He was running through the forest, branches dragging at the bare skin of his torso, the frigid winter air stinging his skin and wounds as he raced away from the small wooden cabin as quickly as he possibly could with the condition his feet were in. He stumbled, groaning in pain as he felt something grinding in his foot, his gasping breath too loud in the otherwise silent, dark night. In places, the moon's light shone dimly through the clouds and bare branches of the trees, and these patches provided his only glimpses of what he was running towards. He didn't care where he ended up, only that he was getting away. He saw a light ahead, and ran toward it, waving his arms and yelling for help, hope kindled in him for the first time. It was a flashlight, and he couldn't see who was behind it. He ran to them, collapsing a few feet away and holding his hand out to block the light, painfully bright to him after so long in the dark.

"Help me... help," he gasped, ignoring the pain in the cuts to his abdomen as he fought to catch his breath. "There's a woman- back there... she tried to-"

He cut off as his eyes adjusted to the brightness and he saw the pale face, thick ebony hair, and eyes of a brown so dark that they were black in the night. He scrambled back, dirt and sticks and leaves and stones reopening the cuts all over his body.

"Stay away from me!" he screamed, trying to get to his feet. She approached him, and he turned, running frantically for a few feet, only to run smack into the truck of a thick tree. His vision blurred, and as he fell to the ground, the last thing he saw was his tormentor, calmly walking toward him.

2 Weeks Earlier

It was after the last hunt of the season. Everyone else had already headed back home, Sam, John, Mary and Uncle Bobby. Dean was the only one who stayed behind for a few days of solitude in the Alaskan wilderness. Everyone in his family knew that he just needed some time alone after the thing with Miranda. The relationship had ended on the worst of notes. Dean could say that his time with her had literally been hell.

He walked through the woods that his family had been coming to for recreational hunting for five years now. He knew them almost as well as his backyard, though that knowledge had been hard to gain, and he'd gotten lost three times before he learned his way around them. He took his rifle with him because he knew there were things in the woods that would love to eat him for dinner. His walk was meant to clear his head. The air out here was clean, though cold enough that breathing it hurt a bit.

The last thing he expected to hear out here was the unmistakable sound of an axe hitting on wood. It piqued his curiosity. Hunting season was almost over, and only idiots like he and his family would ever be out this time of year.

He headed toward it, and before long, saw a figure through the trees. It was a woman, splitting wood outside of a log cabin that he was certain had not been there last year.

"Want a hand?" he asked when he was close enough.

He expected to startle her, but the woman brought the axe down one last time before she turned to regard him, her movements slow and deliberate as if she had been expecting company. He shuddered involuntarily when he met her eyes. They were wide, and dark, dark brown, but there was something off about them. A kind of coldness. Calculating. It reminded him of a wolf, sizing up it's intended prey.

"And you would be?" she asked, picking the axe back up and nudging the split wood off the chopping block.

"Dean. Winchester," he said. "I'm a regular around these parts."

"Hunting?" she asked, nodding towards the rifle.

"When the season's right. Now, just walking," he said. "And you are?"

A smile played at the corners of her lips. "Clara."

"You haven't got a last name?" Dean asked.

"Maybe I do, and maybe I don't," she said playfully.

"You here with company?" Dean asked.

"Why do you care?" she asked.

"Just curious," he said.

"Hmm. You know that old saying? The one everyone tells their children. 'Don't talk to strangers'. Why should I tell you anything about myself? I've only just met you, after all. You could be someone that a girl wouldn't want to run into alone in the woods."

"I could be. But something tells me that you wouldn't mind if I were," he said, recognizing the careless tone in her voice.

"Perceptive. I like." She walked up to him, and offered him the axe. "I actually do have better things to do than split wood all afternoon. If you don't mind. It would be a great help."

"My pleasure."

He took it, and she met his eyes for a moment, a kind of dark playfulness showing through the dark orbs before she turned and walked into the cabin.

Dean took her place at the chopping block and began splitting the wood. An uneasy feeling had taken hold in his gut, though what from precisely, he couldn't tell.

Her eyes, maybe, he told himself. They were so dark that they almost looked black. Too close to Miranda's demonic eyes. He dismissed the feeling.

About an hour passed before he split all the wood. He could feel eyes watching him from the cabin doorway the whole time, but he ignored them. He took his jacket off halfway through, then his flannel shirt, leaving him in just a grey t-shirt, despite the nip in the air.

She walked over to him when she was done, no smile on her lips, but something close to one in her eyes. Her eyes, he noticed, were very expressive.

"Well, that took you half as long as it would have taken me. You have my gratitude. What can I do for you in return?" she asked.

He shrugged, taken a little aback by such a high-class thank you.

"It's fine. It's nothing," he said.

"It looked so. At least come in for a drink," she said.

He looked around, seeing that it was getting dark. If he didn't head back now, he might be stuck here for the night. Which might not be a bad thing. But even his hookups usually had a bit more of an introductory phase than this.

"Nah, I should be heading back," he said.

"No please, I insist," she pressed.

He couldn't keep his eyes from roaming over her in the fading light.

"Well, if you insist," he caved.

She smiled. "I do."

He followed her into the cabin and was immediately hit by the warmth from a fire going strong in the hearth. A heavy scent of pine filled the air. The cabin was comprised of one room with a cabinet against one wall and a bed in the corner. There was a large rug in the center of the room and table with one chair tucked into the corner opposite the bed. The walls were covered in paintings, and he examined these while she poured two drinks. They were all done in dark red, and appeared to be splatters and drips.

"Do you like them?" she asked, walking up to him and handing him his drink. He took a sip, nodding, though he actually found them a bit disturbing. The color of the paint looked like dried blood.

"I did them myself," she said, taking a drink out of her own glass. "So tell me Mr. Winchester-"

"Dean," he corrected.

There was a hint of annoyance in her eyes, but it was quickly covered with a smile. "Dean. What are you doing out here, by yourself? And so close to the end of hunting season?" she asked.

"I came here with my family. It was less for hunting and more just to get away," he said.

"Oh. Your family, are they close by?" she asked.

"What? No, they're all gone. They left about a day ago," he said.

"Hmm. So why are you still here?" she asked.

"I wanted some alone time."

"Well, if you can't get it out here, then where can you get it?" she asked, chuckling softly. He joined her, nodding in agreement.

"So what about you?" he asked. "Why are you out here alone?"

"Same as you. Solitude," she said. There was a bitter edge to her voice.

"You didn't come with family?" he asked.

"I don't have any family," she said, spitting the word out vehemently. "They all betrayed me."

He was starting to feel a bit lightheaded, so he went over to the table, and sat down heavily in the chair.

"I'm sorry," he said, struggling to stay focused on their conversation.

She smiled as she walked up to him. "It's alright. How does your head feel?" she asked.

"What?" he asked.

"Your head. How does it feel?" she asked.

In the back of his mind, something was still functioning properly, and told him that something was wrong. But at that moment, a sharp pain flared in his head, and he groaned, dropping the glass to hold his head. She tsked, and picked it up, placing it on the table as she went over to the cabinet and pulled out a rag.

"Really now, you should be more careful," she berated him.

He stood abruptly, almost knocking the chair over, the pain in his head flaring, but he knew what this was, because he'd been drugged before.

"I have to go," he growled. He took a step toward the door, but stumbled over something and fell to the ground. He rolled over, realizing that she had tripped him. She loomed over him, smiling. The fire cast her shadow over him, heavy and dark.

"You're not going anywhere. The fun's only just getting started," she said.

He barely heard her over the pounding ache in his head. He tried to move, and found he couldn't, the word paralytic crawling through his mind. She moved him to the side, and rolled back the rug, revealing a trapdoor. She opened it, and Dean was able to make out a short, descending flight of stairs, maybe ten steps. She dragged him over, and pushed him down unceremoniously. He tumbled to the bottom, hitting his head along the way, the pain vanishing as darkness claimed him.