Dean threw his head back against the pillow. He wished Sam would hurry up. Dean had been a prisoner long enough.

With the trauma to his chest and the fact that he had lost consciousness after the impact, the doctors had insisted he be kept for observation. Although he'd only been admitted the night before, Dean was already climbing the walls. He couldn't think of anything else but blessed freedom from the stuffy hospital room. That, and sending a certain spirit freak back to a nice fiery resting place.

His mind reran the scene in the graveyard. Even though Dean had only caught a glimpse of his attacker before being sent flying, the image was burned into his brain.

That was one fugly spirit.

It's face had been skeletal, with huge empty sockets in place of eyes, fierce white teeth, and sharp cheekbones. Slung over its shoulder was an ornate bow and its fashion sense definitely left something to be desired. The antiquated hooded cloak and dated clothing reminded Dean of something out of a bad Robin Hood movie. Stranger still was the perfectly formed set of antlers that sprouted from the top of its head.

Dean didn't really give a crap what it looked like - he wanted to waste it. Just because last night's encounter hadn't gone in his favor, didn't mean Dean was letting that spectral son-of-a-bitch get away. That freak was so getting his ass dusted. And Dean couldn't very well make that happen as an inmate of Atlanta Memorial.

He picked up the remote from the small nightstand and lazily flipped through the TV channels. Stupid infomercials. Why anyone would want spray-on hair was beyond him.

"Good morning, Mr. O'Toole. How'd you sleep?" Sam quipped as he entered Dean's hospital room.

"Dude, you're the tool," Dean snapped. "Now make yourself useful and go sign the release papers."

"Hello to you too." A smile played on Sam's mouth. "A little cranky this morning, aren't we?"

Dean was not in the mood. "Look Gigantor, you get your insides smashed into chiclets and let's see how full of sunshine and roses you are. Now get me out of here."

Sam knew it was a waste of energy to argue with Dean when he got like this. His brother was hurting and frustrated. None of the Winchester men took losing too well, and Dean viewed their little nighttime adventure as one big, fat, steaming kick to his ego.

"All right," Sam relented, shaking his head. "I'll go talk to your doctor.


"Oh, nice digs, Sam."

Dean snickered at the ramshackle motel as Sam guided the '67 Impala in front of the run down building.

Ordinarily, Dean was not the one to be picky about their accommodations. Hell, he'd spent many a night twisted like a pretzel in the Impala's front seat. But he was stiff, sore and generally in a pissy mood. Hammering his little brother was the one thing that made him feel better.

"Sorry, the Ritz was all booked," Sam countered. He turned off the engine. "Look, there's some art convention going on in town. This was the only place for miles with any rooms available."

"I can see why." Dean took in the chipping paint, the cracked windows. Geez, this place practically screamed Bates Motel.

Ignoring his brother, Sam reached in the back for his duffel and Dean's bag.

As he opened the door, Dean was already attempting to step out of the car.

Sam dropped the bags. "Dean! Wait, let me help." He quickly moved around the Impala and put a hand out to grab Dean's arm.

Dean immediately shrugged it off, stifling the grunt of pain that accompanied the sudden movement.

"Back off Francis," he growled through clenched teeth. "I'm fine."

"Oh yeah, you're stellar," Sam mocked, but he stayed back, watching his brother's labored efforts. He picked up the dropped bags. "Since you're obviously fine, I'm going to go check us in."

If the exterior of the motel had been off-putting, the interior practically screamed "Run".

The walls were a sorry shade of grey-green paint, most of which had peeled off years ago. The pictures on the wall hung at an odd angle and the furniture in the corner looked like something out of a yard sale, complete with moth eaten edges and faded upholstery.

Not to mention the smell.

"Can I help you young man?"

Sam jerked his head over to the front desk. The man behind the counter looked to be in his seventies, and was every bit as shabby as his surroundings.

Sam was about to request a room when Dean entered. He had his right arm braced across his midsection and moved slowly across the lobby to the faded couch.

The old man took in Dean's scratched face and huddled posture. "Geez, boy what happened to you?"

Dean forced out a wry smile as he leaned on the loveseat's arm.

"Let's just say I found Jesus."

The man raised his eyebrow, and before things could go any further, Sam cut in.

"Um, Mr….?"

"Hank."

"Hank." Deftly, Sam slid a $50 bill onto the counter. "We would really just like a room."

The innkeeper eyed the bill before sliding it into his pocket. Hey, with cash up front, they could be cult members for all he cared.

"Room 105, down the hall."


"Dean, for once could you keep your charming wit to a minimum?" Sam pleaded as he scrolled through the Google Search results. "We can't afford to bribe every person that you offend."

Dean, who was inching his way back from the bathroom by leaning heavily on the motel's dingy walls, turned to his brother.

"Can I help it if some people are just too sensitive?" he countered.

"Whatever, man," Sam retorted. He rolled his eyes and clicked on one of the search responses.

Dean focused on easing himself back onto the bed - no easy task considering each movement felt like someone taking a sledgehammer to his chest.

Sam glanced up at his brother. Dean would kill him if he started fussing so Sam pretended to be deeply interested in the article he had just brought up on the screen. Every now and again he flicked his eyes upward to monitor his brother's progress.

"Sam, you know I sleep with a knife under my pillow," Dean said, finally working himself into a semi-comfortable position. "Keep staring at me like that and I'm going to be forced to use it."

Sam's face reddened.

How the hell did his brother do that?

He cleared his throat and attempted to change the subject. "So, I think I may have found something on our guy."

"The one who used me as a Frisbee?" Dean asked, his brother's murder momentarily forgotten.

"That's the one." Sam continued to scroll through the article on screen. "Apparently, there's a British legend about a horned spirit who hunts with a pack of Hell Hounds. He goes by all sorts of names, Gabriel, Arawn…… but he's generally referred to as Herne or The Great Hunter."

"The Great Hunter?" Dean fiddled with the stack of pillows he had piled against the headboard. "I thought that was my nickname."

Ignoring the remark, Sam started to read the article aloud to Dean:

"…On stormy nights, when most people stay firmly indoors, the Hunter is known to ride. Leading the chase through the clouds comes the pack: the Hell Hounds. Pitch black with burning red eyes, their baying can be heard for miles. And close on the heels of the pack, illuminated by lightning, comes the Hunter himself - crowned with antlers, an unstoppable force, the harsh power of nature in a terrifying form.

Historical figure or vengeful ancient god, the Hunter with his pack of yelping hounds is a terrifying thing to encounter on a dark night. Sometimes the pack is set on a stag (usually supernatural in origin), but more often the Hunter is after more common prey: any human unwary enough to be out alone on a stormy night.

At times, it is enough protection to keep an iron horseshoe close to hand. The horseshoe is made of iron, a metal that traditionally repels fairy creatures and evil spirits. If a horseshoe is not to hand, sometimes a pocketful of salt flung into the path of the Hunter will distract it from its course…"

"Well at least we know that works," Dean interrupted.

Sam smiled and continued:

"…Lacking any of these, the traveler's best bet is to hotfoot it to the nearest smithy (a place infused heavily with the power of iron), or to the church. In some legends, the Hunter is foiled when its prey crosses running water.

In many parts of Britain and Europe, the Hunter's hounds can occasionally be found wandering by themselves, or in small packs. Many of the areas known to be favoured by the Hunter are also notorious for sightings of the traditional Black Dog of the roads. Some of the time these creatures mysteriously appear and disappear. But at other times, they seem to have their very own, dark agenda.

"It's weird Dean," Sam shook his head. "All the stuff I found on this guy puts him in the British Isles. So what's he doing in the southern United States?"

"Beats me," Dean answered with a yawn. "Maybe he had a craving for some fried chicken and biscuits."

Sam shot his brother a look. "Would you be serious for a minute? Spirits are pretty territorial. The fact that one crossed an ocean is kind of unusual, don't you think? We should check this out."

Dean leaned his head back against the pillows. He was tired and his whole body ached. Not that he'd ever admit that to Sam.

Sam brought up a new window and scrolled down the page. "Looks like the city library has a pretty large collection of rare books. Maybe there's some on European folklore."

Just the thought of sitting in a hard library chair for the next several hours, poring through volumes of old British lore was enough to give Dean a headache. He closed his eyes.

He was really starting to hate that horned freak.

Sam scanned a few other articles online, but they mostly consisted of Black Dog sightings and local myths. He closed the laptop lid and stowed it in his bag. Glancing at Dean, he knew his brother was in no mood, or shape, for a research session.

"I think I can handle this part on my own," Sam offered. "You think you'll be alright here for a while?"

Judging from the quiet snore he got in response, Sam figured that was a yes.


a/n The legend of Herne the Hunter is real. The article Sam read to Dean was borrowed from the CastleofSpirits website.