Chapter Four: The Problems With Kids

The kid knew his business, Logan would give him that. The scumbag arms dealers tried to jack up the price, offered extras 'at a bargain', but Dean wouldn't put up with any of it. When they pressured him, the kid offered to play 'em a couple of hands of poker for the full price. Both scumbags backed down. Now there had to be a story behind that. Maybe on the drive back he would be able to at least make Dean think about it, so the kid would have to talk. Logan kept a steady expression as he realized just how much it would annoy the kid. Maybe he would have a little fun on this baby-sitting assignment.

They hung around for a few minutes after the scumbags left, rechecking the flame-throwers to be sure they really worked. They did. Then Dean cased the cabin again with a worried look on his face.

"I'll have to call Jim later and meet him up here to check the place over again," Dean muttered as he walked along the far wall. "He doesn't need any surprises."


John Winchester peered down at Jim's cabin. He hadn't expected to see the Impala parked behind it, that was for sure. Wasn't Dean supposed to be on a job? What was he hunting? John wracked his brain, but he couldn't remember and he wasn't positive Dean had even said, and that bothered him. He would like to blame it on the fact Dean had called him during the ballgame and nearly given him a heart attack, but he couldn't. It wasn't like it had been on purpose. Dean couldn't have known what he was doing. Or with who. Thank God.

"Dad?" Adam asked from behind him. "Is everything all right?"

John turned swiftly from the cabin to face the boy. "Sure, son. I was just thinking, how would you like to really camp out? In the tents?"

Adam was thirteen, but the way his face lit up reminded John of Dean at three. Shit. What was Dean doing here? He kept the cabin in sight for as long as he dared, but John never saw Dean. At least he could be fairly certain Dean never spotted him, either. How the hell would he explain Adam to Dean? Gee, son, I'm only human. Yeah, right. That would go over about as well as a lead balloon. Besides, Dean had just started to relax a little, have some fun without Sam around. John wasn't about to screw that up, too.

As he followed Adam back to a pretty spot by the lake, John fingered the cell phone he had in his pocket. He pulled it out to stare at it, wondering if he should call and check up on what Dean was doing. Dean was perfectly capable, he argued with himself, and well trained. But he was still John's son, and that meant John wouldn't be sleeping much tonight.

"Dad?" Adam looked worried. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

Filled with instant resolve, John pressed on the power button to turn the damn thing, and his temptation, off. "Nah," he replied in a strong voice. "I'm just making sure work can't call. We don't want them ruining our fun, do we?"

Adam beamed at him with the kind of happiness he couldn't ever remember seeing in either Dean or Sam. Damn him.


With the flame-throwers safely packed away in the back, Dean pointed the car the way they had come. The interstate was in decent shape, so he didn't have to worry about potholes in the dark. It would be nice if he could crank his tunes, but Logan had threatened to slice through the tape player and Dean was pretty sure a replacement wouldn't be easy to come by.

"Perfect frigging bait," he mumbled as he drove, a plan forming in his mind. "All we have to do is tromp out in the woods and get the damned thing's attention. Maybe there's a kosher butcher around I can hit in the morning."

"Butcher?" Logan asked, taking the stupid cigar out to wave around. "What do ya need a butcher for?"

"Blood." The word was out of his mouth before he could even try to stop it. "We should be able to lure it out with the scent of blood. Looks like the dead kid's body was what brought it there in the first place. I'm guessing it's been hangin' around, hoping your buddy Victor would bring it another easy kill." Dean paused to rub at the back of his neck. "Which is kind of weird, because I thought Wendigos liked a good hunt. Easy pickings just don't seem to be their style."

"But you're sure that's what this is?" Logan asked, looking worried for the first time. "Right?"

"Yeah," Dean said on a sigh. "Has to be. Nothing else fits. But maybe I should call Dad, just to be sure." Logan didn't move or say anything to stop him, so Dean pulled out his cell. Dad's number was easy, all he had to do was call the last number again.

"'lo?" a rough, gruff voice answered. It took him a minute to place it, because he hadn't been expecting to hear it.

"Bobby? Are you with Dad?" Dean asked, astounded.

"Nah. Forgot who you called last again, huh?" Bobby chuckled at him. "So what's up, Dean? You never did tell me what it is you're huntin'."

"Oh. Right." Dean gave his head a small shake. "I'm almost positive it's a Wendigo."

"Wendigo?" Bobby demanded and he sounded pissed. "Don't tell me you're going after it by yourself?"

Dean glanced to his right. "Not by myself. Honest, Bobby."

A whoosh of air sounded through the phone, making Dean grin. "Better not be, boy, if you know what's good for ya. So you're almost positive, huh? What's that mean?"

"I don't suppose you've heard of a Wendigo who likes easy kills? A lazy one?" Dean asked hopefully.

A loud 'hurrumph' barreled from the phone and Dean knew the pissy 'you-gotta-be-kidding' expression was plastered all over the old man's face. "A lazy Wendigo? Hell, I guess. If it was lazy before it started eatin' people, it might stay lazy. Takes all kinds. Please tell me you have more to go on than just some dead body."

"Little pieces from a dead body, claw marks, and I watched something move so fast it was just a blur go after a couple of guys. It took one of 'em and tied him up in a tree," Dean explained.

"Yeah, that's a Wendigo all right," Bobby confirmed. "What's the plan?"

Dean grinned as he relayed the news. "I always wanted my own flame-thrower."

Bobby laughed. "Boy, you're incorrigible. Need any help? I hate the idea of you goin' after this thing by yourself. Where is it, anyway?"

"A little town just inside Westchester County, north side of the state," Dean explained.

"I've been hearin' a lot about that county. Lots of strange things happen there," Bobby said slowly. "So, do you need help or what? You never said."

"Nah, I kind of ran into another hunter out here," Dean told him.

"Tell me it's not the guy who was up in the tree," Bobby demanded.

"All right. I won't." Dean chuckled at the huff through the phone. "Don't worry about it, Bobby. I'll be fine."

"Does your daddy know what you're up to?" Bobby asked.

"He's not answering his phone," Dean lied. It wasn't like he'd tried, either, so it could be true. "I guess he's busy. I need to go, Bobby."

"Call me!" Bobby barked at him before he could hang up.


Bobby stared at the phone for a moment after hanging up. Dean's tone had been a little off. Plus, he had asked if Bobby was with John, because he had forgotten who he called last. At the end there, he had claimed John wasn't picking up. So how the hell would Dean know if John was picking up if he hadn't called? Damn Winchesters were going to be the death of him.

Bobby picked the receiver back up to call one of his oldest friends, wondering if he would have to hunt down and kick the man's ass. It rang straight over to voice-mail. Great. Maybe Dean had tried before calling him the last time. Bobby waited for the beep.

"It's Bobby. Dean's after a Wendigo. Sounds like he ran into another hunter to help him, but he wouldn't give me a name. Thought you'd want to know, even though you're not picking up your god-damned phone!" Bobby slammed the receiver down to show his dear, dear friend what an ass Bobby thought he was.


When John woke, the first rays of dawn were peeking over the horizon. He slipped out of the small pup tent. The tent pitched next to his still housed a sleeping Adam. As he headed for the lake's edge to splash some cool water on his face, John recalled the first time he had taken Sammy and Dean into the woods. It had been for survival training, of course. At the time, it hadn't bothered Sammy. The kid had brought books along so he could identify the local fauna and animal tracks while his older brother teased him about it. But John had noticed that Dean never hid any of Sammy's books and seemed to be proud when his little brother knew things he didn't.

The lake water slapped his face with merciless cold, shocking his system into full wakefulness. Damn it, what was Dean up to in Jim's cabin? Typically they only used it to recover from injuries which would require more than a week's downtime, or to meet some of the characters it was safer not to meet in a bar or public place. Oh, God, what was Dean up to?

John forced his hand to be steady as he removed the cell phone from his pocket. He tried to be patient as it powered up. Three voice mails. Crap. With gritted teeth John retrieved his messages.

The first one was from Bobby?

"John? What's all this mutant crap Dean was askin' about? He hung up on me, too. I assume that was because you walked in. Was he drunk? Call me back, or I'll come after ya with my shotgun."

Delete. Second message.

"John, this is Jim. Normally I would not bother you, but it appears Dean is at the cabin and he sounded, well, odd. Odd as in not quite himself. No, not inebriated, because his speech was not slurred, but giving a bit more voice to his thoughts than usual. I am hoping he has not discovered something stronger than alcohol. Also, it would seem he found my cabin amiss. Are you there as well?"

Jesus, he might as well rent out a freaking neon sign. Delete that one, too. All he needed now was for Sam to call just to tell him what a lousy father he was to round off his morning. Third message.

Bobby's voice growled at him through the phone. Initially he was relieved, since John had been expecting to hear the voice of one of his sons. Then Bobby said the magic word, Wendigo. Holy crap. Dean must've been meeting with some low-life at the cabin to buy more weapons. He hoped it wasn't that faggot Ollie. The way that creep looked at Dean always gave him chills. Dean was with another hunter? What hunters did Dean know that Bobby didn't? John had made damned sure Dean only knew a select, hand-picked group.

Save message. Damn it.

John stared long and hard at the phone in his hand. Behind him a boy slept soundly, knowing without a doubt there was no evil lurking in the night or under beds. Meanwhile, the son he had trained as an evil-hunting soldier was out there doing only God knew what, and that thought made his jaw clench and his stomach twist. A frigging Wendigo? If it were just a ghost or poltergeist, he could blow that off, but a bloodthirsty predator who craved human flesh?

Well, hell, if Adam overheard him calling Dean, too damned bad. This was more important. He was pretty sure he could play the call off to his fictional garage back in Kansas anyway.

John called Dean's number, for the first time in a couple of months. Dean had been the one making all the calls lately, he realized as his gut twisted again. He had expected his son to pick up right away, after just the first ring or two. It rolled to voicemail. Slightly disturbed, John tried again. Again it rolled to voicemail. Sweat collecting on his brow, John attempted to call a third time.

"Yeah, what?" a deep male voice demanded. "Bub, you got any idea what time it is?"

"Where's Dean?" John demanded as panic settled in. "What'd you do with him?"

"Huh? Do with him? Oh, I ain't that kind of guy." Then, in the background, "Hey, kid. Call for you."

"Huh? For me? Duh, dude, it's my freaking phone, of course it's for me." Dean's voice came in loud and clear. At first John felt only relief, which was instantly overshadowed with anger for his son worrying him unnecessarily. "Bobby? Or is this Jim? You know, it doesn't matter. I'm on a hunt and I have to be up in like an hour to check out the local butcher, so let me frigging sleep." The connection died before he could say one word.

John stared at the phone in his hand in utter disbelief, like it had just bitten him. Then a cold chill descended as he realized that if Dean wasn't still at the cabin, then John had no clue where he might be. He should've cut this vacation short right after Dean nearly busted him at the ballgame. It had been a sign. Sam was right; he was a stupid, stubborn son-of-a-bitch.


Dean slammed his cell phone on the nightstand as his eyes closed and his head dropped back down on the pillows with a soft thump. Logan allowed a smile to play upon his lips, since no one was watching. He hated to admit it, but the kid was growing on him. The way Dean handled himself with those low-lifes, without starting a shooting match, had been impressive. If the kid's father were half the man Dean seemed to think he was, then Logan just might have to watch his step around the elder Winchester.

He returned to his own bed to stare up at the ceiling. Fragments of memories, disjointed images without rhyme or reason, danced in his head. Some memories were longer, more coherent than others. The wars, for example. He could remember every single damned war. But people? Hell, he could've married a couple of dozen women for all he knew. The only people who mattered were in the here and now anyway. That's what the Professor kept telling him. Not to worry about it. But Victor was in his past, way back, if he could only remember it. And if he could remember it, maybe Logan could figure out the bastard's weakness and finally kill him. That was assuming Victor wouldn't come back to haunt him.

Even with his swiss-cheese memory, Logan was certain he had never believed in ghosts or any of the crap Dean claimed to hunt. It was too unreal. He liked solid things, things he could hold in his hand or slice with his claws. Even the Professor had seemed kind of shaken up after taking a stroll through the kid's head. It would take a lot to shake up the Professor like that. He'd have to ask the kid if there was a way to keep somebody from coming back as a ghost. Just to be on the safe side.

Then the faces of those nameless people from his past started to filter through his half-awake mind. Some were frightened, some angry, and some were downright scary, but only a few ever smiled. Maybe the Professor was right and he was better off not knowing. Then a face that felt familiar stood out above all the others. The face solidified, until Logan thought he could reach out an touch it. It was the face of a young soldier, much younger than Dean was now, maybe nineteen or twenty. He wore army green and mud was splattered all over his left side, but the soldier smiled anyway. Logan trusted the smile, and the face. The soldier had those eyes, the kind which have seen too much, but in his gut he knew this kid wouldn't flip out on him at the wrong time. Then he closed his eyes against a fresh flood of memories, bloody battles, corpses piled left and right, and the moans of the wounded and dying.

"Dude. Logan." A gentle voice, like the smile of the soldier, reached out through the gore. "Come on, Logan. Time to wake up."

Logan forced his eyes to open. Dean stood at the foot of his bed, one boot on the comforter bouncing the mattress up and down.

"What?" he demanded. "You don't know how to wake a guy up?"

"A guy with huge claws?" Dean's face broke in a teasing smile as his foot returned to the floor. "Figured I was safer over here."

"You are," Logan admitted. "So who was on the phone earlier?"

Dean gave him a puzzled look. "What?"

Logan motioned to the mess Dean had left the other bed in. "Somebody called you. Who was it?"

Dean shook his head. "Dude, you must've dreamed that. C'mon, we're burnin' daylight."

"Oh, so now you're gonna go John Wayne on me?" Logan asked as he rolled off the bed.

A snorted chuckle and a head shake were the only straight answer he got. "Dude's older'n movies, and he's a John Wayne fan?"

"Hey," Logan said defensively as he followed Dean out the door, "The Quiet Man was a great flick."

"You probably liked the chick in it. About your vintage, right?" Dean asked with a smirk.

Logan patted his pockets, looking for a cigar. "Not gonna let up on the age thing, are ya, kid?"

"Besides, 'burnin' daylight' was from The Cowboys, not The Quiet Man," Dean continued as if he hadn't said a damn word. "So you're obviously a fan. Most old dudes are." Those old eyes set in a young face (and why was the face always so young?) darted to meet Logan's gaze. "And I'll let up on the old dude bit when you quit calling me a kid."

Logan shook his head. "Guess I'll have to get used to it, then." He found most of a cigar in his front shirt pocket and stuck it in his mouth.

"Doesn't matter. It's not like we'll be seeing each other after today anyway," Dean mumbled. "Even if we kill the Wendigo without getting ourselves killed, he'll take off and we'll never see each other again. Sooner or later, everybody leaves."

Maybe, Logan thought to himself. It'd depend on if the kid was worth a damn. Guys who could be relied on when things turned nasty weren't common. Logan preferred keeping in touch with guys like that, even the ones who went by stupid names like Cyclops.