Three Months Before

"Should we meet with a Jubjub, that desperate bird,
We shall need all our strength for the job!"

The sun was hot in the canyon, the scent of dust, dead grass and pine filling the air. Except for the wind it was quiet. The heat of the day had driven most things into the cool, shadowed areas under trees or in the shade of the cliffs. Dean was beginning to think that was where they should be. The sun was starting to play tricks on his senses, or maybe it wasn't. Off to his left he saw something sparkle, turning quickly, he nearly lost his footing, the only thing that saved him from a long, long fall what his brother's hand.

"Dean!"

"Did you see that?" he asked Sam as his brother shoved him up against the wall of the hill, almost cliff, they were climbing.

"See what?" Sam glanced suspiciously up the hill.

"I don't know. Mirage, I guess."

"There's a lot of that up here," Sam said with a humorless laugh. "The trail forks, which way?"

Dean followed his brother's look. The trail broke apart about ten feet above them. One path led up and onto the actual side of the hill, along a lava ledge, then further on around out of sight. It looked like the trails that covered many of the canyons in the area, the odd terraces of grazing cattle and other animals. The second trail led along a crevasse in a lava outcropping and seemed to disappear into the hillside.

"The left one looks like it goes into the hill," Dean said, squinting against the sun.

"Yeah, a cave maybe." Sam rummaged in the backpack.

"What are you looking for?"

"Just checking the flashlights."

"You think we should go that way, then." For some reason, the idea of going up and into the cave created a small, mad fluttering in Dean's chest. He knew the feeling, every instinct he had was telling him there was something bad lurking that way.

"There's something there." Sam met Dean's eyes, his look said it all.

"Right." Dean took a deep breath, shoved the fear away, turned off the "flight" part of the fight or flight instinct and headed up the path. Sam was right behind him, a solid presence at his back.

Fifteen feet up the path, it got cold. The sun was still out, the rays on his skin, sweat on his brow, but Dean was cold, like there was an ice pack buried in his chest, something that the warmth of the sun couldn't fight. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam shiver. The climb was getting steeper, and he could see, far below, where the Impala sat waiting for them to return.

The path led them along the edge of an outcropping of rock for several yards before disappearing into a cave. Dean stopped, the cold in his chest expanding even as he leaned against the dark stone, heated by the afternoon sun. "I'll go in, you wait here," he told his brother.

"No."

"Someone needs to make sure nothing comes in while we are in there," Dean said calmly.

"Okay, I'll go."

"No, I'll go."

"Dean, no, I'll go."

"Sammy..." Dean couldn't explain why he was so set on not letting his brother in the cave, but the idea of Sam in there alone was almost more than he could bear. "You won't even fit."

His brother huffed in frustration. "Fine, you go. Here's the flashlight." Sam held it out.

"What?"

"No, you're right, one of us should wait out here, and with your injuries you are certainly the best one to go crawling through a cave."

Dean stared at Sam for a minute. His brother was frowning at him, that curly-Q of concern deployed at full squinch. "Fine."

"Fine."

"Whatever."

"Whatever."

"Bite me."

"Right, I'll go." Sam shucked the backpack and turned the flashlight on, ducking down to shine the light into the open maw of the cave. "I can't tell how far back it goes."

"Be careful," Dean said, fighting down a wave of panic. "Sam?"

"I'm okay," his brother said, his voice echoing weirdly. "It's getting narrow."

"Yeah?" Dean turned to glance into the cave, wondering if he should go in.

"I think I'm going to have to crawl. I hate caves."

"Remember that one in New Mexico?"

"Don't remind me," Sam said. "Ah!"

"What is it?"

"I just put my hand in, oh god..." Sam trailed off.

"Sammy, not helping."

"I think it's or it was an animal maybe."

"You're not sure?"

"No, it's, um, squishy."

"How squishy?"

"Squishy, and juicy, and it stinks," Sam said. "I think it might have been, god, Dean, I think it was human."

"You can't tell?"

"It's a puddle."

"A people puddle?"

"Yeah," Sam answered. Dean heard the distinct sound of his brother gagging. "I'm going a little further."

"Is that a good idea?"

"Something is nesting in here, or... at least feeding maybe."

Dean leaned against the rock, his eyes facing out, watchful, but one ear turned towards the cave so he could hear everything that was going on. I should have gone. Although his brother had been right, crawling through the cave would have been difficult. Still as he heard Sam gag again, he fought the urge to grab the other flashlight and head into the cave himself.

Movement caught his eye. Dean watched for several minutes, there was a bird circling above him, riding the thermals, its pinions out. As it swept up, he realized it was bigger than the hawk he had first taken it to be. Buzzard then. The birds did tend to show up when anything living paused for too long in the wild. When they were kids he remembered his brother once telling him that buzzards were the most "hopefullest birds ever." When Dean had asked why, Sam told him because they always hoped something would just drop dead for them. The memory brought a smile to his face, and as he tracked the bird, he remembered the day Sam had told him that for the first time. Momentarily distracted, he didn't notice the bird had changed direction. It is hopeful.

It was headed straight towards him—and it had been much further away than he'd thought. It was not a buzzard either. It was huge.

"Sam!" Dean had time to shout before it reached him, catching his shoulder with one massive talon and tossing him aside like he was a rag doll. Grabbing blindly to stop his fall, he managed to get his hand around a tree root. He looked up in time to see it coming at him again. Dean threw himself to the side at the last moment, in a controlled roll away from where it would have hit him. He took an instant to look at it. It wasn't a Bandersnatch. This was something different. And very, very angry. It was diving at him again, this time looking to the left and right of where he was, as if judging where he could go.

It didn't look good for him. It knew he wasn't moving fast, and that he was injured. It could probably smell his blood. He feinted to the left—then waited until he was sure it was headed that way, then tucked himself into a ball and rolled to the right, away from the cave. Hopefully, his brother could escape the thing, whatever it was. Dean slammed into a rock, his momentum stopped completely by the stone. The sun warmed him as he lay gasping against the ground, agony shooting through his body.

He looked up. It was there, above him, circling, ready to make its death blow. As it began its descent he closed his eyes. He'd looked death in the face one too many times.

The shot echoed around him, the crack bouncing from hill to hill and the creature above him shrieked in pain. Another shot. Dean looked up and the bird circled again, then flew straight up, he tried to track it, but he lost it in the sun. Of course, maybe I'm dead.

"Dean!" Sam was beside him a moment later, gentle hands checking for injuries. "Dean!"

"Maybe I'm not dead."

"What? Dean, come on." Sam's voice had that complete calm that meant he was completely freaked.

Dean opened his eyes, the sun was lower in the sky than he remembered it being. "Sam? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he answered, even though there was a cut on his forehead that left a trickle of blood on his face.

"You're bleeding."

"Yeah, well, welcome to the club," his brother snapped. "What the hell were you thinking?" Sam eased him up, helping him lean against the rock.

"Um... Get away?"

"Great."

"Why are you so pissed?"

"I'm not pissed, Dean," Sam said.

"Oh boy."

"What?"

"That is you're 'I am so pissed I am going to kill you' answer."

"Why would I do that?"

"Stop getting calmer."

"I'm not calm."

"Oh yeah, you are so calm, you're about to blow."

"Why? Why would I do that, Dean? It's not like I just watched you throw yourself off a cliff AGAIN!"

"In my defense, I was getting away from the bird."

"By killing yourself?"

"It was a plan."

"Dean..."

"Sam, I was mostly thinking 'big bird want to kill, run away'. I was not trying to kill myself."

His brother ran his hands through his hair. "I know. Sorry."

"At least we know there are things up there."

"Yeah." Sam leaned back. "Should we head further up the road?"

There was something off in Sam. "Maybe we should just head back into town, by the time we get to the car, it will be getting close to sundown."

"Dean," Sam said, his voice weird. "It won't."

"What?" Dean turned his head, the Impala was no more than a hundred feet below them. "Oh."

"Yeah." Sam stood and offered Dean his hand and hauled him to his feet.

"So, what was that thing? It didn't look like a Bandersnatch."

"I think it was a Jubjub."

"You have got to be kidding."

"I wish I was."

"Why, Sam?"

"Because I think it means we're getting close."

"And close is suddenly looking bad." Dean finished the thought for his brother.

XXX

Two weeks, five days, three hours, forty-nine minutes, thirteen seconds after.

It had been a little too close. Dean had gotten sloppy and taken a hard knock. One that combined with his still aching toes, the stitches from the last hunt, or maybe the hunt before that or maybe it had been before that, he was unsure now. The combination, however, had put him down hard for the last two days. He'd made it out of the national forest, and down the highway far enough to find a motel with nearly clean rooms. Not that he cared. The lock worked, there was a liquor store across the street, and the kid who checked him in that first night offered to deliver whatever he needed for a small fee. Dean took him up on the offer, handed him money and hobbled to his room. Half an hour later the kid appeared with two bags, one of food, one of booze and Dean settled into wait it out or not. The thing was, he was pretty sure he was finally dying.

He didn't care.

His life had started down the slope to madness. At least he was still aware enough to know it was madness—or maybe it wasn't. When he'd pulled the trigger on the thing in the forest, for a moment, he'd thought seen something glimmer deep in the forest. Then that night beside the fire... Every night, or day, whenever it was that he dreamed, the dreams were all the same. If they were dreams, if he was even asleep. Sometimes he wondered if he'd fallen, not Sam, and this aching empty place was Hell.

Dean turned on the TV, flipping around he found an all-night marathon of Godzilla and Mothra movies. It was just sound, he didn't care about those either. In half a bottle, he would hopefully be numb. The problem was it seemed to be taking longer to achieve numbness, and when he did, sleep was not comforting. There were the dreams, pursuing him through unconscious.

And consciousness.

At least he thought he was conscious sometimes. He never knew anymore. Everything had blended together into a blur of towns passing outside the Impala's windows, pain, the taste of alcohol, pain, dreams and the never-ending count. The ticker never stopped, even if he tried, it was there, calmly marking the time since Sam left, letting him know each moment that he was alone, each agonizing second that the Impala was empty, that there was no one to talk to, that...

When his phone rang, he decided to answer it. Bobby had been calling for two days. "Yeah?"

"Where the hell are you?" Bobby demanded, worry coming out as anger.

"Um, not sure. Motel somewhere. I was up in the Bitterroot Mountains the other night."

"Are you in Montana?"

"Don't know."

"Are you hurt?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Dean! Damn it, how bad?"

"Have no idea. Think I might need stitches, or I just took some out."

"Are you bleeding?"

"Uh..." Dean looked down at the blood-soaked cloth covering the latest wound. "Probably."

"What does that mean?" Bobby growled.

"If I take the bandage off, it could be bad," Dean said, feeling dreamy. The alcohol was starting to seep into him, warming him, relaxing the ache in his chest.

"Sonofabitch! Where are you?"

"Told you, don't know."

"Name of the motel, you idjit."

"Oh." Dean picked up the card beside the bed. "Shorty's Hunting Lodge."

"Right." Bobby broke the connection without another word. Dean looked at his phone for a minute, then set it carefully on the table beside him.

Dean took another drink and shifted the pillows, aware of the stickiness of the wound. Maybe he should do something about it, but moving seemed like a lot of trouble. He was also getting sleepy, and he wasn't going to do anything to interfere with that. Sleep meant dreams, and even if they just added to the madness, he would rather be insane, than not have them. Closing his eyes, he willed himself to sleep.

Of course, this was the one time it proved elusive for some reason. He stared up at the ceiling, watching the play of light from the TV on one of the many cobwebs gathered on the overhead light fixture.

"Dean?" the soft whisper surprised him.

"I didn't think you'd be here," he told it.

"Why?" the frustrated huff was all Sam.

"I'm not asleep."

"No." The way it was said was like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "No," the whisper was also sounding weary, close to the breaking point.

"If I'm not asleep, how are you here?"

In his madness, he thought a phantom weight brushed his arm. There was a soft sigh, Sam trying to explain something for the thousandth time, like when he'd tried to talk Dean through calculus a hundred years ago.

"Dean, you were never asleep."

Present

Two months, three weeks, six days, eleven hours, twenty-five minutes, four seconds after.

There was complete silence in the car as Dean swung it around the corner by the parking area he and Sam had stopped at three months ago. Without telegraphing his intent, Dean elbowed Bobby, yanking the gun from his hand and turning it on the other man. He'd seen what Bobby intended in his last glance at the older hunter. Bobby knew he was insane, and he was going to stop him. And as far as the older hunter was concerned that meant something permanent and fast. A bullet to the brain would solve the problem.

He looked steadily at Bobby, meeting the other man's eyes, seeing the cold fear there. For a moment he wondered what his own showed, what the insanity looked like, how it sparkled in the depths of his once clear eyes. Whatever was there terrified Bobby. Dean realized he'd never seen that emotion on the older hunter's face before, and there it was, staring back at him, because of him.

The madness in the backseat rattled impatiently. Maybe it would have been better if Bobby had let Dean die months ago, too late now.

Now the madness was calling the shots.

And Dean had things left to do.

Down he sank in a chair-ran his hands through his hair-
And chanted in mimsiest tones
Words whose utter inanity proved his insanity

To Be Continued