The Hunting of a Snark
Chapter the First
Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again
The five unmistakable marks
Three Months Before
The road was empty, the long empty stretches that Dean loved above all else. It meant the radio was up to almost full volume, Sam was crashed in the seat beside him, the windows were down and they were off on a hunt.
The Perfect World—Winchester Style.
They were in Eastern Oregon, mostly ranches and farms dotting the landscape. The hills were the ones Dean always associated with this part of the country—the Snake and Columbia River valleys—rolling mountains covered in ancient lava that always reminded him of castle ramparts. He remembered telling Sam when they drove through as children that they were "long ago" castles. Somehow he'd never shaken that childhood fancy.
Dean loved this country. Loved the hills, loved the deep blue of the Wallowa Mountains looming in the distance, loved the cottonwood that clustered around the waterways and the wide open fields that made him feel like he could see forever. There was something about it that filled him with a sense of peace, and he had no idea why. He wasn't fond of camping, it was easier to slip anonymously through a city, but still, there was something here that made him breathe easier, that relaxed the tension between his shoulder blades, and it had the same effect on his brother. Sam laughed a little louder, smiled a lot more, even dug through the ancient box of tapes and stuck in his favorite mixes, cranking the volume "one louder", to the small number eleven Dean had drawn on the stereo with paint, which would set them both laughing.
If it weren't for the five missing persons, it would be a vacation—and even then, Dean wasn't even sure it was their kind of gig. Sam didn't seem sure either, and he suspected his brother had found the "hunt" more as an excuse to revisit the area than because he believed anything was lurking in the bright valleys and pine-topped hills. They needed a break, and this was perfect. If they were lucky, the little cafe in Joseph still had the fried pork chop sandwiches. The area had become more "artistic" than it had once been and restaurants catering to a more upscale clientele had replaced some of the diners and taverns, but it was still in the heart of ranching country. Dean grinned, the locals were not easily parted from what they loved.
Dean pulled into town, heading towards the motel they had stayed at years before, happily surprised that it was still there, nestled under ancient lodge pole pines with a small picnic table out front and the sound of the wind all around. He got out of the car and took a deep breath, the air was fresh, scented with a mixture of pine and sage, hay and dust and something else that would always be this place for him.
"What's the plan?' Dean asked, leaning against the sun-warmed car.
"All of the disappearances were up the valley."
"So, we get lunch and head up there for a picnic?" Dean smiled.
"A picnic?" Sam raised his eyebrows.
"Sure, why not, it's not camping, so we're not tempting fate. No wendigos, no orcs. You know, sunlight, sandwiches..."
"Ants, yellow jackets..."
"Spoilsport." Dean opened the car and dropped into the driver's seat. After a quick stop at the Safeway, they were winding their way up the valley towards Imnaha. It hadn't changed since the last time they were there, spending time at a friend of their father's while John recovered from a bad mauling. The house had been up the Imnaha River valley and Sam and Dean had spend many hours sitting by the river, playing in the water, pretending to fish and roasting hotdogs over a campfire every night.
Dean turned the music down and looked at his brother. "It looks the same."
"It does, remember white-water rafting on the air mattresses?"
"Down to the bridge and we walked back," Dean said, laughing. "That one night the cougar tracked us back. Maybe it's something like that? Idiots getting themselves eaten by the local wildlife."
"When Bobby called, I wondered about that too, but the strange thing is there is no trace of them at all."
"Happens all the time, Sam. The Benders took people for years until you cunningly tracked them down." Dean gripped the wheel tighter for just a moment, the memory of those frantic hours flashing through his mind, chased away by his brother's chuckle.
"I know." Sam frowned. "It's more a hunch."
"What kind of hunch?" Dean glanced over, then focused back on the road as he passed a large logging truck lumbering along at the speed limit.
"That something is going on up there."
"Like what?" Dean asked absently, watching as the valley narrowed briefly, the bulbous rock walls reaching over the road.
"All of the disappearances were at Hat Point."
"Hat Point?"
"It's the overlook to Hell's Canyon, we went up there with Al when we were staying up here, remember?"
Dean smiled, remembering the trip up to the lookout. The drive was amazing, and when they got there, Al had been friends with the fire spotter and they had been allowed to climb up into the tower. It was a view he'd never forgotten. He'd teased Sam for years about seeing the Grand Canyon, but the memory of that deep valley, with the mountains in the background and the sense of freedom of a day away from their father—he doubted the Grand Canyon could top that. From the top of the tower they could see for miles, the spotter had explained his job, Dean and Sam had ignored him, taking turns racing from side to side, shouting what they could see.
"Huh," they said together.
"Do you remember that?" Dean asked his brother.
"What was it?"
"We asked, didn't we? What it was?"
Sam frowned, thinking about it. "We did, they told us we imagined it."
"So," Dean said, looking over. "There is something up there."
They drove through the tiny hamlet of Imnaha and headed up the road towards Hat Point. It climbed steadily up, winding along the valley, then moving to hug the hill, and finally they were driving along the crest, the sides along the edge of the road dropping thousands of feet. Dean swallowed, he knew objectively, the road was plenty wide for both his car and a large truck, but somehow it felt close, dangerous and he was slowing down. He could see his brother grinning at him and chose to ignore it. Finally, he reached the parking area and pulled in. They were on top of the world, or it felt that way. Sam walked over to the edge and they stood together looking down into the gorge.
"It's the deepest river gorge in America," Sam said.
"I'd be more impressed if I couldn't read the sign too," Dean said, pointing at the plaque that said the gorge was 7,993 feet deep. "We are currently at almost 5,500 feet. See, I know shit."
"Or read it." Sam laughed.
"You did it first." Dean nudged him. "What was that?"
"I don't know." Sam moved closer to the edge, the wind whipping up out of the canyon.
"Can you see anything?" Dean stepped beside him, peering over. The wave of vertigo was so unexpected and so shattering he had no time to react. Everything swam before his eyes, reality wavering and he would have tumbled over, except for Sam's reflexes. His brother grabbed him by the collar and hauled him back from the edge, yanking him with enough force for both of them to end up on the ground.
"What the hell, Dean?" Sam was furious.
"I … I'm not sure." He shook his head. "I got dizzy."
"You almost fell over the edge. Five thousand feet!"
Dean swallowed, all too aware of how close he had come to that fatal fall. He stood up, Sam standing and looming over him like a rabid guard dog. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the only other person there, a man in a ranger's uniform, walking along the edge, obviously focused on the horizon and not watching where he was walking.
The man suddenly stopped.
Dean started moving towards him, Sam right behind him, the sense of disaster closing in faster than he could move.
The ranger took another unsure step, raised a hand to his head and fell. His scream filled the wind with terror and suddenly another sound echoed around them—a growl, a shriek, a laugh all combined into one until as quickly as it was born it ended, the ranger's scream gone as well as if it had been swallowed whole.
Dean reached the spot where the man had fallen and looked over—nothing—not even a rock out of place to show the man had ever even existed.
He looked up into his brother's eyes, seeing his own sense of horror reflected there. Whatever had happened to the ranger had almost been his fate. Dean took a slow breath, noticing his hands were shaking, Sam didn't look any better.
"I guess we have a hunt," Sam said softly.
"Yeah, but for what?"
Present
Two months, three weeks, six days, nine hours, twelve minutes, seven seconds after
Dean turned the car onto the highway that lead to Imnaha. The radio was silent, Bobby was silent, the only sound came from the car, rumbling its soft song of the road. It had been too long, but it was time, long past time.
"This is a fool's errand," Bobby muttered. It was the only thing he said, only thing he had said for the last two hundred miles.
Dean growled. He felt the older hunter's eyes on him, staring, it didn't matter what the man thought. He had a plan, he knew what he was going to do. It was simple, he would explain when they got there. From somewhere deep inside he felt the tiny rattle of madness. Felt its eyes on him from the backseat. He growled again, humming softly to himself. Bobby shifted uncomfortably and Dean pressed down on the accelerator. Only a few more hours now, only a few more.
'Tis a maxim tremendous, but trite:
And you'd best be unpacking the things that you need
To rig yourselves out for the fight.
To Be Continued