AN: The first in the series "17." This series will include several stories of Dean's life at 17, sometimes with John, Bobby, Sam or alone. Some will be dark, others light, other just action/adventure. Some stories will be more than one chapter, others will be like oneshots, like this one! Hope you enjoy!

Lost

Dean dropped more wood onto the fire and the sparks shot up into the night sky. He rubbed his hands together even though they were protected in thick wool mittens—it was freezing. The smoke twisted in a thin dark trail above the flames and became lost in the brilliant sea of stars that mapped the heavens above.

"What the hell good are you anyhow!" He suddenly let out his raw frustration on the night sky. "How am I suppose to get the Hell out of here?!"

He was lost. It was the one thing his father had said to him on their way in. No matter what, don't get lost. Four hundred acres of dense, unmarked forest in the dead of winter—getting lost was as dangerous as finding the thing they were hunting.

Now Dean faced both. He was totally alone and that thing, as far as he knew, was still out there.

The reason he wasn't sure was the same reason he was lost. He'd climbed a tree on his father's instruction, to check what the scrap of fabric was they'd seen floating in the leaves a few feet up. Before he'd ever gotten that far, however, claws were in his backpack and he was falling five feet from tree into the rock hard ground. If that wasn't enough, they had landed on the edge of a bank and the creature had of course made sure they went over. Somewhere in the painful process of crashing down the rock and root strewn frozen ground, the monster had been dislodged and all Dean could guess was it had crawled off somewhere else. He, meanwhile, had continued his descent until he was well and truly lost. He'd been dizzy and disoriented when he'd finally stopped and that was probably how he'd managed to lose all concept of where they'd come from. Then night had fallen, he'd passed out against a tree when a concussion finally caught up with him and when he woke up it was snowing.

It had not been a very good birthday.

At least he'd made it to seventeen, he thought. Since becoming a hunter he did have a significantly reduced life expectancy but he'd at least like to make it to legal drinking age. And he definitely didn't want to go out frozen in the middle of no where.

He hadn't even gotten laid yet.

"First thing on my to do list when I get out of here." He muttered and stoked his fire that looked dangerously close to going out. It had taken him half the night to make it and he needed its heat. He felt his eyes sagging but shook himself. He needed to keep his guard up, who knew when he might be attacked again or his father might call for him. He took a clump of snow and held it up to his head and the source of his concussion and head ache. After, he scooped some into his bottle and kept it close enough to the flames to melt. It was refreshing and helped him stay alert.

Something snapped in the trees. His eyes returned to the phantom landscape surrounding him. He felt like he was in a cage, walls of darkness trapping him like a moth to flame. Slender tree trunks ringed him like iron bars, and here and there dappled shadows on the snow seemed to shift and move and he couldn't trust his own eyes to tell him what was real and what wasn't.

It was the closest he'd felt to fear in a very long time.

"Come on Dean snap out of it, you ain't afraid of the dark."

There was more snapping and he heard the crunch of snow. "On the other hand you have every reason to be afraid of the dark because you know what's in it!" He stood and crouched, pulling out his hunting knife. Unfortunately his gun had fallen from him in his descent and he was left with this as his only defence.

"Come on, where are you?"
At his shout he heard thundering feet. He saw the shadow of two or three creatures gallop through the twisting trees and out of his range of sight.

"Deer...great Dean you're shouting at bambi now."

He sighed and sat back on the log he'd built his camp around. It was easier than finding something else to sit on and drag it to his fire. The log was actually very big and wide and he was hoping to be able to sleep on it if it came down to it. He had no sleeping bag and his best plan was to keep himself out of the snow. He didn't know much about winter survival skills in the woods but he guessed not getting damp and chilled was probably a good start.

He pulled his hat down tighter. A steady wind had started, threatening his fire even more, but worse, whistling through the trees in a such a way he could no longer listen for approaching danger. He wanted to pull his hood up but it cut off too much of his vision and sound.

"Dammit." He swore and rubbed his hands together more. He had a heavy coat but only jeans to protect his legs and he the denim was stiff where it had gotten wet in his violent descent down the hill.

It was going to be a long night.

Dean woke to a spray of snow and the hiss of his fire going out. He blinked in the sudden darkness and sat sharply, drawing his knife from his side.

"Bastard." He was already cursing when he came to his feet but another sharp spray of snow told him he was cursing at nothing but the wind—that wind however was burning his skin and making him blink furiously. "Shit." He had no choice to pull his hood up now. His held his mittens up to his face but felt nothing. "Crap." He cursed again and rubbed his cheeks, still feeling nothing. It took several second of furious rubbing to get feeling back and when he did his skin burned and hurt. He forced himself to move around and get the blood flowing. It was pitch black now, the moon covered by clouds and he thought it was snowing again though it was possible that the wind was simply blowing the sharp crystals from the ground. Another gust had him cover his eyes almost completely. In the dark snowstorm he couldn't tell where he was, his ankle connected with the log he'd fallen asleep against and he ended up sprawled in the snow.

"Ugh." The log was his only point of reference and his best shelter. He rolled against it and found relief from the wind but now he was pressed into the cold snow covering the ground.

He didn't know what to do. He hadn't felt so alone in a long time, laying there as good as blind and deaf in the dark. His head still throbbed from the blow he'd taken in his fall. He felt the cold spreading through him but it was a slower, less painful cold than the stinging, driving snow. He didn't know enough about such conditions to know what he should do.

He was screwed.

The dawn grew grey in the sky, but it barely made a difference below the curtain of evergreens, now coated in a thick snow. The temperature must have risen, because now rather than crisp, powdery snow, he found his foot sinking into a layer of crusted, gummy snow that drug his every step and slowed him. Here and there through the forest, great clouds of smokey snow suddenly bloomed as it slipped from its purchase in the branches and fell down to the forest. Dean couldn't imagine how much snow had actually fallen in order to penetrate the density of the trees. He stopped for a breather. He'd started walking as soon as he could see further than his hand. He'd laid in the shelter of the log for over two hours, knowing if he fell asleep it could very well be the end of him. It had taken most of his will power to force his frozen limbs into moving again. His legs were the stiffest part of him, but everything hurt and he felt all the bruises from rolling down the hill.

He dropped his bag onto the ground and slipped his hand from his mitten to retrieve his water bottle. He didn't hesitate between tasks and quickly got his hand covered again, sucking back water for dear life. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was until he started drinking. He considered rationing his food but then figured it would do him no good to slowly grow weaker until he was easy prey for the creature, so he ate a full protein bar as his breakfast, leaving him two more. He sincerely hoped he was out of this forest by night fall.

He moved forward again, doing his best to continue in a straight line. He planned to find his father, but if he didn't, he'd need to get out of this place, so as long as he kept moving in the same direction, he should come out the other side.

Or at least he hoped it worked that way.

He scraped his knife into a few trees, in case his father found it or something happened and he got turned around. He wanted to call out to John, but he also didn't want to draw the creature towards himself. The morning slid by slowly as he made no progress on any front other than moving forward. He found it slow going however, between the rough terrain and clumping snow. He felt exhausted by noon, but didn't slow down in case he couldn't get going again.

He only stopped when he perceived that he was being followed.

It was in the trees. He never looked but he could tell it was more than just the breeze shaking snow from the upper branches. He heard it skitter from tree to tree, breaking branches and sending pine needles to earth. This gave him pause—he and his father had been banking on it being a wendigo, but such creatures were experts in the hunt. They moved with agility that would hardly shake a leaf and speed so fast a humans should stand no chance.

So why was this one giving away his position so easily? Was it a trap?

He kept moving, not sure what else to do. He pulled his mitten from his hand and gripped his blade inside his pocket, ready to strike as soon as necessary.

It took an hour for it to work its way close enough to attack. By that point Dean was so on edge he was wound as tightly as a coil. He felt it jumping between trees right above him, he heard its claws against the bark.

He turned and met the force that vaulted on him. He had no chance of staying upright but he rolled with the attack and brought his blade down on the grey skinned creature. There was a wailing shriek of pain but the blade came away and Dean knew he hadn't done enough damage. Then it was his turn and his whole face turned to fire on one side. He tasted blood at once and in seconds his left eye was blocked by a slew. It had raked him clean across the face. Both let go of the other and they tumbled separately in the snow. Dean spun up and raised his blade but the creature didn't attack immediately. He saw its hand against its side from the wound he'd just inflicted but he also noted its limp. So that explained why it was so hesitant to attack and so noisy—it must have been injured when they'd fallen.

Dean took a menacing step forward. It skittered back again. Dean waited, watching, knowing that few people had ever seen a living wendigo this clearly, even if he could only see it with one eye. It looked more human than he expected, and its body was almost emaciated. He wasn't sure that was normal. But its eyes were dark and its teeth canine sharp, there was no mistaking this was a creature of the supernatural kind.

"Let's finish this." He made his move, hoping it was too hurt to fight back. He was wrong. It jumped onto the tree behind it and used the trunk to push off and launch itself with more force at Dean. They hit the ground again, Dean landing on his back and it took everything he had to keep the creature from his neck. He brought up a knee but it had gotten a grip on his wrists and he couldn't dislodge it.

"Get off!" He slid his hand free of one mitten and also free of the creature, though at a cost. Hot lines burned down his wrist and hand from its claws but he formed a fist and drove it into the wound in the wendigo's side.

It screamed again and rolled off but a flailing kick caught him in the chest and winded him. Dean gagged on the emptiness in his lungs for a second and knew he was probably dead, but then he heard the breaking branches and realized the creature had fled—for now. He lay gasping for several seconds before finding the strength to get up. The brief frenzy had drained him after half a day of walking and he took a long time to catch his breath and get moving again. His minimal medical supplies were just enough to staunch the blood on his wrist and face. He hoped the jagged cuts on his cheek wouldn't scar. He knew he was in trouble when he went to put his hand in his mitten and it barely squeezed in—it was terribly swollen.

"Crap," he muttered, slugging back more water before continuing on. He didn't stop until darkness began to creep in on the forest once more. Despair washed through him. He couldn't believe he hadn't come to any sort of landmark yet. And where was his father? If he was tracking the wendigo and the wendigo was tracking Dean then shouldn't he be able to find them? Unless the creature had already gotten to him. But that thought didn't stick in Dean's mind for very long, because if he was still alive, then there was no way his father would have been taken down by that beast.

He gave up walking when he darkness really began to settle in around him. Then he worked fast with his one and a half hands to get a fire going before dark. wendigos did not like fire. It was his best chance at surviving the night. Fortunately he had a lighter to get him going and soon he had a sizable pit of flames to keep the creature at bay. Then he began work. There would no sleep tonight, knowing he was being hunted, and after their encounter today, Dean knew he needed something more to defend himself. So he pulled out his knife and thought of a classic Schwartzenager film as he began carving pointed spears.

"Come at me you freak!" Dean challenged the night. He'd been working for six hours, creating stake after stake. He had them all around his fire pit and several right next to him, point in the earth and handle up so he could grab them in seconds. He had used one of the straps of his back pack to tie the knife to his swollen hand that could no longer grip the weapon. Now he rotated on the spot, following the sound of the beast in the trees above. Night time was its strongest time, but it hated fire. As long as he stayed close to the flames he should be alright, but if it somehow manage to drive him into the dark he'd be blind and he'd be dead in seconds.

"COME ON ALREADY!"

His shout echoed off the trees, then there was a shriek in response. Dean crouched, at the ready.

Then everything went dark.

It was smart, and it had outsmarted him. His fire was doused in an instant under the great lump of snow that fell from high above. Then Dean heard the rush of air and knew it was almost on him.

His first spear was whacked away but his left hand came up fast and the blade cut into the hand that reached to maim or strangle him. He grabbed the next closest spear and swung it around himself, hoping to connect with flesh. He succeeded but only the blunt round edge hit the beast doing him no harm. It quickly pulled back on the spear to unbalance Dean. The teen let go and dropped low, and only by chance missed the next strike.

"Ha ha!" He laughed in the rush of adrenaline and the pulse of panic that mixed inside him. "I ain't going down that easy." He grabbed another weapon and held it closer to his body this time. He had just a slice of moonlight that filtered through the fir and spruce, just enough to gleam off grey flesh and hollow eyes and show him the enemy.

"Maybe you should run away," he challenged, though he'd rather end this now. "Do you even understand what I'm saying?"

He got a hiss in response and it pounced on him. He tried to skewer it, but it moved too quickly and a hand or foot got him in the gut—no claws but enough to send him to his knees. Another blow had him see sparks and his face connected with the cold ground. Everything was moving slowly now. He heard the creature make a low noise, almost like a chuckle of triumph.

It lunged. Dean rolled over and drove his knife straight up.

Hot blood washed over his inflamed hand. He didn't want to think about the fact its blood was getting into his own wounds. He could smell its decaying odour, feel its rank breath. He almost gagged, but it still wriggled and writhed against him and he knew it wasn't over. It shoved against him and fell free. Blood gushed from its chest. He saw the gaping wound that should have killed it on the spot, but still it stood and staggered away. wendigos couldn't be killed so easily, it took fire to end them, but unfortunately his had been doused.

He sat up and watched it roll in pain. It seemed to consider him for a moment, then it got a grip on a tree and he knew it was retreating for now.

He watched it for as long as possible, then he felt the weight of his exhaustion mingle with the new blow to his head.

He passed out.

"Dad!" There was no point trying to hide his presence. The wendigo was tracking him and he knew it. "DAD!" He was going hoarse and using up too much energy and water. He gave it a break, his head pounding even worse than when he'd first woken.

"Oh crap." He grabbed a tree and waited for the nausea to pass. He couldn't take anymore hits to the head. He straightened, using his spear as a walking stick. He had two other wedged between his back and his pack but he'd had to abandon the others. He was desperate to find the other side of the woods, back to civilization where there was indoor plumbing and cheese burgers.

To make matters worse his eye had swollen shut. Just like his hand his face was puffed up from the first attack and he could only hope the infection wouldn't spread to the rest of his system and make him sick on top of everything else.

When he heard a distant roar, he picked up his pace, sure it had to be a sign of life. But as he got closer, he felt his heart sink in terrible dread.

It was a river. It was the river: the one landmark that had cut through the map his father had shown him—right through the middle of the forest.

His knees gave. He'd thought he was moving away from it, back toward a main road. But all this time he'd only succeeded in getting deeper into the forest, more lost, more alone.

He just remained as he was, facing the rushing wash of yellow spray and white foam, a churning beast that would eat him alive if he dared try to cross it.

"Dammit!" He cursed his misfortune, his stupidity and the very land itself for daring to be formed this way. He forced himself to breathe and remain calm. This meant one good thing: now he had a guide. He could at least start moving up or down the river and be certain to make his way out of the forest that way. But he had no idea which end of the forest he was closest to. Maybe he was within an hour's walk of the road if he went up river, or maybe he was three days away. He had no idea how to choose which direction to go.

So he stopped moving. He gave up on his plans to stumbled out this place by chance.

He had to make a stand, and here was as good a place as any.

"Alright you asshole." He drove his spear into the ground and got back to his feet. "We end this today. One of us is going down before tomorrow.

He waited. He heard the now familiar hiss. He smiled.

It came at dusk. Dean had heard it skittering around the trees at the river's edge for hours. It was trying to psych him out, to make him mess up, or maybe wait for him to get in range of the trees where it could more easily pounce on him. But he held firm at the edge of the water. There was a rocky shore, the air was open, the trees were about ten feet back giving him plenty of room to see it coming.

He had a fire but it was dwindling. He knew that the creature was likely waiting for it to go out. He couldn't go back into the woods to get more fuel, so it hovered in wait. He was banking on that however. It gave him a time limit and he knew just when the wendigo would strike. His plan was set. He held out a stake, but he had another one wedged between two rocks, on which his mitten was perched soaked in his lighter fluid. In his pocket, he had the lighter itself, just enough juice left to make a spark.

It all had to be done perfectly.

The flames flickered in their last life. Dean crouched low and took his stance. His knife was still held in place around his other hand. He watched the bank with his one working eye.

It came.

It was as much of a wreck as he was, and Dean thought he saw in its eyes a look similar to his own—as if the creature knew as much as Dean how evenly they were matched, how this was their final battle. It was more than survival at stake—it was his pride as a hunter and a human. The creature came closer, sharp features caught in the moonlight, and he thought he saw it smile.

His stake snapped at once and he barely avoided being stabbed with his own weapon when the wendigo threw it back at him. He heard a hollow plop in the rushing waters and knew the spear had been consumed. He thought he was safe enough from being thrown in—the creature would lose its meal to the river—although another part of Dean warned him it might just be satisfied with killing him now.

They danced at the edge of danger, much like boxers in a ring, bobbing and weaving in anticipation of each other's moves. Dean caught a glancing blow to his jaw but rolled with it and came up sharply with his knife. It tore through the wendigo's palm. It didn't even react, hurtling itself forward again. Dean felt his jacket rip open and a sudden wash of cold struck his chest—it had torn through his coat and his shirt.

"Crap." He suddenly found his one protection from the cold hanging lose and in his way. He dodged another swipe but when he came up to defend himself the beast caught the knife and twisted it out of its binding.

"Crap!" He was very quickly losing the battle. When his wrist was caught he slid his hand back through his sleeve and the true chill of the night hit his entire upper body. Without his coat, however, he was more loose and limber and so even though he was now weaponless and nearly naked against the cold he managed to hold his own, ducking under another strike and even landing a kick. But he had to end it. If he took another hit now, without that fleece padding, it could be fatal. He worked his way back around to the spear and slid his good hand into his pocket.

It was all about timing.

He flicked his lighter over his mitten at the tip of the spear and the lighter fluid he'd doused on it caught on fire at once. The wendigo reacted to the sudden flame, but Dean didn't slow for an instant. He pulled his stake from the rocks and aimed straight for the creature's heart.

He missed. His own momentum carried him forward, right to the slippery rocky edge of the shore. It hissed in triumph, in feral glee.

Dean turned around just as it jumped on him.

The stake drove into it, the fire burning deep into its chest.

And then they hit the water.

For an instant, Dean wondered if the creature would still continue to burn up or if the water would stop it. Then he realized it probably didn't matter because there was no chance he was going to survive this.

Fast waters pulled him under and it took everything he had to break the surface again. When he did the air he managed to gasp in was instantly driven from his lungs again when he collided with a rock and then he was underwater again.

He got fleeting impressions of the moon, the stars and then nothing but frothy, icy water as he was hurled along the churning speedway.

Then it stopped. He came to a standstill in the water, his flannel shirt pulling tight at his neck.

"Dean!" Hands reached under the surface to haul him the rest of the way out. He vaguely noticed the river was calmer here then he felt the broken rocks of the shore under his hands. He collapsed when he was let go, choking violently, but he was given no reprieve.

"DEAN!" The slap snapped his vision back to clarity, it stung against frozen flesh. "If you don't get out of those clothes you'll die!"

"Dad..."

"NOW DEAN!" His shirt was easily ripped from him, it had been torn up in both the fight and the river. He couldn't believe how cold the air was on his wet skin but then something heavy and dry fell over him. His father's coat was warm from body heat and Dean instinctively drew it nearer while his father fought with his boots as the laces froze.

In under two minutes Dean was fully dressed in dry clothes, some his father had undressed to give him and others had been extra in the back pack. John frantically ran a cloth over Dean's head trying to get out as much of the water as possible while his son shivered and rubbed his hands up and down his body.

"Keep moving." John instructed when he saw Dean's hands slowing.

"I'm so tired."

"DEAN!" He shoved a hat over his ears and got his arms under him. "Get up!"

Dean didn't. He was hauled up. Once up, he managed to step forward with his father's arm around him. He stopped abruptly, however, when he saw the grey, still form on the shore ahead of them.

"It washed up just before you," John said.

"Is it dead?"

"Yeah. You're first wendigo kill. If you hadn't gotten so lost and damn near killed yourself, I'd congratulate you."

Dean said nothing, studying the form—the first thing he'd really hunted and killed on his own. "It was young, wasn't it?"

"For a wendigo, yes. Probably only turned last year or so, I don't think it ever reached full strength."

"Hence why I'm still breathing."

"I would say."

This was humbling. Dean gave it a last look then continued forward. "How did you find me?"

"I've been tracking you, lost you a few times when it snowed though, don't have Bobby's skill. I saw the smoke from your fire and was headed upriver when you washed down it.

"Good timing."

"Would have been better if I'd gotten to you before you fell in the river."

"Yeah. How much father until we're out?"

"Couple hours."

"What? That close?"

"Yup, but no where near the car, we'll have to hitch a ride, if anyone's crazy enough to pick us up."

They walked on steady. It took longer than two hours with Dean's wounds from the fight and the river. A man with a thick accent and even thicker beard let them in the back of his pickup. They found the Impala where they'd left her, tucked in an old woods road. Dean fell asleep within seconds of the engine rumbling and the heat blasting.

At the hotel he took the longest, hottest shower of his life. When he emerged from the steam, his father wrapped up cracked ribs and stitched up anything that was still bleeding. Dean was relieved to find the swelling had gone down on his face and hand. He was still a mess, however, and he felt like he could sleep for a week. When his eyes started drooping where he sat on the bed as his father patched his hand, John caught him by the shoulder and held his gaze.

"Never do that again."

"What?"

"Get lost like that. I ain't ever taking you proper hunting until you get a sense of direction."

"...sorry."

But the grip tightened. "Even killing a young wendigo is an impressive accomplishment for a hunter. Happy Birthday son."

Dean watched his father through tired eyes, but enough of him was still awake to savour those words, the pride his father showed to him now.

"Thanks Dad."

"Now get some sleep."

"Yes sir." John let him go and he rolled back on the bed, asleep before his head ever hit the pillow.