A/N: Thank you all for reading and reviewing, and for your patience galore, I meant to post sooner, but things were a little add and stopped the process of more. From here on out, I will hope without doubt to keep the schedule clear. Uh, I might have been reading too much Snark. Extra mimsiest thanks to Merisha and a frumsiest Bandersnatch for TraSan.

Chapter the Third

Three Months Ago

By which you may know, wheresoever you go,
The warranted genuine Snarks

The motel room was quiet, the soft hum of the refrigerator and the whir of the fan in the laptop were the only sounds. Dean was staring at his brother as if Sam had just suggested the monster that was killing people came from a children's book. Oh, wait. He did. "Lewis Carroll?" Dean asked, hearing the scoff of disbelief in his voice. "Like Alice in Wonderland?"

"Yeah, only not Alice, it's from another work, a poem."

"Poetry, Sammy? The monster is from a poem?"

Sam huffed at him. "A lot of monsters are."

"Name one."

"Grendel."

"Okay, fine. Name two."

"Sylphs, vampires..." His brother raised his eyebrows. "Did you want more?"

"Bite me. Okay, so Lewis Carroll wrote a poem about a creature that Bernie the nutcase quotes in his blog, what kind of creature?"

There was a long hesitation. Sam cleared his throat, glanced around, then looked up, obviously bracing himself. "A Snark."

Dean burst out laughing. "A what?"

"A Snark, he describes it in 'The Hunting of the Snark'."

"You're serious."

"Bernie seemed convinced, and once you know what he's talking about some of his other ravings make more sense."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, he talks about the crisp air in the late afternoon, how it feeds at five and can be heard growling at the slightest provocation—his words."

"And all this makes it a Snark?"

"I think so, if I am reading the poem right, or if Bernie was." Sam sighed. "I'm going to see if I can track down a few more leads."

"On the Snark?" Dean shifted, his head was starting to pound. "Maybe I'll just rest my eyes for a second or two."

"Sure," his brother muttered, already distracted and tapping at the keys on his computer.

The sound of the door opening and the scent of fried pork woke Dean. He cracked open an eye, his brother was setting two bags down on the table. Dean slowly sat up, groaning as his ribs creaked, one of them was definitely cracked, now that he was a little more aware of it. How far had he fallen? All he really remembered was Sam's panicked face, how far down it was from where he had landed and how long it had seemed to take his brother to drag him up the cliff face... It must have been at least... He stopped himself, he didn't really want to know.

"I got dinner," Sam said, glancing over with a smile.

"Fried pork chop sandwiches?" Dean asked, sniffing the aroma again.

"Yeah, just like they used to make them, but I bought beer on the way back." Sam grinned.

Dean felt an answering grin. "We never got the chance to try them with beer." The town was small enough that they remembered the Winchesters and had refused to sell Dean any alcohol on their last pass through the area when he was seventeen.

"We always planned to." Sam sat at the table, pulled out two take-out boxes and opened a couple of bottles of beer. "It's from a local-ish micro brewery."

As he stood, carefully cradling his ribs, Dean frowned. "Local-ish?"

"That's what the girl who convinced me to by it said." His brother smiled and blushed.

"Oh, so it's like that, is it?"

Sam huffed. "No."

"Oh yeah, so like that. You bought it because she suggested it." Dean sniggered, and took a sip. "Not bad though." He opened the box and grabbed the sandwich, taking a bite and savoring the spicy breading and the perfectly cooked chop. "Oh, god, it's better than I remember."

"Try not to drool on the table."

"Mmm, not..." Dean took another bite, chased it with some beer, then looked over at his brother. "You find any leads?"

Sam nodded and set his food down. "I think Bernie was onto something."

"The Snark?" Dean raised his eyebrows

"Yeah, Dean, the Snark," Sam replied, with that look on his face. "But that's just the tip of the iceberg. I think Carroll was a hunter. Well, Charles Dodgson, was. He was Lewis Carroll."

"Yeah, I knew that."

"Right, anyway, I think he was on the hunt for something big, really big, and trying to let other hunters know what was going on without giving himself away." Sam shoved his food aside, grabbed his computer and hauled it over.

"Why?"

Sam looked up, his eyes bright with excitement. Dean hid a smile. His brother on the hunt. "There was a group of hunters at the time that were going after a bunch of creatures. Victorian England was full of stories of them, that's really when a lot of what we know started getting published."

"With you so far."

"I think Carroll and his friends were after something big, it had been taking people for years and they were trying to hunt it down. He dropped hints in all his poetry, but 'The Hunting of the Snark' is the one with the most important information. It logs the fate of his fellow hunters—one went insane, one was taken by the creature. And I think it tells us what we need to kill it, we just have to figure out the code."

"I don't like the sound of that. What do you mean code?

"He says, repeatedly that the hunters need thimbles and care, forks and hope, threaten it with railroad stock and charm it with smiles and soap." Sam frowned. "The thing is the thimbles, forks and smiles are always paired with the other—hope, care and soap."

"He was rhyming."

"He could have changed it, but he is very careful to repeat the exact phrasing over and over:

… seek it with thimbles, to seek it with care/To pursue it with forks and hope/To threaten its life with a railway-share/To charm it with smiles and soap.'"

"Rhyming."

"Clue."

"Fine, what kind of clue? What good is a thimble and care? Fork and hope?" Dean grinned. "Use the forks, Luke. Use the forks."

"Dean."

"What?"

"Are you finished?"

"For now." Dean took a bite of his sandwich and looked at his brother. "Well?"

"I don't know, no one has figured it out, at least as far as Bernie could find."

"Bernie the nutcase."

"He wasn't, Dean, that's what I've been telling you."

"Because Lewis Carroll was a hunter and wrote about his hunts and the creatures in code in his poetry. Next thing you will be suggesting is..."

"Don't say it."

"Da..."

"Dean."

"Vin..."

"Dean!"

"Ci..."

"Stop." Sam huffed. "This isn't like that at all. There are solid clues, what to look for—like the towers disappearing."

"You said something about bathing machines, how does that apply to a fire tower?"

"I looked up bathing machines, and they are those little shacks on the beach that they used to have for people to change into their swimsuits. They looked a little like a fire tower." Sam turned the computer around so Dean could see a collection of images.

"Okay, so the nutcase might be right about that, but why would a creature want something like that?"

"I don't know, the poem says it carries them around because it …'believes that they add to the beauty of scenes/A sentiment open to doubt.' It makes no sense."

"I'm surprised you think it will."

"The answers are all here, we just need to know what we're looking for." Sam closed the computer. "Bernie lives in town."

"You want to go talk to him?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"Visiting hours are over in an hour, I already called."

Dean sighed. Visiting hours, figures.

Twenty minutes later they were pulling up in front of the Shady Pines Rest Home. It was a small building, not really what Dean had been expecting, it looked more like a nice, quiet apartment complex. He got out of the car, stopping to take a deep breath as his ribs sent a wave of agony across his chest. Unable to stop the hiss of pain, he tried to cover with a little laugh. It didn't fool Sam, his brother was around the car, a hand under his elbow before Dean even had a chance to defend himself.

"You should have stayed at the motel," Sam said, concern coloring his voice.

"I'm fine."

"Yeah." There was a huff of annoyance Dean knew all too well from his brother, before Sam stalked off towards the entrance of the building.

Even though he was ahead of Dean, he knew Sam was somehow keeping an eye on him. He had no idea how his brother managed it, but since he did the same thing, he just let it go. When Dean walked into the small reception area, Sam was already chatting to the woman behind the desk. Glancing around, he was impressed by the soft colors on the walls and the quiet. In fact, it was weirdly quiet, other than Sam's conversation there were no other sounds at all, not even piped in music. Huh.

"I'll take you back," the receptionist said, and stood, leading them to a door. She swiped a key card and the door opened. Then there were sounds. Conversation, music, screams—Dean paused for a moment, but he was definitely hearing screams. "That's Gerry, don't worry, he's harmless," she said as she walked down hallways and opened another door that led out into a patio. A man in a bathrobe sat waiting in a lounge chair. "Bernie, you have visitors."

"Yeah?" the man said listlessly.

"I'll leave you. Just buzz me and I will let you out."

Sam waited until she was gone before sitting on the bench opposite Bernie's chair. "I'm Sam and that's my brother Dean. We were up at Hat Point the other day and saw something. I found your blog and wanted to talk about it."

"You wanted to come talk to old crazy Bernie, who were out in the woods fer too long and gone and went nutters," Bernie said, his eyes flicking between them. "Well, I ain't seen nothing, those are jest the ramblin's of a man who got nothin' better ta do."

Dean watched the man for a moment, the way he looked at Sam, glanced up at the sky as if he could see something there, then focused back on Sam again. "Does that work?" Dean finally said.

"What?" Sam asked.

"What?" Bernie echoed.

Dean sat on the bench beside Sam. "Does that work? That line of crap you just sold us?"

"Don't know what yer talkin' about," Bernie muttered.

"I read your blog, Bernie, and did a little research..." Sam began, but stopped when the man's eyes slid away again.

"We're hunters, Bernie," Dean offered, wondering if it would make a difference.

"Elk and deer are out of season."

"You know that's not what he's talking about," Sam said quietly.

Bernie's eyes narrowed and he actually focused on the two of them. "No, it's not. What happened while you were up there?" he asked, the accent completely gone, his voice soft.

"One of the rangers fell and vanished. We watched one of the fire towers just disappear and my brother walked off the edge of the cliff, and doesn't remember doing it," Sam answered.

"It's back, then. I thought it was. They don't let us hear much of the news in here, but things filter in, it's a small community and people do gossip when they visit, then I hear it from my fellow patients. They've lost a few up there over the last couple of months." Bernie nodded. "I was trying to figure a way out of here, but maybe I don't need to, not if you're here. I'm not much good in a fight..." He rapped his left leg, a hollow thunk sounded. "I lost it chasing the thing."

Sam leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him, in what Dean always thought of as his "listening" pose. That earnest face could get more information than Torquemada, and without the torture. In dire situations, Sam would toss in the look and maybe a hint of that smile like a lost sad puppy and people would spill their guts. "Yeah?" Sam prompted gently.

"I was up there about ten years ago when I first saw something weird. I've never been a believer, you know? In fact, I spent a lot of time scoffing at people. I worked down in the Southwest for a few years—until they decided to transfer me because I had a little too much fun at the expense of the people wandering out in the desert looking for signs of ancient aliens, you know the types."

"Oh, yeah," Dean agreed wholeheartedly. "Freaks and moron—or victims."

"There were those, I always chocked it up to the desert, human carelessness, stupidity. People walk out into nature and forget that the human organism is fairly fragile."

"No teeth, no claws, can't run fast," Dean said, meeting the man's eyes. Whatever he was, Bernie was not crazy.

"Exactly, so I hid behind that. People wander off on some foolishness and they just don't come back."

"But that's not always the case," Sam added.

"No, it's not." Bernie sighed. "And I couldn't deny that any longer when I got here and started seeing things up at Hell's Canyon. The towers disappearing, people vanishing, there were other things too, and it started to jiggle something in my memory."

"Lewis Carroll," Sam stated.

"Yes, the Snark. I'd loved the poem as a child. My father was a professor, and I memorized it and recited it as a birthday gift for him when I was six. I love Carroll, I just never realized..."

"He was writing about something real?" Sam finished for him.

"It still doesn't seem believable, and I do question my sanity."

"But something took your leg," Sam said.

"Yes, it did."

"The Snark?" Dean managed to say it without laughing.

"I'm not sure about that. There's a problem with Snarks..."

XXX

One week, one day, seventeen hours, nine minutes, forty-five seconds after

The werewolf nearly had him when he shot it, Dean still regretted pulling the trigger. It would have been a clean death, even half-honorable, at least to those looking in. He knew he let it get too close, he knew he wanted it to close its jaws on his throat and rip away the pain in one white hot moment of agony. The slow death was worse, humiliating, death by pin prick. Each day a little more of himself gone, each town he drove through familiar, but without the presence of Sam it was all empty. Each hunt pointless.

When he stopped that night, he got a bottle of whiskey, good stuff, the kind Sam liked when they drank together sometimes late at night after a successful hunt. Dean checked into the motel and leaned back on the bed, contemplating the long gash on his leg. The werewolf had managed to grab his coat and drag him over something before making its final move. Dean remembered it happening, only vaguely registering the pain, but not caring. Now as he looked at the wound he wondered if he should care. It wasn't good. In fact, as he looked more closely, it was definitely in the bad category.

He grabbed the first aid kit and cleaned the wound. It was the first time in a long time he'd put in stitches by himself. As it was, he just put in three at the worst part of the gash, stuck the rest together with a few butterfly closures, then laid some sterile pads over the top and wrapped it. When he was finished he took a large swig of the whiskey, it burned a fiery line down his throat. After five, his leg stopped throbbing, after eight he drifting into unconsciousness, something between exhausted sleep and a drunken haze.

He dreamed for the first time since that moment at the chasm.

Oddly, he dreamed of the room he was staying in, nearly perfect in every detail from the broken refrigerator to the toilet that was running and sounded like a creek. He could even hear the television from the room next door. But he knew it was a dream.

"Dean," the soft voice whispered, ethereal, disembodied.

"Sammy?"

"Dean!" There was a sound like a sigh, Sam's sigh when he's accomplished something, half-frustrated, half-triumphant.

"I miss you."

"Dean, I..."

There was a loud crash from outside, a wreck on the highway that ran in front of the room. Dean sat up, widely looking around the room. It had been a dream. He reached for the bottle. Just a damn dream.

Present

Two months, three weeks, six days, eleven hours, fifteen minutes, two seconds after

Dean didn't slow the car as he noticed the giant logging truck swing into his lane to pass a slow moving car on the other side of the highway. It didn't matter, it would miss them. He knew what needed to be done, and it would be done. The truck couldn't stop that, nothing could. The soft whisper of insanity rattled in the back seat, the scent of hot vegetation and wax filling the car now. Bobby shifted again, his hand edging towards the steering wheel as the truck headed straight for them, the horn blaring like a nightmarish creature.

"Dean!" Bobby shouted.

"What?" Dean asked calmly, moving the car over just enough so the truck missed them by inches. "He wasn't going to hit us."

"That's it, son."

"What do you mean?"

"I am not letting you go through with this," Bobby said quietly. The next moment the muzzle bit into Dean's temple. "Pull the car over."

Dean ignored him. The silence stretched for a long moment, then was broken by the distinctive snick of the hammer being drawn back on the gun.

"I'm serious. Pull over."

And with senseless grimaces endeavored to say
What his tongue could no longer express

To Be Continued