Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter. I meant to get this posted early for you, but real life got in the way. Still, I want you to know I appreciate you very much! Hope you like this chapter...
Chapter 2
"Oh, this is just great," Dean grumbled as he slipped from the front passenger seat of his father's truck. He glared up at the thick, gray clouds overhead before pulling the collar of his canvas jacket up against the steady drizzle of rain. A long hike through the rain, just what he'd always dreamed of.
A spluttered curse from behind him caused Dean to turn, and for a moment he forgot his own discontent at the sight of his little brother ankle deep in a muddy puddle of water. Obviously Sam had exited the truck without looking where his feet were landing him. The rough dirt road they had been following into the back woods of the state park would never be considered smooth even on the best of days, but the rain that had been falling all morning had turned it into a veritable minefield of muddy potholes. Sam had somehow managed to find one of the larger holes, and he muttered another curse as he pulled his feet free with a wet squelching sound.
Dean's face split in a wide grin, and he opened his mouth to comment on his brother's misfortune, but his father's rough voice from the other side of the truck cut him off.
"Alright boys, this is as far as we can go by truck. Grab the gear. We walk from here."
Dean's amusement faded just as quickly as it had come at his father's words. Normally, a day long trek through the woods with a salt-and-burn at the end would be considered an adventure, but the chilling rain that had greeted them as soon as they had woken up that morning had definitely thrown a wrench into things. What was worse, the weather anchor on the news had predicted the storm to last through the entire day. Wet and miserable would be the words for the day.
Dean grabbed the large army duffle filled with their tent, sleeping bags, and other camping supplies from the truck and tossed it to Sam, who caught it with a small grunt. Then he turned and grabbed the smaller, but slightly heavier bag containing their weapons; including two shotguns, plenty of ammo, a large canister of salt, fuel, and other miscellaneous hunting supplies they thought they might need. John grabbed the final bag, a large water-proof duffel containing a change of clothes for each man, the first aid kit, and the food.
"Come here a minute," John ordered, pulling a folded and laminated map from his coat pocket.
Dean and Sam circled the truck to their father's side, skillfully avoiding several large potholes in the process. A giant mound of dirt and rock rested in the middle of the road a few feet in front of the parked truck, marking the spot where the work crew had been forced to abandon their efforts to repair the washed-out road. A track-hoe and front-end-loader sat abandoned and silent to the side of the road, their owners having obviously left them in the hopes that they would soon be returning to the job.
"We didn't get as far into the park as I had hoped," John informed them when they gathered around him. He held the map out against the side of the truck, swiping a few drops of rain off the slick surface before pointing to a spot on the map to indicate their current location. "We'll follow this road until it reaches the river. Once we cross, we'll turn south and follow the river down to the point where it branches. Jeremiah's cabin should be in that area."
"How are we going to get across the river?" Sam asked with a frown. "I thought the bridge was washed out in the storm?"
"It was," John acknowledged, "but I talked to some rangers last night at the bar, and they told me there is a small foot bridge about a half mile down from the road. It's what hikers and hunters use to get to some of the more isolated areas. It's a little old and rickety, but should be passable."
"What do you mean a little old and rickety?" Dean asked concernedly.
John just shrugged. "The rangers said it was scheduled to be replaced along with the new road. The storm did some damage to it, but it was still standing. It's the bridge Sara and her friends used to get to their campsite."
"Sounds awesome," Dean sighed.
John refolded the map and replaced it in his jacket before grabbing up his pack and slinging it across his shoulders. "Let's go," he said simply, before turning down the road and moving around the large pile of rubble.
Dean exchanged a brief glance with Sam before both boys moved to follow their father. If Dean had thought the road they had traveled to reach this point was rough, it was nothing compared to what they found beyond. In many places, the surface of the road had been completely washed away, leaving nothing but a muddy swamp that they carefully skirted. Even when the road was intact, it was so full of ruts, holes, and deep grooves filled with running water that it took all their attention to keep from tripping and falling flat on their faces. They briefly considered leaving the road and following it from the side, but the heavy trees grew right up to the side of the path, and any time they would have saved dodging potholes would be lost avoiding the trees.
There was little talking as everyone was too focused on watching their step, and the morning dragged onward in miserable silence and boredom. Dean found his mind wandering on more than one occasion, and he was glad they had not yet moved into the ghost's territory where they would need to remain on constant alert. The strap of the weapons bag dug deeply into his shoulder, and he was constantly having to lift a hand to wipe the rain from his face. That and the growing layer of mud weighing down his boots and making every step difficult made Dean wish this hunt was already over and done with. He couldn't believe that yesterday he had actually been looking forward to this.
At midday, they left the road for the dubious cover of a large oak tree where they ate their meager lunch of dried jerky and a few cans of baked beans. It was far from Dean's choice of a good meal, and he promised himself that as soon as they got back to town he was going to find a place where he could order the biggest bacon cheeseburger possible…extra onions. He was in the process of mentally daydreaming about which kind of pie he would choose for desert when he caught a glimpse of his brother from the corner of one eye. Sam sat slouched against the trunk of the tree, listlessly stirring his plastic spoon around in his can of baked beans, his sightless gaze fixed on a spot on the ground several feet in front of him, a slight frown creating ridges on his forehead.
Dean glanced toward his father, but John had pulled out the laminated map and seemed completely engrossed in studying it. Pushing himself to his feet with a soft moan, Dean moved over to the base of the tree and sank down beside his brother, his shoulder brushing against Sam's as he nudged him with one knee.
"How you doing, kiddo?" he asked, watching Sam's face intently for any indication of what was bothering his brother.
Sam pulled himself from his private musings enough to glance at Dean and give a one-shouldered shrug. "I'll be glad when we toast this jerk and move on," he admitted.
Dean gave him a lopsided grin. "What's wrong, Sammy? Is it all this beautiful sunshine, or the awesome company you're keeping that has got you down?"
Sam let out a small huff. "I'm not down," he replied. "Just thinking."
Dean arched an eyebrow. "About what?" he pressed gently. It usually didn't take much to get his brother to open up to him and share his thoughts. Despite Sam's denial, something was obviously bothering him, and Dean was determined to get to the bottom of it.
Sam shrugged again and looked away, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. "Just stuff," he replied, his gaze flickering over to where their father sat several feet away still engrossed in the map. "School stuff."
"School stuff?" Dean repeated, unable to hide the incredulity in his voice. "Sam, you just started your summer break. You're not supposed to think about school stuff for the next three months!"
Sam didn't reply, refusing to meet Dean's gaze as he lifted a spoonful of beans to his mouth.
Dean slowly shook his head. "Just when I start to think you can't possibly get any geekier…" he muttered, pleased to see the slight blush that appeared on his brother's cheeks.
"I don't know, Dean," Sam retorted. "A nice, dry school with a cafeteria that serves pizza and burgers verses this…" he waved his hand in a wide gesture that seemed to include both their pathetic meal and the muddy road beyond. "Not so crazy in my mind."
Dean grunted but did not reply, partly because his brother had a point, and partly because he suddenly had a suspicion that Sam was referring to more than just their current predicament. He regarded his brother from the corner of his eye, thinking not for the first time about how much Sam had changed in the last several years. And not just in height, either. Somewhere along the line Sam had transformed from the little boy who had insisted on being let in on the family secret, to a quiet and sometimes despondent young man who seemed increasingly reluctant to go along with his family's chosen line of business. While Dean would be the first to admit that their life was anything but easy, Sam's increased moodiness and depression had him more than a little concerned. He kept telling himself that it was just a phase…that Sam would move past it, but with each passing month his brother seemed to be growing worse, not better.
Dean reminded himself that Sam was seventeen, and it was perfectly natural that he would prefer to spend his summer doing something other than work.
"Tell you what, Sammy," Dean broke the silent tension with a tone made purposefully light. "Once we finish with this job, I'll convince Dad to try and find us something somewhere fun. Maybe down in Florida, or California. We can hit the beaches together…get a nice tan…maybe pick up a few girls…?" He nudged his brother with his elbow, relieved when Sam returned his suggestive smile with a small grin of his own.
Across the camp John suddenly folded his map and tucked it away inside his coat pocket, rising and reaching for his duffel bag…a clear indication that their break was over and it was time to get back on the road.
"What's the point," Sam grumbled good-naturedly, tossing the remainder of his beans in the plastic shopping bag they were using for trash. "The girls don't seem to notice me much when you're around! I'm just the adorable kid brother."
Dean shook his head, putting on a mock frown of denial. "Not true!" he retorted. "What about that one chick that latched onto you last month up at Pastor Jim's? Melanie…or Melinda…or something?"
"Mellissa?" Sam asked incredulously. "She was like fourteen, Dean. And she was cross-eyed!"
"She was cross-eyed?" Dean asked in pretend surprise, pushing himself to his feet and barely suppressing his laughter at the look of disgruntled outrage that crossed Sam's features.
He wasn't about to tell his brother that there had been quite a number of Pastor Jim's parishioners who had daughters absolutely smitten with the tall-if-somewhat-gangly youngest Winchester. If Sam would get his nose out of his books long enough, he might actually start noticing the increased female attention directed his way. Until then, Dean had no intention of filling him in.
He turned and offered his brother a hand up as their father called to them from the road. Sam continued to glare at him for a moment, then gave in with a sigh and allowed Dean to pull him to his feet.
"Time to get moving," Dean stated, pulling his duffel back over his shoulder. "With any luck, we can have this sucker salted and burned by tonight and be back into town for dinner tomorrow."
Sam sighed and rolled his eyes, hefting his own bag up onto his shoulder. "Since when have Winchesters ever had luck," he groused, kicking some mud from his boots as if to illustrate his point.
Dean merely shrugged and didn't answer.
It was midafternoon before they finally reached the river. They could hear it long before they could see it, a rushing, roaring noise that grew steadily louder until, upon rounding a final bend in the road, it came into view.
Beside Sam, Dean let out a low whistle.
The river looked angry. It was the only way Sam knew how to describe the sight before him. The steady rain throughout the day had caused the river to swell its banks, and white capped waves tumbled and rushed by in the racing current, sending out a constant spray that hung in the air over the river like a curtain of fog. The roar of the water was so loud that by the time they had reached the edge of the washed out bridge, they had to shout in order to hear each other.
"The other bridge is about a half-a-mile south," John told them, indicating a narrow trail branching away from the road and following the twisting path of the river. "Once we cross the river we'll be in this bastard's territory, so I want everyone armed and carrying salt at all times, you hear me?"
"Yes, sir," came both boys' automatic responses.
"But it's during the day," Sam added doubtfully. "Don't ghosts usually wait until night before coming out to play?"
John shrugged. "Most do," he acknowledged, "but if Jeremiah is possessing one of his animal friends, he might not need to wait for night. There's no point in taking any chances."
Sam nodded his understanding, and with a satisfied jerk of his chin, John led the way to the trail to begin their half-mile trek downstream. The path was only wide enough for them to walk in single file, so Sam took up position directly behind his father while Dean took up the rear. After fifteen minutes of walking, the trail began to slope gently upward, leading them up a short hill as the river continued to cut its way through the land below them.
At the top of the hill they spotted the entrance to the foot-bridge, and Sam couldn't help but shudder at the sight before them. The bridge looked like something straight from Indiana Jones; Temple of Doom, with two thick ropes arching across the width of the river, supporting the wooden planks of a suspension bridge. The bridge hung a good ten feet above the river at the start, but gradually bowed down toward the surface of the river in a gentle arch before angling upward again toward the far bank. At the base of the arch, it looked like only a couple of feet separated the planks of the bridge from the swollen waters of the river.
"Well, this looks like fun," Dean muttered from beside Sam, his tone holding only a hint of sarcasm.
Sam swallowed hard and ran his gaze across the length of the bridge once more. It might have just been his imagination, or perhaps the rain playing tricks on his eyes, but it looked almost as though the bridge were listing slightly on the far side. He dashed rain from his eyes and squinted in an effort to see better, but the bridge still looked slightly off to him.
"You're sure those rangers said this bridge was still passable?" Dean asked their father, also peering nervously across the expanse of the river toward the opposite bank.
"It was a week ago," John replied briskly, moving forward once more until he was standing at the entrance to the bridge.
"A week ago," Dean repeated under his breath, and Sam was certain his brother was thinking the same thing he was. "Surely the bridge wouldn't have deteriorated much in just a week?"
If John sensed the trepidation in his two boys, he chose to ignore it. "Dean, you go over first," he ordered. "As soon as you get to the other side get out your shot-gun and cover us. Ghosts seem to have the ability to sense it as soon as someone enters their territory, and I don't want to be a sitting duck if Jeremiah decides to show up. Sam, you'll go over next and I'll bring up the rear. Remember, from here on out we keep our guard up and our eyes open."
Sam was slightly surprised that their father was sending Dean over first, but upon reflection he realized it wasn't that unusual. For the last year, John had been steadily giving Dean more and more responsibility on hunts, placing him in leadership positions. It was more than just a test to see if Dean could handle himself. It was almost as if their father was preparing Dean for something...though Sam had yet to figure out what that could be.
Dean adjusted the pack on his back, squared his shoulders, and stepped to the edge of the bridge. Sam found himself holding his breath as his brother slowly made his way out onto the thin boards, the thick ropes gripped tightly in either hand. At first Dean moved slowly, testing every step, but as his confidence grew he began moving faster. By the time he had reached the lowest point of the arch, Sam was beginning to feel slightly lightheaded from lack of oxygen and forced himself to take a deep breath.
Moving up the far slope of the bridge, Dean suddenly stumbled as the wooden planks beneath him gave a sharp lurch. Sam saw his brother hurriedly shift his weight to the left as the bridge listed suddenly to the right. His breath caught in his throat, but Dean merely adjusted his balance and lunged across the final six feet of bridge to the opposite bank.
Sam's breathless sigh of relief was echoed by his father beside him. Dean flashed them a quick thumbs up from across the river, then lowered his bag from his shoulder and knelt to root through it for his shotgun.
"Alright, Sammy, your turn," John laid a hand on his youngest son's shoulder. "Watch the bridge on that far side…it doesn't look very steady."
Sam nodded, though he felt his father's warning was hardly needed. He was still trying to swallow his heart from where it had lodged somewhere in the back of his throat.
Taking a deep breath, he moved out onto the bridge, feeling the slight sway in the boards beneath his feet. He kept his eyes resolutely on the far side, the ropes sliding smoothly through his palms as he moved forward. As he reached the center of the bridge, he could actually feel the spray from the angry river below him, and couldn't help but glance down at the churning water below.
Lifting his eyes back up to the opposite bank, he saw his brother step up to the edge of the bridge, shotgun in one hand. Dean flashed him a quick, encouraging smile before beginning to turn away. Suddenly, Dean froze, his body stiffening as his gaze locked on something upstream. His eyes flashed back to Sam, and Sam could read the alarm in his brother's expression even as Dean shouted out a warning.
Sam tensed and quickly swung his head in the direction Dean had been looking, half expecting to see the ghost of Jeremiah Moulder floating down the river toward him. There was no ghost, but the sight that met his eyes sent his heart racing nonetheless. The broken and knotted trunk of a giant tree had been caught up in the roiling current of the river, and was currently twisting and spinning with terrifying speed directly toward him. Sam's eyes widened with the realization that the tree was mere seconds from reaching the lowest arch of the bridge. He turned and lunged forward, already knowing there was no way he would reach the opposite bank in time.
He heard his brother cry out his name a second before the tree slammed into the bridge with enough force to knock him from his feet. He crashed down onto the rough planks beneath him, his chin banging painfully against the wood as the bridge lurched and swayed violently beneath him. He looked up to see his brother drop his shotgun and take a step out onto the bridge, but a second later one of the support ropes broke with an audible snap, sending the right side of the bridge plummeting down toward the raging waters below.
Sam let out a yell as he began sliding from the bridge, his fingers reaching out to grasp desperately at the rough wooden planks. He managed to wedge his fingers between two of the boards just as his legs slipped from the bridge, leaving his booted feet dangling mere inches from the surface of the swollen river. The strap of his duffel bag slipped down his shoulder and onto his neck, the rough nylon cutting into the soft flesh of his throat. Sam gasped and choked, unable to release his tenuous hold on the bridge in order to loosen the strangling pressure of the strap. The heavy bag was weighing him down, and the muscles in his arms and shoulders were screaming in agony as he held on for dear life.
Sam knew he would not be able to hold on for long. Already the fingers he had wedged between the wooden planks were aching and cramping, and he could feel the slow tremor in the muscles of his arm. Even worse, he was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe past the cutting pressure of the strap against his windpipe, and sparkling flashes of light were beginning to dance across his vision. He knew he had a minute, perhaps less, before he lost his grip on the bridge and plunged into the violent waters below.
"Hold on, Sammy!"
The shouted order sounded from somewhere above him, far closer than he had expected, and he rolled his eyes upward, surprised to see Dean only a few feet away. His brother was working his way cautiously across the top of the upturned bridge, one arm looped securely around the remaining support rope, the tips of his booted feet inching along the top of the wooden planks.
Sam felt a wave of relief at the sight of his brother, followed just as quickly by a surge of fear. The broken bridge was still bucking and rocking wildly, and Sam knew the second support rope could give way at any time. If that happened, both brothers would be thrown to the angry mercy of the river below.
He wanted to shout at Dean to go back, to get to the safety of the shore before it was too late, but the strap around his neck made it difficult to breathe let alone speak. With no other option, he simply closed his eyes and held on; praying desperately that the bridge would hold and his brother would not fall.
A hand suddenly fisted in the material of his jacket at his shoulder, and his brother's voice sounded from directly above him. "Sam, reach up and grab the rope!"
Sam opened his eyes and looked up, unable to respond with anything but a miniscule shake of his head. He was wheezing harshly in an effort to pull air into his starving lungs, and knew he would never have the strength to hoist his body up to the guide rope.
Dean frowned, but then seemed to comprehend what the problem was. Still holding the support rope with one hand, he began rooting around in his jacket pocket, finally pulling out his pocket knife. Opening the blade with a flick of his wrist, he leaned back down and began carefully sawing at the strap of the duffel bag. What seemed like an eternity later, but was actually only about thirty seconds, the strap gave way, and Sam felt the duffel slide down his back and into the river. He pulled in several deep gulps of air, shaking in pure relief.
"Come on, Sammy! Grab the rope." Dean called again, his fist once again tangling in Sam's jacket.
Now that he was free from the weight of the duffel and could breathe properly again, Sam felt a renewed surge of strength sweep through his limbs. With Dean pulling at him, he managed to hoist his body upward far enough he could reach out with one hand and grasp the rope. After that, it was only a matter of maneuvering himself to the top of the bridge beside his brother.
"Come on," Dean called to him over the roar of the river. His brother released his jacket in order to get a more firm hold on the rope, and then began making his slow way back toward the shore.
Sam took several deep breaths before inching along after Dean. A quick glance behind showed him that the tree was still tangled up in the bridge, the persistent river current pulling and tugging at it so that the whole thing looked in danger of collapse at any moment. Swallowing hard, he picked up his pace as much as possible, his feet sliding along the top edge of the wooden planks.
It seemed to take forever, but eventually Dean leapt forward to the solid ground of the shore, then quickly turned and held out a hand to help pull Sam the last few feet to safety. It was none too soon, either. Sam's boot had barely left the bridge when the second support rope gave way with a snap, and what was left of the bridge plummeted down into the river. Sam stumbled forward, dropping to his knees, his eyes wide as he watched pieces of the bridge he had just been standing on drop into the swiftly flowing current and be swept away.
A heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he glanced up into the concerned face of his brother. "You okay?" Dean asked softly, his gaze sweeping over Sam in a careful search for injury.
"Yeah," Sam answered, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded. He raised a shaky hand to his neck, then cleared his throat and tried again. "Yeah, I'm alright…thanks to you."
Dean flashed him a quick grin, but Sam noticed the tightness in his eyes that gave clear indication that his brother was more than a little shaken over their close call. "What are big brothers for?" he answered simply, straightening to glance back out across the river.
Sam followed Dean's gaze, realizing a bit belatedly that their father was now trapped on the opposite bank. He could see John standing tense and anxious across the river, his hands cupped around his mouth as he attempted to shout across the water to his boys, but the noisy rush of the river was simply too great, and they were unable to make out what he was saying. Dean immediately began flashing hand signals, reverting to the silent form of communication their father had taught them long ago.
For his part, Sam didn't even attempt to follow the silent conversation, but simply slumped back against the wet earth, allowing his eyes to slide closed as he fought to still the shaking in his limbs. He concentrated on performing one of the many breathing exercises his father had taught him, trying to ignore the burning ache in his throat every time he pulled in a breath or swallowed. He was feeling much better by the time Dean called out to him, nudging his shoulder with his booted foot.
"Hey, nap time's over, Sammy. Time to get going."
Sam opened his eyes and pushed himself into a sitting position. "Where are we going?" he asked, wiping at the rain that had pooled on his face with a single swipe of his hand.
"We're carrying on as planned," Dean answered simply, stooping to retrieve his shotgun from where he had dropped it earlier.
"What about Dad?" Sam asked, glancing across the river in time to see his father's back disappearing in the thick underbrush lining the opposite bank.
"He's going to continue downriver and try to find another place to cross," Dean explained. "In the meantime, we're going to continue on to Jeremiah's cabin, find the bastard's bones, and torch them."
"Without Dad?" Sam asked, pushing himself clumsily to his feet, unable to deny the spike of apprehension that surged through him. He had never been on a hunt without his father before.
Dean cast him a slightly impatient glance as he knelt next to the duffel bag of weapons and pulled out the second shotgun. "Yes, without Dad, Sam," he replied shortly. "He'll join us if he can, but it's up to us now." He must have noticed the doubt on Sam's face, because he let out a long sigh. "It's a routine salt-and-burn, Sammy. We've done hundreds of these, so why don't you just relax." He tossed the shotgun to Sam who caught it one handed.
Sam sighed and reached for the handful of shells his brother held out, trying to force down his unease. Dean was right, not to mention that they didn't exactly have much of a choice. There was no apparent way to get back across the river, which meant that for the time being they were stuck. He didn't need to remind himself that they were now in Jeremiah's territory, and he realized he would much rather track down and put an end to the angry spirit than sit around and wait for the ghost to find them.
Loading two of the shells into the shotgun, he stuffed the remainder in his pocket and then gave Dean a stiff nod to indicate he was ready to go.
Dean returned the nod, then grabbed the strap of the duffel and swung it back over his shoulder. "Keep a sharp eye out," was all he said as he turned and began leading the way downriver.
Dean set a brisk pace as they followed the winding path of the river south. He remembered from his father's map that the point where the river branched was about six miles from where they had crossed. It was hard to tell with the sun hidden behind the thick layer of clouds, but he guessed that there was a little less than four hours of daylight left. Which meant they needed to move quickly if they were going to reach Jeremiah's cabin, locate his grave, dig up his remains, and salt and burn the bones before dark. He had no desire to tangle with the homicidal ghost after nightfall, when it seemed all things supernatural had the annoying tendency of becoming super strong, super fast, and super creepy.
Despite Dean's assurances to his brother, he had to admit…if only to himself…that he was feeling slightly apprehensive about being separated from their father. It wasn't that he didn't think he and his brother could handle Jeremiah on their own. They had both the weapons and the training to do it. It was just that the whole hunt seemed as though it had been cursed with misfortune from the beginning. First, the washed out road; then, the never ending rain; and finally, the whole fiasco at the bridge. If Dean actually believed in Fate, he might have started to think it had set itself against them.
He cast a surreptitious glance toward Sam where his brother walked beside and slightly behind him, his gun held across his shoulder, his eyes scanning the area to their right. He could see the red ring around Sam's throat where the duffel strap had rubbed the skin raw, and couldn't help but shudder at the physical reminder of his brother's too close call. The mental image of Sam hanging on by his fingertips above the raging waters of the river was seared into the back of his mind. The absolute terror of that moment had been so sharp and real that he was pretty sure he would have nightmares about it for some time to come. He didn't like to think about how close he had come to losing his brother. If he had been just a little slower in reaching Sam…
As if sensing Dean's scrutiny, Sam glanced over and caught his eye, offering a quick smile. His hand rose to finger the sensitive skin around his neck, as if he knew where Dean's thoughts had been.
"Think I'll get a scar?" he asked. "You always tell me chicks dig scars. I know you have to be telling the truth, because there's no other way to explain why the girls are always so into you."
Dean returned his brother's smile with a wide grin of his own. "You mean, no way besides my incredibly handsome face and charming charisma, of course? For a guy like me, Sammy, scars are just the icing on the cake."
And just like that the tension eased. They spent the next half hour arguing about girls before moving the discussion on to music, then movies, and finally comic super-heroes. The conversation was easy, the mood light, and both boys quickly relaxed, though they remained watchful for any sign of Jeremiah's spirit. For at least a little while, Dean was able to push his worry over his father, the discomfort from his soggy clothes, and the ache in his feet to the back of his mind.
A part of Dean realized that the easy banter between them probably wouldn't have happened if their father had been present. It had always been easier for Sam to relax and open up when it was just the two of them. When John was present, Sam always seemed tense and anxious; at war between the part of him that wanted to please and prove himself to his father and the part that chafed under John's strict rules and heavy handedness.
Dean saw the gulf between the two of them and was saddened by it. His family was the most important thing in the world to him, and it hurt to see the two people he loved more than anything constantly at odds. He tried to step into the gap whenever possible, but had to admit that constantly playing peacemaker was a wearying job. It almost felt like a betrayal to admit it, but it was so much easier when it was just him and Sam.
Three hours into their trek, the rainfall finally subsided to a slow drizzle, then eventually faded away entirely, though the sky was still thick with clouds. It was growing steadily darker, and Dean watched the river intently, hoping they would reach the spot where the river split before it grew too dark to see. If not, they would be forced to camp out for the night and continue on in the morning, something he was not very keen to do. He wanted this hunt over and done with as soon as possible.
"Hey Dean, do you ever wonder what you would like to be…I mean, what you would like to do with your life if you weren't a hunter?" Sam's question pulled Dean from his thoughts as they worked their way across the top of a steep ridge, the river cutting its way through a narrow ravine below them.
Dean spared a quick glance at his brother before dismissing the question with a shrug. "I'm always going to be a hunter, Sam," he replied simply.
"But what if you weren't?" Sam persisted, moving forward to walk side by side with Dean. "What if we lived a normal life and didn't know about ghosts, or werewolves, or any other monsters? What would you do then?"
Dean frowned over at his brother, not sure he liked where the conversation was heading. "I don't know, Sammy. Monsters are real and I do know about them, so what's the point in pretending otherwise."
Sam made an impatient sound, his gaze scanning the tree-line to their right. "So you've never wondered what you would like to do with your life if you weren't hunting?" he asked, a hint of incredulity in his voice
"No," Dean answered truthfully. He had learned a long time ago that dreaming about something that could never be led only to heartache. He wished Sam would figure that out as well and learn to accept the life they lived. Honestly, it wasn't that bad. They got to travel all over the country and experience things that most people wouldn't even know to dream of. Sure, they might have more scars than anyone else their age, but Dean had learned that chicks really did dig scars, so even that wasn't all bad. And at least they were together. For Dean, that was the most important thing.
"Come on, Dean," Sam pressed. "You can't think of anything you would like to do aside from hunting?"
Dean let out a long sigh, realizing that his brother wasn't going to let the topic die. Sam could be extremely persistent when he got his mind set on something, and it was obvious he wasn't going to leave this alone until he got some kind of satisfactory answer from his brother.
"I don't know," Dean repeated slowly, finally giving in. "I guess I could see myself working in some kind of garage or auto repair shop. Kinda like what Dad used to do."
"Really?" Sam asked, the incredulity back in his voice.
"Sure," Dean answered. "What's wrong with working in an auto shop?"
"Nothing," Sam replied quickly. A little too quickly. He must have realized it too, for he cast Dean a quick glance and hurried on. "I mean, it's fine and all, it's just not exactly a dream job, you know?
Dean let a wry smile turn up one corner of his mouth as he watched a large hawk slowly circle the air in front of them. "Well, in case you failed to notice, Geekboy, I'm not like you. I didn't exactly excel at school. 'Dream jobs' aren't really on the roster for grunts like me."
Sam immediately jumped to his defense. "But I think maybe you would have…you know, if things had been different. If we hadn't moved around so much, or if you didn't always have to worry about looking out for me…"
Dean rolled his eyes. The past was the past, and he disliked the "what ifs" and "should haves" just about as much as he did wishing for a future that could never be. He suddenly wished his brother would just drop the subject already.
"I think I would like to be a lawyer," Sam stated suddenly.
Dean let out a sharp bark of a laugh before a glance over at his brother's face told him Sam was being serious.
His jaw dropped, and it was his turn to sound incredulous. "Honestly? You would really want to be a blood-sucking lawyer? That's your dream job?"
"Not all lawyers are bad, Dean," Sam retorted impatiently. "There are some really good ones too, and it's a nice, respectable job. You get to help people without shooting guns or stabbing things."
"But that's the best part about helping people," Dean replied, only half joking.
"I've heard Stanford is an excellent law-school," Sam went on as thought Dean hadn't spoken. "But they require top ACT grades just to be accepted, let alone get a scholarship."
Dean was watching Sam carefully now, noticing the slight flush his brother always got when talking about something he was passionate about. He had assumed that Sam's conversation was all hypothetical, but suddenly he was no longer sure. He stopped dead in his tracks, throwing out a hand to bring his brother to a halt as well, opening his mouth to demand that Sam explain what the hell he was talking about.
Before he could speak, however, a sudden flutter of motion in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He found himself reacting instinctively, reaching out to grab the collar of Sam's jacket and jerking his brother forward and down. Sam let out a shout of surprise, but Dean wasn't paying attention. No sooner had Sam hit the ground then the sharp talons of the hawk he had been watching earlier tore through the air where his brother's head had just been. In the same instant, the temperature dropped, a blanket of cold that settled over Dean like a shroud, causing his breath to come out in a heavy fog.
"What the…"
Sam didn't even get a chance to finish his exclamation before Dean raised his shotgun, pumped the barrel with one quick jerk of his wrist, and fired, sending a round of salt buckshot after the retreating bird. He saw the hawk jerk in mid-air, letting out a terrible screech before plummeting toward the earth to disappear in the thick trees to their right. As quickly as it had come, the blanket of cold air was gone.
"Dean..?" Sam was staring up at him with wide eyes from where he still knelt on the ground at Dean's feet.
Dean reached down and grabbed the front of his brother's shirt, hauling Sam bodily to his feet with one hand while he pumped the shotgun a second time with his other. "I think it is safe to say that Jeremiah knows we're here now," he grunted, his eyes scanning the tree line in the direction the hawk had disappeared.
"Do you think he'll be back?" Sam asked, pumping the stock of his own shotgun in preparation.
"Probably," Dean replied, sparing his brother a quick glance. "Let's get moving. I don't like how exposed we are up here."
Dean didn't wait for Sam's nod before turning and beginning a quick jog along the top of the ridge, his brother falling into step beside and slightly behind him. They ran for ten minutes, guns held at the ready and eyes constantly peeled for any sign of movement. Dean split his attention between warily watching the trees to his right and keeping an eye on the river for any sign of the split he knew had to be somewhere just ahead. Before them, he could see the ridge begin its slow decent back down toward the river, and he breathed out a short sigh of relief.
It was growing perceptibly darker, and though Dean still had no clear view of the sun through the persistent cloud cover, he knew that they were quickly running out of daylight. It would be nightfall soon, and they still hadn't even located Jeremiah's cabin, let alone his grave.
"Dean, down!"
At Sam's shout, instinct once again kicked in over rational thought, and Dean dropped to his knees almost before his brother had finished speaking. He heard the loud report of a shotgun and felt the hairs on the top of his head stir slightly as the blast blew over. His eyes flew to Sam, who was standing with his shotgun raised and steadied against his right shoulder.
"Jeremiah," Sam said simply by way of explanation, his eyes wide.
"Did you get him?" Dean asked, standing and bringing his own gun up, his eyes scanning around him wildly.
Sam shook his head. "He phased out just as I fired."
Dean nodded, was just opening his mouth to suggest they keep going, when Jeremiah appeared once more, this time directly between them. Dean didn't even get a chance to shout a warning to his brother before the spirit placed one hand on his chest and the other on Sam's and shoved.
Dean gasped and tightened his grip on his gun as he found himself stumbling backwards.
The push hadn't been that strong, and Dean was able to remain on his feet by quickly widening his stance and digging his heels into the loose soil of the ridge. Sam wasn't quite so lucky. Dean could see his brother struggling to find his balance, but a large rock caught at his right heel, and he went down hard, landing on his backside with a pained grunt.
Jeremiah phased out, then just as quickly reappeared, this time directly in front of Dean. For a moment Dean was looking straight into his face, and the cold fury and hatred in the spirit's eyes sent a spike of fear through him. He quickly brought his gun up and back, tucking it to his side as Jeremiah reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders. Dean fired from his waist, point blank into the spirit's stomach at the same time Jeremiah gave him a powerful shove. The spirit screamed and disappeared in a blast of air as the rock salt tore through him, but the damage had already been done.
Dean found himself flying backward once more, this time much more violently. He felt the skip of loose gravel and rock at his heels, and then suddenly, nothing. He had a moment of horrified realization that he had reached the edge of the ridge, and then he felt himself toppling backward, his arms wind-milling desperately at his sides in a futile attempt to right himself. But he couldn't fight gravity, and the tip of his right boot…the only part of him still connected with solid ground…slipped from the top of the ridge in a small rain of rock and pebbles.
He heard Sam scream his name, and then he was falling.
Remember folks, killing me will not get the next chapter up sooner, but reviewing might. :)