wendigo that was, for the moment, completely unaware of their presence.
Not yet assured that the kid wouldn’t totally freak out, Dean kept his hand in place and leaned in close to Kyle’s ear. “Hey,” he whispered harshly. The boy looked at him again. “I’m serious. Stay here. Stay quiet. Can you do that for me?”
The abject fear was edged with a kind of trust that Dean hadn’t known in a long while. A trust he was damn sure not going to fail. When the boy nodded vehemently, Dean lowered his hand.
The wendigo was still only a few yards away - far too close for Dean’s liking, given how fast these things moved - body crouched like it was trying to be… sneaky. For a second Dean couldn’t get over how weird a ‘sneaky’ wendigo looked.
The monster reached out and long razor sharp, claw like nails raked the wall, carving shallow groves into the solid rock. The sound made Dean’s side twitched. He knew all too well how that felt - no thankyouverymuch, he did not want a repeat performance of earlier.
Deeming the distance far enough, Dean dropped into his own quiet gait and, after casting one final glace at Kyle to reassure himself the kid stayed put, he followed. Careful to keep his distance, but not far enough to lose sight, he stayed as close to the shadows as he could, nearest the cave wall.
Adrenaline rushed through his body, chasing away the cold. His side still ached abysmally with each step and that damn pressure in his gut was back, though this time with a fiery edge. Dean made a mental note to cut back on those microwave burritos from now on.
Confrontation was imminent and Dean had yet to give any serious thought to the question ‘what next?’ when he came face to face with this damn thing. No need, according to Castiel’s promises, he had the answer; the gift.
Problem was, there’d been no ‘how to’ manual, only Castiel’s cryptic,‘… When in the presence of a supernatural evil, it will smite it completely…’ to guide him. Well, where the hell had the gift been when bits of Dean’s flesh and blood had been dripping off its gnarled claws, he wanted to know?
Before this whole shit-fest had started, but after he’d been unceremoniously plunked down in the middle of nature lover’s Hell - somewhere between ‘you’ve got to save the family’ and ‘why me’ - the horse appeared. Dean, hunter of all things evil and eager to kill his ass, momentarily forgot his own name.
It was with the most sickening display of angel awe, complete with sweeping hand flourishes and the exact words, ‘fine, noble steed’, (which was actually angel code for ‘this animal will fuck your ass five times from Sunday’ and ‘no, we don’t like you anymore, Dean’), indicated that this was to be his transportation to the mine.
Gone was the snarky, ‘you two need to get a room’ and all questions pertaining to specific gift usage had gone south.
Now, here he was, following a monster as it headed toward the cache, toward Kyle’s family. Toward Sam, and while Sam likely had both their flare guns, Dean had… bumpkis - aka, the ambiguous gift - and the wendigo, complete with blinding speed and razor-sharp claws, was bearing down on an unsuspecting prey.
Well, not if Dean Winchester had anything to say about it…
Okay, bumpkis wasn’t much to work with but he could improvise. Maybe if he got close enough, just before it reached the main cavern, he could distract it. Long enough, hopefully, for Sam to shoot it. It’d be risky-
Without warning the pressure in his gut erupted. A wave of intense, razor-like pain shot up and out, from his stomach to his chest. Dean gasped and stumbled. Dirt and rock scattered and rustled, noisily.
Eyes wide, Dean froze. Licking dry lips he looked up; the creature’s back still to him. He watched. Anxiously.
Standing stock still, the wendigo canted his head. Listening. Then its bony shoulders turned, ever so slightly…
“Fuck,” Dean mouthed. Twisting, he slammed his back against the cave wall. Hoping that the darkest shadows swallowed him up.
The wendigo turned sharply. Dean held his breath, hoping he’d been fast enough.
Gaze narrowed in suspicion, body still, its empty eyes moved, searching for the source of the sound. The monster sniffed the air, like it was looking for scent. And waited.
Back pressed to the wall, Dean pushed a hand at his torso. It was like thousands smoldering rivulets coursing through his body. Maybe the ride up, the buffeting he’d received, or maybe the wendigo’s claw had done internal damage…
Whatever it was, Dean was well and truly screwed. The bleeding had slowed from the gash in his side; he was able to control his breathing, keeping the grating sound to a minimum, but this? Sonofabitch…
After what had seemed like an eternity, the wendigo, with an angry grunt, turned and continued toward its original destination. The fading sound of the creature’s snuffles and grunts told Dean as much. He nearly sagged in relief.
Dean out peered cautiously, just to be sure… Edging soundlessly from the darkness he too was on on the move. Following.
The razor-like pain hadn’t stopped. If anything it had increased. Dean attributed the increase to the constant movement - it couldn’t be good for internal injuries and infections. Forearm drawn tight to his side, he rubbed ineffectually, almost unconsciously at the pain.
It was building. Just below his skin. Like red-hot coals blown about, being fanned to life, lifting and scattering in the wind it moved. Spreading like wildfire on kindling. No longer located only in his torso, it seemed to be moving… everywhere. Spreading. Gaining momentum.
Something triggered in Dean’s memory and he almost stopped.
This wasn’t the first time he’d felt this… sensation. Two other times he’d felt this, but circumstances had blotted the memory. Now he remembered; both times the wendigo had been close enough for Dean to feel its foul breathe.
Maybe Castiel's heavenly gift was set off by really bad acid reflux?
The hunter shook his head at the thought, almost smiling. He was sweating again; he brushed at the dampness on his forehead. God the fever was making him loopy.
Almost too late he realized he’d gained too quickly on the wendigo, he began to slow -
The earlier sensations, suddenly lurched and twisted. Swirled, drawing down, and coiling in his gut. Dean stopped. Vision blurred, the room tilted but his legs held, locked at the knees.
Without warning the coil of heat exploded. The force rocked him back a step. Deep inside, the angry, hot needles of pain shot out, splintering, angling out in every direction under his skin.
Shaking, Dean bit his tongue, tasting blood as he fought to silence the curse of pain and surprise.
Then, the hot coil became an enormous surge of heat. It knifed through his insides, the intensity excruciating. The edge quickly spreading. Soon it undulated like waves of molten lave crashing beneath flesh and muscle.
So this was what it was like to have your insides melt… Dean though as he bowed his head against the pain. He clutched at his chest, trying to stave off the panic at what this could possibly mean. That’s when he noticed his hand.
The burning sensation followed his sight and shot up his forearm and pooled. Through watering eyes, Dean stared at it. The center of his palm was glowing! Pulsing. Turning a deep, angry red.
“The hell…?” Dean breathed. It made his skin sizzle and he hissed at the burn.
Then the pressure hit. And fuck! It hurt!
Unable to help himself he grunted. Gray spots blotted his sight and when his legs gave, he dropped to his knees, gasping. The pain was intense and he gritted his teeth so tight he thought they’d shatter. It was all funneling, twisting inside him, like millions of ants racing under his skin and muscle, infusing his organs.
Too much. The sensation was swallowing him, growing, pulsating. Building with each heartbeat. Pounding out a rhythm all its own. A tsunami crushed his resolve and he cried out in pain.
The gift!
“Seriously?” Dean hissed through clenched jaw. The roaring in his ears was new and growing, like a locomotive pounding in his head.
The sound got louder. Dean looked up and locked eyes with the wendigo. It’s mouth open, drool dripped and splattered in the dirt of the cave. Its claws flexed anxiously at its side. The thing let out a shriek so awful Dean felt his skin crawl.
“Ah shit.” Well. So much for stealth and distractions.
-~*~-
PART 6
-~*~-
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
AUTHOR’S NOTES:
I see the end in sight :D It might be this next part, or there might an epilogue. Still mulling that over as I work through the edits from my beta. The next part should post by Friday. If not, Saturday at the latest.