NOTE (6-11-2015): I did delete chapters 3-9. That's only because after re-reading what I had already posted, I realized I had some holes in the plot as well as some things that I felt like didn't flow right with how I planned for this story to go. At any rate, I hope you'll enjoy this new version better. Reviews are greatly appreciated!


Snow fell hard enough to make visibility almost zero as Dean Winchester tried to make it up a winding mountain road. The forecast hadn't called for so much snow to fall so fast, and the young hunter had gotten caught off guard by it. Nearly four inches had fallen in the last two hours since he had finally killed the Black Dog he originally came to Tennessee to hunt.

Dean couldn't remember the name of the small town he was in, but he did remember that his Dad used to stay in a small hunting cabin just on the outskirts of the town. The cabin belonged to another hunter who always left it open to any others who needed a place to stay while in town. It was just another twenty minutes up the road, but the snow had Dean slowing to a snail's pace just to keep the car on the road.

The classic rock that usually cranked out from the speakers inside the black 1967 Impala was nearly muted. Dean discovered half an hour ago that listening to the music he loved only made his headache worse. Ever since arriving in Tennessee four days prior, Dean had been battling an illness that left him struggling to stay at the top of his game. Having hunted a Black Dog before, it should have been an easy hunt for him, but one ill-timed coughing fit alerted the beast to his presence on the second day. Two days later, he finally got the upper hand despite feeling even worse than he had when he began the hunt.

His grip tightened on the steering wheel as he tried to maneuver the car along the winding road. All he wanted was to get to the cabin and sleep for a few hours. His whole body ached from having to wrestle with the Black Dog. He still couldn't believe it hadn't managed to get its fangs into him. Dean shivered as he watched the snow fall harder in the shine of the car's headlights. The hunt could have seriously gone sideways in a hurry, and he would have been left alone in the middle of a snowstorm with no help for miles.

Dean learned the hard way just how much it took to be alone on a hunt. His father had reluctantly sent him after the Black Dog, demanding that Dean join him in Wisconsin to hunt a Wendigo that had been targeting hikers for the past four months. For Dean, it was his first solo hunt and his first chance to prove to John that he could be the hunter his father expected him to be. He suddenly realized that he hadn't heard from his father since yesterday. Not since his father had called to berate him on the fact he should have been done with the hunt on the first day.

He knew he couldn't tell his father that the Black Dog nearly got the best of him. His father would be disappointed to know how poorly his oldest son had handled what was seen as a simple hunt.

Things had been that way between Dean and his father for a while. Dean thought sadly of his younger brother Sam, who left after a fight with their father many months ago. Sam wanted out of the family business, as Dean called it. Hunting things that went bump in the night wasn't exactly the kind of job that every person could do or wanted to do. Sam finally had enough of it and left. Their father was still bitter about Sam leaving. So bitter that he had told Sam never to come back.

Dean couldn't blame his brother for leaving though. The kid had always been smarter than Dean ever was in school and managed to somehow get a full scholarship to Stanford despite the numerous schools they had to attend as their father dragged them across the country their entire childhood.

The fights between John and Sam were always the hardest on Dean. He always got caught in the middle, but tried to never pick sides. If he picked a side, the other would berate him for at least a day after. He hated to admit it, but sometimes he was glad Sam was gone, if only for the fact he wasn't getting caught in the middle of the arguments anymore. Still, Dean wished more than anything that they could all be a family again.

His thoughts snapped back to his current predicament as he felt the car slide on some ice. Dean wondered if it had been such a good idea to travel down the dead-end road just to get to the hunter's cabin. He really hadn't had much of a choice. Even if he tried to get a room at the small hotel he had passed an hour ago, it would have left him without enough money to make it back to his father in Wisconsin.

Just as he rounded a curve, a snow-laden tree took that moment to start toppling into the road. Dean's normally catlike reflexes were tremendously slowed by illness and fatigue from the past few days, and he couldn't keep the car under control. He felt the car start to slide off the road as he jerked the steering wheel to avoid the falling tree. The tree fell, just barely missing the Impala as it slid by.

He skidded off the road, coming to a stop in a clearing just past the trees. It was a relief to him that he didn't hit anything, but a brief wave of panic hit when he realized the car was stuck. No matter how hard he tried, the car wouldn't budge. He left the engine running and tried to figure out what to do. Calling his Dad wouldn't be much help. His Dad definitely couldn't come to his rescue.

"Great," he muttered, resisting the urge to beat his already pounding head against the steering wheel.

He laughed to himself as he thought about what his dad would say now. Dean knew he didn't have many options for how to get out of the mess he was in. He looked around to see if, by some miracle, he had gotten stuck near a house. He had to squint as he looked through the windshield, but he saw the unmistakable sign of a front porch light that was on, illuminating the front of a small house.

He suddenly had two options. Sit in the car and wait out the storm, and hope he didn't freeze to death in the process. Or hope that whoever lived in that house would be willing to help him out for the night.

In his line of work, trusting a stranger was something he did only if necessary. Dean made his decision as he killed the car's engine and pocketed his car keys, ensured his phone was in his jacket pocket, and opened the car's door. The windblown snow in his vision coupled with his already dizzying headache had him swaying until he grabbed onto the car door to keep from falling. He tried to ignore just how much effort it took to simply shut the door and walk around to grab his duffel bag from the trunk.

A force of habit made him check for his hunting knife hidden within the bag before tucking a small handgun into the waist of his jeans and concealing it with his jacket. He couldn't exactly walk up to a stranger's house carrying his usual arsenal, but he wanted to at least have something with him in case whoever lived in the house decided he wasn't welcome. It wouldn't be the first time he had encountered an unfriendly being at a home, human or otherwise.

He looked back toward the house's porch light. The wind whipped around him, reminding Dean that if he didn't start moving he was going to end up frozen to the spot behind his beloved car. It pained him to leave the car on the side of the road. He just hoped nobody came through and hit it before he could get it moved. He grabbed a flashlight from the trunk and did a quick—well, as quick as possible for a sick man—walk around his car to ensure the Impala hadn't been damaged. He breathed a sigh of relief that nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Closing the trunk, he shouldered his bag and started walking toward the house. The beam of the flashlight didn't penetrate far into the falling snow, but Dean managed to keep going in the right direction toward the house.

The pounding in his head increased with every step. His fevered mind began playing tricks on him. Dean swore he saw figures lurking in the shadows. He felt like something was watching him. He couldn't stop the moment of panic that hit him when a coughing fit left him doubled over. He dropped his bag as he tried to get his breathing back under control.

That's when he heard it. Something sounded over the howl of the wind. The beam of the flashlight caught the movement of a large, black blur that darted just past the reach of the beam of light. A low growl sounded behind Dean. He whirled around to see what it was. The movement sent a new wave of dizziness over him. He bit back the groan that threatened to escape his lips. Another growl sounded, this time to the left. Dean blinked a couple times then saw the black mass running toward him.

He dropped the flashlight in his haste to grab the handgun concealed beneath his jacket. His shaking hands left him fumbling with the pistol before he dropped it in the snow.

"Damn it!" he cried out in a panicked huff.

The flashlight had turned off when he dropped it. The gun was somewhere in the snow. His bag was a few feet away. When had he stepped away from it? Confusion, panic, and just a hint of fear had Dean trying to figure out where the thing was that he had seen running toward him. His vision blurred as he shivered violently in the wind that seemed to have gotten colder. The black form suddenly appeared in his blurred line of sight again. Dean braced himself for an attack. It barreled toward him, hitting him square in the chest and knocking him onto his back.

All he saw was a black, furry creature with white teeth that gleamed from the glow of the porch light that suddenly didn't seem as far away as Dean remembered.

"Help me!" he called out as the creature's weight fell on him. He pushed it off only to have it return a split second later. "Help!"

This is it, he thought as he tried to push the creature away as his vision blurred even more. He could have sworn he heard it growl again. If I don't freeze to death first, this damn hellhound is going to kill me.