"Keep it quick."
A snap.
"Keep it simple."
Lock.
"And keep out of my way."
And the cock of the gun. Dean bounces the shotgun up, offering the hilt to twelve year. The Impala purrs on the side of a wooded road, somewhere along state route 14T off Salem. Like every other state route along their journey, the Winchesters found themselves flanked evergreens, mist, and every element Stephen King tickles himself pink over. At some point atmospheric setting just became the norm. It was those bright and sunny days that got Dean suspicious.
"Seriously, dude, it took both me and Bobby to get dad in on this. Don't botch it." Dean holds up a warning finger. He straightens, his knees cracking at the motion.The mist made the air thick and hard to breath- on top of that, it gave the forest such an ominous foreboding look that knowing that he had to go wandering deeper inside of it sent goosebumps up his arms and the hair on the back of his neck on end. It could have been party from the cold, though. He left his jacket in the car, as it was ill-fit, a hand-me-down of Deans, and obstructed his hands.
The twelve year old nods once to his older brother, not letting his fear show as he accepts the heavy gun. He's handled it a time or two before. in Bobby's back yard, only under the pressure of Deans gaze which did, at times,compare to a monster... but Sam was willing to wager Dean was more forgiving. Little Sammy hadn't actually ever shot anyone before or had had to use a gun to defend himself. That was sort of Dean's job. The most that ever happened was John handing him one to have in the motel room while he or Dean were out or to have next to him in the car 'just in case' when he had to hang back and wait for them. "I know, Dean." He says adjusting it as if he'd done this before. He knew how to handle a gun, he knew the precautions like the back of his hand because that's all Dean and Dad ever talked about. Aim high, brace for the kickback, plan your shots.
That didn't mean he wasn't nervous, though.
With a loft of brown hair brushing against his forehead when a foreboding breeze passes through, Sam looks towards the woods, holding the hefty weapon by the slim hilt and the other by the neck of it to keep it balanced but facing downwards in front of them. He moves to fallow Dean with feigned bravery. With his brows creasing together , up the middle just lightly, he glances into the darkness.
There was something so unsettling about seeing a twelve year old handle a 12 gauge, pump shotgun, perfectly; especially when the gun itself was nearly bigger than the kid. Dean braced himself, ready to give corrections when needed, but Sammy was fine. Sammy was more than fine.
Dean hoped Sammy wasn't actually fine.
The sixteen year old nodded once, though unsure, and lead the way across the road toward where John had disappeared a few minutes ago. Dean cast a side-long view down the growing expanse of road, paranoia sharpening his senses. "Remember, we run into any civilians we're just hunting." He falters, stumbling, "No, we're not hunting. I mean, we're hunting. We-...Animals, Sam, we're hunting animals." Dean adjusts his own shotgun irritably, his heels pressing and crunching on sodden leaves from the half-melted snow that slicks and encircles the tree trunks."What if someone gets hurt?" Sam asks, jogging to catch up to him a hint. Dean is taller, with longer strides... not by a lot, but that in addition to Sam's weariness of the dark, misty woods and constant unsure glances over his shoulder, it was easy to fall behind. He tried not to, though...or at least he wouldn't again. He knew how to hunt and he knew to do it in pairs. That was safest. He knew getting separated was a rookie mistake, and rookies didn't last long on their own. If they didn't know exactly what to do at the right moment, someone could die. These were John's words. Sam didn't want to be the one to mess up the hunt and he really didn't want to be the one to get somebody killed. He'd do whatever he could to prevent that... that's why they were hunting in the first place. Right now he had to have Deans back as much as Dean had his. He had to prove to Dean he was safer with Sam there, not more vulnerable.
The shorter boy's hazel eyes look up in a glance from their scan of the woods to Dean for an answer. It's the most important part- the saving people part. Hunting things comes next. The family business.
"Stay cool." Dean nudged Sam to walk on, covering him from behind as they passed through sparse trees frozen almost black from the passed snow storm. "Dad?" He calls out, his words bouncing in every direction. Sam adjusts his grip (his hands feel sweaty) on the shotgun while moving to take a reluctant step or two forward, pressing on further into the woods to continue the hunt. This time he wasn't fallowing Dean, though, Dean was practically fallowing him and that just piled on the pressure
Hits boots make crunching sounds on the dry leaves that sound too loud. When Dean stops to investigate their surroundings, as he calls for their dad, Sam looks out at the misty grounds for a signal, maybe a flashlight flicker through the trees or bushes to let them discretely know where he was without giving it away to whatever it was he had concluded they were tracking out there in the woods. The last Sam had hear was a residual haunting... he supposed that's why John let him come along for the first time.
snap. crack.
Sam's hair is ruffled in the breeze again when he looks over quickly. He adjusts to pull the gun up a little, just the slightest, hardly ready to aim and shoot but his fingers flex and a tight dryness comes to his throat. His eyes fixate on where the noise came from. " Dean." He says, keeping his voice down, watching the direction, holding the gun in his sweaty hands as goosebumps rise on his bare arms. Another crunch is heard from the same spot.
The teenager approaches Sam, taking two steps forward as he approaches the source of the noise. "Alright, show's over. Where are ya, ugly?" Dean licks his lips, eyes bouncing from side to side as he lingers, without noticing that his breaths have turned visibly, milky in the night air.
He shivers, his hairs stand on end, and something registers. They're not dealing with a ghost.
It's a damn poltergeist.The younger of the pair swallows hard but quiet, holding position with his gun rising a little higher in defense as Dean comes closer to cover his back. Sam's eyes fall on the visible cloud of breaths escaping his lips and how it highlights how hard he's breathing despite attempts to keep calm. His fingers start to tingle, threatening to go numb and he has to flex them to try and regain blood circulation. His finger takes to resting on on the icy trigger of the shot gun.
Staring at the forest beyond that looms, seeing bare trees that should make it easier to see through only seem to add to the chilling atmosphere, a soft, gentle sound of crying is heard. "Dean." Sam says quickly, over his shoulder without taking his eyes from the spot, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. Someones over there remains unspoken.
Dean quickly reaches into his coat, pulling out a indiscernible pouch that he tosses to his brother. "Salt. Draw a circle and stay it in." The hunter steps forward, treading on cockiness and a handful of experience under his belt. Poltergeist, nasty sure, but not unfamiliar. The last one he took down was with Bobby in Pensacola. It was all down to a formula and a strong pair, all of which Dean had. The teenager slipped a few salt rounds from his pocket, loading them into place before cocking the gun.
The further away from Sammy he walked, the louder the crying became. Dean knew he was breaking the most basic rule of hunting. Though there was safety in pairs, he wasn't about to risk Sam. His first hunt was risk enough.
"The hell are you, dad?" Dean hisses to himself, standing just at the tree-line before his brother. The crying stops, and Dean straightens, eyes flickering with uncertainty, almost disturbed by the momentary silence that envelopes them, feigning tranquility.
He shifts uncomfortably, holding position.Sam lowers to gun to catch the bag of salt Dean tosses to him and its then that he realizes he's shaking from the cold. He looks to his brothers back way out there by the trees before him. Swallowing back again, he ducks down to pour the salt out in a circle big enough for the pair of them. The bag drops to the ground and he picks the gun back up, staying firmly situated in the circle. He tries to look all ways at once while still keeping his eyes on Dean to cover him. The crying continues and it sounds terrifyingly human. Sam half turns, unsure, to look through the fog and his own cloudy breath with the gun raised and ready to be aimed.
It's quiet again.
It's colder. So cold, frost begins to formulate over the barrel of his gun. He watches it, exhaling harder, failing to keep even breaths. There's something behind him, close, like Dean had been when watching his back, but this wasn't dean. It was solid and there...real, but cold. His heart leaps into a feverish rhythm in his chest and he can feel himself want to shake but he doesn't. He firms up his grip on the gun (his fingers burn cold at the icy metal), readies himself and turns sharply- Met alarmingly by a woman, hauntingly pale but young, looking distorted and unnatural, he breaths in a rough gasp and catches his footing, stalling in firing the gun. Her eyes are sunken slightly, and she might have been beautiful at one time... with her long, inhuman fingers she touches his face. They slide slowly, creeping up and over his cheek, caressing like a mother would do.
There's a odd lull, some sort of warmth that counteracts the intense cold and it feels like he cant breath and is breathing all at once- there's air but its freezing in his lungs. The touch makes his bones cold but his skin painfully hot- frozen, almost, so much so he can't find it in himself to move. He stares, mouth agape.To the left, nothing.
To the right, clear.
And although the air is cold, slicked with the chilly residue of that blizzard, it doesn't strike Dean as totally abnormal. He braced himself further, waiting, sensing, keening to whatever new element that might paint a clearer picture of whatever they were dealing with. Nothing, just another degree drop in the temperature.
His knuckles crack noisily against the gun, flexing out strained and frigid finger. Dean gathers a measured breath, which once again plumes in the darkness. He's cold, so cold that his back prickles with sweat beneath the fabric of his shirt and the heavy cargo coat.
The surroundings, stilled, cradled by the darkness, leave the two brothers to feel both the center of attention to whatever unseen force, while in the same absolutely and utterly alone.
Finally, Dean lowers his gun, slacking his guard, and huffs, "We gotta find dad." He pivots, turning to face Sammy-
Only to find him in the arms of not a ghost. Not a poltergeist. Not something he's ever seen before.
"Sammy!" Dean yells, the gun cocks up at full posture, shoulder back, arm level, he's ready to shoot, but he's met with a stalemate. Whatever that thing is, it's too close, with her grimy claws locked on Sam, caging him in. If Dean shoots, it's 50/50 he gets his little brother on the way. If he doesn't make a move, Sam's a goner. Damn it!
"Sam! The gun!" The hunter snaps through gnashed teeth, slinging the gun on it's strap to rest against his back, as he draws an iron 9" Bowie from his thigh. He barrels forward with no thought, unceremoniously shoving Sam in the same motion that he swipes the knife and slices thin air.
Dean skids to a stop, frantic eyes searching the empty darkness, narrowly standing over Sam like dog might do.Breaths come in icy fog- there's a distorted voice far away it feels like, although it were trough miles of trees and clouds and over the rush of city scape- 'Sammy?!' Dean. help.
The guns in his hands, frosted to his fingers that have all feeling gone from them. it inches on further and further up the joints the longer he stays still but he can't move because something demands he stay still. His body wont do it, it wont allow him to break this moment. He's welded to the ground, shocked in place, staring at the creature before him that doesn't look like a monster it looks like a woman. It looks like someone they should be helping not shooting. This wasn't human but it was alive and it was broken, and hurting. The pulsation of emotions was forced through him with the chill of a bad snow storm, he knew it was feeling horrific things. She was sad, and alone. She'd be lost without him.
Abruptly his shoulder hits the ground, his elbow awkwardly hitting the hilt of the gun which causes a shock of paint to shoot through him. For a moment he feels like he's shattered into pieces. With a hard breath, Sam's jarred back into the woods with the alarming sound of a high-pitched, blood curling scream and a phantom wind that whips past him violently.
He gropes for the gun, pushing his hand up to quickly get to his feet (that feel weak), while dean stands like a steal plated soldier before him, armed and dangerous.
Though steadied, his eyes cast wildly, jarred by the unfamiliar presence. Therein lies the true fear of a hunter, which will never be the hunt or the monster itself, but the unknown. The threat of what lies beyond the surface and what lingers in the darkest corners. That's real fear, and it's what's puppeteering Dean's decision. All movements are on automatic-rigid muscle memory forces him into his steadied stares, while his eyes wildly, frantically, scope the woods for the phantom presence. Her cries build, louder and louder, reverberating off the trees, and almost humming beneath the soil. It's suffocating, and Sammy looks like he's got the worst of it. Dean grabs and hoists Sam up by his shirt, onto his feet before replacing his grip on the gun as quickly as possible. The Winchesters stand back to back, surveying, waiting, expecting, but the cries and screams continue to surround them leaving no clear indication of where the bitch went off to.
He slackens his aim, looking around.
In the next moment he's suddenly propelled against a tree, all air knocking out of his lungs and shocking momentary paralysis down from his spine to his piglets. He clutches at thin air, gun clattering to the ground and firing off in an odd direction. Struggling, choking, but the worst isn't the pain from the physical it's the feeling that twists and pulls deep inside. Dean's stomach turns, his eyes burn, and his throat constricts against the telling signs of...remorse. The further along the emotion is pulled and welled up inside him, the faster the woman begins to appear.
Tears surface contrasting grit teeth. Shakily, he tries to reach for his pocket, tears spilling furiously, dripping off his chin."DEAN!" The words leave him sharply when his brother literally flies through the air and into a tree, like some giant tossed him aside although he were a rag doll.
Sam's jaw sets and he lifts up the gun, focusing on the disjointed, odd appearing figure in the misty forest, he shoots once and it makes a horrid unearthly growl of a noise but doesn't seem hurt, just startled enough to disappear and perhaps plan another move- but little does it know, Sam does the same. This wasn't a ghost- it was a banshee. He read about it in dad's journal when they were out hunting and he was waiting in the car.
His heart hammers in his throat, shooting a look around quickly for signs of the next attack, but then he lets the gun aim drop suddenly realizing it isn't going to help him at all. Iron. He needs something iron.
The creature looms over Dean, now, flickering quietly before him like static, but more solid in some unnerving sense. A deathly hiss sound come from it... and it seems to almost enjoy the painful emotions its subjugating him to. It seems to nearly suck the life from him by... emotional devastation.
Sam scrambles, catching himself as he tears his fathers small iron knife out from the back of his boot and flips it open. There's no time for thought of best move, he has to trust his instinct because Dean could die or is dieing- he lunges, heart hammering, cold sweat slicking his brow-
There's a ripping sound and the blade hits something tough and strong.. then sinks in in a sickening way. He pushes more, and it sinks further, all the way to the hilt. As if in shock, there's a delay before a horrific scream causes a shocked Sam to rip back and grip his ears tightly. The wounded creature screeches and stumbles backwards, flickering in and out of view like a projection of something that shouldn't exist.
It happens to quickly- Sam's head pounds from the scream that rings in his ears still, echoing in his skull like it were a cave. Was Dean okay? He hears his dad yell as he slumps on the tree for support, and can make out the man finishing off the horrific woman with a violent swing of a iron crow bar. There's another hunter with him- Buckley, who must have been helping him out there before the boys joined them.
the world wobbles... and his head spins dully to black.Dean hits the ground, landing oddly but finding support in the same tree that had moments ago been somewhat of a cage. He grips the trunk, attempting to steady himself, but he crumples to one knee- emotional exhaustion weighing on him like a ton of bricks. The world is static, muffled, save for the banshee's scream that echoes between his ears, like smoke weaves into his mother's cry fallowed by the blast of an inferno.
He looks up, winded, but finds Sam beyond his dad and Buckley's urgently voiced concerns. He appraises his little brother, then the bowie knife grasped tightly in his hand and the inky liquid that curls down it onto his little brother's fingers.
Dean's cheeks hollow and he gets the distinct feeling that a door's closed and locked- there ain't no going back now. It's official.
Sammy's a hunter.
"Not bad, Sammy." Dean comments later, sitting shotgun in the Impala as he peers at his brother through the rear view mirror. "Should'a seen him, dad. Kid didn't waste a beat. Just one, two," Dean pops his lips as he mimics a jabbing motion. The sixteen year old smirks and glances up again.
It falters when Sam isn't paying attention. A moment passes.
"Well...it was awesome alright." Dean murmurs, looking out his own window. His expression shifts, falters, then goes darkly blank. It wasn't alright.There's just the low familiar rumble of the cars engine, and the passing trees outside the window- home, I guess is what I was. The misty forest seemed a lot different now- not just eerie and foreboding but more dangerous then he thought it had been before. No amount of practice or stratigzing would have made that easier because he hadn't taken the time to consider anything he'd been told. There was too much panic and he hadn't had enough time to think. It could have gone smoother, Dad had said. John had checked him to make sure he wasn't hurt- Dean too, only in more of a questioning sort of way. "In one piece?" He'd asked. "Seem to be." Dean had answered. Sam got a head to toe inspection despite insisting he was fine. Dad always treated Dean more like a man then he did Sam and it was always frustrating. Dean he'd talk to like a fellow hunter- Sam he talked to like he was a tag along trainee or... like he was somehow less involved, or important.
Peering outside the window with his head still feeling fragile, nerves raw and fingers only just beginning to regain feeling, he gripped at the sleeves of the jacket he required and wondered if there was a way for banshees to turn back into ghosts, so that they could be coaxed on into the afterlife. He wondered if he'd just killed someone instead of saving them. He felt a little nauseated but didn't want to say... he felt a little scared, like maybe she was right behind him still, but didn't want to mention it.
...and with the memory of the soft sobbing that originally had been coming from beyond the bushes, near the stagnant stream...he silently missed the mom who he hardly remembered.