A/N: Chapter the Seventh and the end draws nigh,

not in this bit, but soon I must say, the finish will utter a sigh.

Sorry, I've been reading Snark again. This is a little late, there is a grand finale coming! Thank you all for reading and reviewing

A/N II: For those of you who have read and enjoyed my Custodes Noctis Series, The Summoning is available on Kindle for only 99 cents! Be the first to PM me and I will send you a kindle copy!

Chapter the Seventh

Three Months Before

Each thought he was thinking of nothing but "Snark"
And the glorious work of the day;
And each tried to pretend that he did not remark
That the other was going that way.

It was hot in the car and even with the windows down, they were going too slow to generate any wind to help cool it down. Dean was watching the edge of the road as Sam drove towards Hat Point again, they planned to stop at a wide spot that looked out over the Imnaha River Valley. The Jubjub had come from that direction, and Sam said he remembered reading something about an abandoned car being found at the spot a year ago. The road seemed a lot narrower today, some of the enthusiasm from their trip the day before was gone, and everything was a little more dangerous suddenly. Funny, Dean hadn't noticed the immense drop as they climbed up the dirt road, he'd been too busy reminiscing with Sam to worry about it. Now, as Sam slowed for every corner, creeping around it, he had time to take a good look at just how far they could fall.

When they finally reached the pull-out, he breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't that much wider than the road, but it was wide enough to safely do a three-point turn, and that felt comforting. Dean opened the car door, scanning the sky and the hill that loomed above them before getting out. "All's clear, I think."

Sam was out of the car already, walking to the edge and looking down the road to where they had just come from. The dust still lingered in the hot air, and Dean watched a wisp of it drift overhead before joining his brother. They were above the top of the ridge where the tree had disappeared, and Dean could now see a dark scar where the tree had been. It looked like it had been sliced from the earth with a hot tool. Far, far below he could make out the river, just a tiny strip of blue from this high.

"Dean!" Sam's voice was nearly a whisper, but filled with urgency. "Look!"

"What?" Dean answered, turning in the direction Sam indicated. There was something moving just to the right of where the tree had been. It seemed to be heading up the hill, along the top of the ridge, heading up the canyon towards Hat Point. Whatever it was, it was fast. Dean moved to the other side of the car, looking up to see if he could see the top of the hill above them. He was edging back, trying to get a better look when he felt the small retaining wall against his knees. Stopping, he shielded his eyes; it didn't seem to be heading towards them.

"It's going over into Hell's Canyon, I think," Sam said.

"What is it?"

"I don't know, I couldn't tell, could you?"

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Well, as an expert at Snark hunting …"

"Ha ha." Sam leaned against the car, still staring in the direction the thing had gone. "Should we go up? Or check out the area?"

"You said that they found a car here, let's see what that turns up," Dean said. A cold chill blasted through his chest every time he thought about following the thing. This hunt was turning into something less and less funny.

"Okay." Sam grabbed the pack out of the car and closed the door. "Which way?"

Dean looked around. "What kind of car?"

"Mercedes SUV."

"Huh." Dean thought about that for a minute. He looked off the almost sheer edge, then up at the steep hill. "Up the road."

"Why?"

"Hunch. That kind of car, if they parked here, they were probably taking a walk, not rock climbing."

Sam gave him a funny look, but nodded and they started up the road. There was a definite chill in the air that had nothing to do with the sun blazing in the sky above them or the wind that whistled along canyon, occasionally crossing the road and whipping up into a small dust devil. Dean watched the edge, looking for any sign of a negotiable path. All he could see was the steep drop off, and it was getting steeper the farther they climbed. He thought he saw something for a moment, but it was gone so fast, he wasn't sure he'd seen anything.

"Hey," Sam said, stopping.

"What?" Dean turned.

"What do you think?" Sam pointed to a path. It was steep, obviously a game trail and led up between some scrub brush and a few scraggly pines.

"If I were sort of daring, that's the way I'd go. Just to check it out and then say I went hiking."

"If you were?"

"Yeah. I'm not. Going up steep trails in the middle of nowhere is not fun. You could end up plummeting to your death."

Sam chuckled. "Plummeting?"

"Hell yeah. Plummeting is way more fatal than falling."

"It is?" Sam started up the trail, carefully picking his way. Dean watched a rock roll down the hill, across the road and drop of the edge. He didn't hear it hit bottom.

"It has to be. How many times have you heard—or read—that someone plummeted to their death? No one plummets and survives. You fall and you survive. One plummet and you're toast." Dean stopped to catch his breath, pretending to look out across the valley. His ribs were aching and he didn't want Sam to know.

"You should have said something. I have ibuprofen in the pack."

"I'm thinking of just not talking at all," Dean muttered.

"What?" Sam handed him the pills and the surviving canteen.

"Nothing." The water was warm and tasted a little moldy, they really should get new canteen, but they'd had this one for years, the blanket-covering worn bare in places. They should consider heading back, the sun was beginning to drop, and it got dark fast in the canyons. Dean didn't really want to be driving down the road after nightfall. Of course that might be better. "Okay, let's go." He pushed himself up. "Sammy?" His brother was standing completely still. "Hey, statue man," Dean said, stepping up beside him. He peeked around his brother and froze. "What the hell is…?"

He never had a chance to finish. The creature was tearing straight down the path towards them, and as Dean stared at it, he heard the shriek of the Jubjub. He didn't even have time to react before the bird was on him, dragging him off the path. Then he was airborne, talons digging into his shoulder. He heard Sam's shout, and something growling—or a cross between a growl and something else. He tried to twist to see his brother, but the creature bit down on him, nipping hard at his flailing hand. They were almost over the car, a few more feet and he would be over the edge. Then all that's left is a plummet. Dean reached for his gun and pulled it out.

"NO!" He heard Sam's shout, but still Dean turned the gun on the thing and pulled the trigger. The claws immediately let go and Dean was falling, at least he hoped it was a fall. When he slammed into the ground beside the car—just missing the rock wall, he just stayed still, hoping that the Jubjub had been wounded enough to not come right back.

"Sam!"

"I'm okay!" his brother answered immediately. "You?"

"Awesome." Dean rolled over and felt a stab of pain in his ribs. The Jubjub was gone, the sky empty of everything. The wall was starting to cast a long shadow. They needed to get out of the area before dark. He was sure of that. Sam must have reached the road; Dean could hear him running full out, his feet sliding a bit on the gravel.

"Hey."

"Help me up." Dean held up his hand and Sam gently lifted him to his feet and helped him to the car. "Thanks."

"God, Dean, your shoulder's a mess." Sam eased the fabric back, swallowing hard.

"Just like Jurassic Park III," Dean said with a grin. "I can cross that off my bucket list."

"Getting carried off by pterosaurs is on your bucket list?"

"Yeah? And?" Dean smirked. "What did you think was on it?"

"Not getting carried off by pterosaurs." Sam grimaced as he placed a bandage on the wound. "I'll clean it better at the motel."

"We should head back." Dean swung his legs in the car and Sam closed it.

"Yeah, I don't want to drive down this road in the dark," his brother said, dropping into the driver's seat.

"What was on the trail?"

Sam looked over, his eyes haunted. "I'm not sure."

"That good, eh?"

"Yeah."

Three weeks, two days, one hour, ten minutes, five seconds after.

The road was empty, the long miles stretching out in front of him, the lines blending together, reaching on forever. They waivered at the edge, almost like a mirage, but Dean suspected it had more to do with a fever than the weather. Bobby had found him and patched him up, but as soon as he could, Dean left. The older hunter was asleep, his head down on the table, when Dean slipped out of the room. It probably wasn't the best decision ever, but then again, he wasn't sure he was capable of good decisions anymore. The madness was getting the upper hand and he had to get away from Bobby before he let something out.

It was three hours to the next town, and there was even a convenient hunt there. A spirit, Dean guessed from the reports. Something simple to lose himself in. He needed it desperately despite the fact he knew he wasn't well enough to tackle anything more vicious than a motel pillow. Sighing, he turned up the stereo, trying to drown out his own thoughts. His wounds ached. Until Bobby's gasp of surprise, he hadn't realized how many there were, but now they hurt, every one of them. Pain upon pain upon pain like a cake from hell besieged his body. He felt a smile tug at his lips. Sam would have jumped all over him for that description. His brother would have rolled his eyes, sighed and said something along the lines of: "That is so wrongI don't even know where to begin."

The road ahead forked, and Dean headed to the left. He wasn't sure why, the town he'd planned on heading for was to the right, but something told him to take that road. It quickly went from wide and well-maintained highway to narrow two-lane farm road. Barbed wire fence lined one side and grasslands stretching out to mesas were on the other. A herd of cattle drifted along the fence, one or two lifting their head to watch him pass by, but most ignoring him and placidly grazing.

He'd been on the road for about forty-five minutes when he spotted a sign for an upcoming town. Like so many in this part of the country it added an ominous "Next services 95 miles" after the name of the town. His tank was at half-full, but he could use a stretch, so he pulled into the gas station and got out. He put the nozzle in the tank and headed in to pay for the gas. The station was a mixture of a minimart and tourist trap museum. Dean wandered around, looking at the various items. When they were kids, Sam loved places like this—Dean had to admit he did too. You never knew what was there, and they had found some of their favorite things in places like this. There was a well-worn plush bear that still lived at the bottom of Dean's duffle bag.

On the back there was a large bookcase. He stopped and ran his eyes over the titles listlessly. Books were more Sam's things, and since his brother's fall, he hadn't opened the box of books Sam insisted were invaluable. Dean was just about to turn away when something caught his eye—not the title, but the author. Lewis Carroll. Huh. Dean picked it up. It was an unusual collection of poems, but it still wasn't that interesting until he opened it. The margins were filled with handwritten notes. He stared at it for a moment, then carried it to the front. "How much?" he asked the man behind the counter.

"For that?"

Dean stared at him with his eyebrows up.

"You don't want it, trust me," the man said.

"Why not?"

"The guy I got it from—it was his father's. Kid told me his old man went stark raving bonkers."

"Why?" Dean asked.

The man shrugged. "Said he was muttering about 'them' coming for him. And sharks or something like that."

"Snarks?"

"Yeah, that's it. Snarks."

"Anyway, kid's dad disappeared up in Oregon and he headed out this way. Needed money for gas, so I swapped him for the book. It was old, I thought it might be worth something. So far no one cares."

"How much did you give him?" Dean tried to sound casual.

"Twenty bucks worth."

Dean put three twenties on the counter. "There's for my gas and the book. We good?"

"Yeah," the man said with a smile.

"Thanks." Dean walked out to the car and got in, carefully setting the book on the seat beside him. Without looking too close, he'd seen the beginnings of a spell on one page, and some information about the Jubjub in red on the bottom of another. Maybe he should turn back towards Oregon. No, not yet. He eased onto the road, he'd gone about twenty miles, becoming more and more aware of the book beside him, when he saw the flash of a lodge sign. The area was dotted with hunting lodges and motels from the days before the interstates pulled traffic away.

He decided he couldn't ignore the book any longer and pulled in. He had to hit the bell at the front desk five times before anyone showed up to check him in, but they seemed pleased to see a customer. They handed over a key and told him that the diner was open until eleven and opened for breakfast at six. Glancing through the door to the "diner" Dean saw one booth and two tables. He thanked the woman and drove the car to his room—actually it was a little cabin, with a separate carport for each of the ten cabins of the motel. Quaint was the only word he could think of. Well, creepy works too.

The room was clean, although it smelled a little musty with disuse. He flipped on the TV and dropped his bags on the other bed. Settling himself on the bed, he opened the book, glancing at the table of contents. The last in the books was The Hunting of the Snark. Opening to the preface he started reading. He'd read it before. More than once, maybe more than a hundred times since that day at Hat Point. He knew it by heart and could recite it as easily as an exorcism. The answer had to be there, he just wasn't sure what it was, what they had missed. As he flipped the pages, he realized he was paying less attention to the poem and more to the notes. Whoever wrote them was a hunter, and they knew what they were doing.

He was dozing, the volume open on his chest when he heard a soft call. "Dean."

"Sam," he answered immediately.

"It's about time," the voice huffed at him.

"I found a book," Dean said to the air, wanting to talk to his brother, knowing this was just the madness back again. Hell mocking him.

"Book? What book?" A phantom weight brushed the bed, like someone had sat down.

"A collection of poems, but there are these notes." Dean sat up carefully, the stitches pulling.

"You're hurt," the madness said worriedly.

"I'm okay." Dean set the book on the bed and opened it. He felt a sift rush of air like Sam had bent over his shoulder to read. "It's full of notes."

"Show me!" The air crackled with excitement.

Dean couldn't help the chuckle. He turned page after page as the light fled the room. When it was too dark to read, he turned on the light and just for an instant he was sure he saw the glimmer of his brother's outline.

Maybe madness wasn't so bad after all.

Present

Two months, three weeks, six days, eleven hours, thirty-one minutes, twenty-seven seconds after.

The car was hot, the scents of wax and vegetation mixing with the coppery scent of blood and the tang of gun oil. Bobby had a hand to his mouth, a tickle of blood running over his chin. Dean knew he should feel worse about it, but the older hunter had tried to stop him and that was not an option right now. If this failed, if Dean was wrong, he would hand the gun to Bobby and ask the man to kill him, but until then, he had to wait in line just like everything else that wanted Dean dead. And it's nice to know there are enough for a list.

Dean rounded the first of the corners on the way up from the turn out. He was driving fast, the tires skidding on the gravel. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Bobby's face had gone white as he watched the edge—and the massive drop-off—go by. For half a second he considered slowing down, but then he changed his mind. They had just reached the third cattle guard when Dean spotted something in the sky. It was coming at them at high speed. Idly he wondered if a Bandersnatch was large enough to damage the Impala. He ignored it.

"What the hell is that?" Bobby shouted.

"Bandersnatch," Dean replied.

"Slow down, Dean!"

"What time is it?" Dean asked. The sun was well past its zenith.

"What?" Bobby asked wildly then glanced at his watch. "Almost three. Slow the hell down."

"No." He had to hurry, they were almost out of time. The madness rattled in agreement.

There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream,
Scarcely even a howl or a groan

To Be Continued