Chapter 10
Donovan woke earlier than the brothers, the moon was just saying goodnight to the rising sun that was creeping its way over the trees in her backyard. She showered, packed her hiking gear, strapped on her boots, and gathered a few "tools" just in case they ran into something not of this plane. She had heard stories of the infamous spring and the Shakers that had long disappeared; some people attempted to locate it but were hindered by local spirits. One man returned without his group, claiming they were attacked; although no signs of their bodies could be found, Donovan believed it was just his mind getting the best of him. Alone in the woods for hours, let alone, days, would make even the most stable person, lose a few marbles. The trees had a way of moving and following you, paths turned into traps, and unless you had the sun as a guide or a compass, you were dinner. Treks like these, she often referred to her findings on the Blair Witch; her travels had proved useless, although the local lure of the Witch herself was enough to send chills down her spine.
The Shakers were a religious folk; why haunt or harm those that ambled their way onto their land? There had to be more to the story; as to why they just vanished. Was it a sickness? Did the water turn against them; did they fight over it and annihilate one another over ever lasting life? Only this hike would tell. If she knew the brothers at all, she would bet that Sam didn't get much sleep and spent most of his night doing research on the Harvard Shakers. Dean on the other hand, had spent most of his night, trying to keep Van awake; not that she minded, but at two in the morning she kicked him out of her room and told him to rest up. He was going to have to do more walking than driving tomorrow; the Metallicar wouldn't make it over the first impasse before the woods thickened into Shaker territory. Dean wasn't too keen on leaving his baby on the side of some dirt road, but Van assured him that hunting season hadn't started, let alone, most hikers detoured passed the notorious Well region, due to folklore and paranoia. If anything, they would camouflage her with branches and mark a tree to find their way back to her, if anything should go wrong. Dean appeared to let down his guard just a smidge; she had to bribe him with a kiss. Sealing the deal, he shuffled out of her room, and assed out the moment he hit his mattress.
A tentative knock came on her bedroom door and she opened it up, half expecting to see Dean, with that sex driven smirk on his face, but to her chagrin, it was Sam; although he had a similar look in his eye, yet it wasn't about sex. Come to think of it, Van found it humbling to think Sam was a virgin; even if he wasn't. It was easier to see him as a younger brother of her own, instead of the brother of the man she was in love with, ever since pigtails and overalls.
"Mornin' Sammy," she opened the door wider, to allow him in, and he averted his eyes and stammered a good morning right back at her. She furrowed her brow and asked why he insisted on avoiding making eye contact with her. Sam chuckled and pointed to her,
"You do realize you're standing in your bra, right?"
"Oh, hell," she scampered to her bed and threw on a tight fitting long sleeved shirt.
"Talk about not being dressed for the occasion," she stuck out her tongue.
"Yeah," Sam's laughter was contagious and soon they were sitting idly on her bed, talking about the trip that lay ahead of them.
"Do we dare wake Dean up?" Van eyed the door that remained closed over across the hall.
She heard footsteps approaching from the rickety staircase and Dean, shoveling spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth, mumbled,
"What are you two ladies just sitting around for," he raised his spoon, "let's get the show on the road."
"I'm thirsting for some everlasting H2O."
"Huh," Sam and Donovan muttered simultaneously and both uprooted themselves from the bed and followed Dean downstairs. Dean turned to Sammy and hollered,
"Hey, bro, grab my duffel from the room, would ya?"
"You had time to eat but you can't carry your own bags?" Sam shook his head, "Typical."
"While you're at it," Van slapped Sam on the back, "grab mine too, I'm starved."
"There better be a tip involved," Sam retorted as he shuffled his giraffe like legs from one room to another.
"Tip?" Dean shouted from the stairwell, "I'll give ya a tip."
"Don't wear miniskirts after the age of forty."
"Unless you have the legs for 'em," Van winked.
"Hell, you think we're even goin' to make it that far?" Dean quipped.
"Well with that attitude," Van shoved him aside, "we better get your skirt outta the closet."
They ate a quick breakfast, Dean doubled on his, and they packed Dean's car to the disgruntled comments Van was throwing his way. She insisted her jeep would fend the woods better, but Dean insisted that wherever he went, his baby went, and she was loaded with everything from shot guns to iron clubs, from rope to handcuffs.
"Don't ask," Dean slammed the trunk, "just go with it."
Van winked and walked to the passenger side, but Dean tossed her the keys, and she caught them with one quick flick of her wrist. Sam let out a long, exaggerated, whistle and Dean caught his not so subtle subtext. Van held the keys as if she was holding the keys to the kingdom and she gave Dean a what in the hell are you thinking look.
"One," he shot this towards his brother, "don't get all territorial about her driving the car," to which Sam huffed and pocketed his hands into his jeans and shuffled his feet, kicking the tire. "Two," Dean growled, "kick her again and I'll kick you until your ass is sorer than a prisoner at Levinworth," he turned to face a very confused Donovan, "three, you know the way to this place better than any one of us and believe it or not, I trust you behind the wheel."
"Atleast I know you won't be abusing the privilege," he shot Sam a disgruntled look and switched places with Donovan. He opened the side door, flipped the seat handle, kicked Sammy's ass into the backseat, and sat in the passenger seat. Donovan was still standing outside of the driver's side door and Dean honked the horn.
"You do remember how to drive this thing, don't ya?" he smirked. She thought back to the day when they weren't even close to age, and Dean hotwired his father's car and gave Van a lesson in driving. She smirked back as she slid into the leather seat and swiveled comfortably.
"I remember we did more parking than driving," she inserted the key and started the engine. Revving it up, she pulled out of her driveway, the tires kicking up the stones as she peeled out. Sam pouted in the backseat that was until Donovan, out of character, told him he could pick the station on the radio.
"Aw, hell to the no, on that one princess," Dean grunted, "ain't no way the backseat driver gets control over the tunes."
"It's the least you could do," she tapped the steering wheel as Bob Dylan mumbled beautifully over the speakers.
"Throw this in the tape deck," Sammy pulled out a mixed tape and Dean groaned.
However, instead of music, an older woman's voice, transmitted over the speakers, introducing the trio to the mystic wonders of the disappearance of the Harvard Shakers. Multiple people, told their individual stories of trying to discover the Well of Life, but their stories always ended with the same line; it was either a hoax or it was no longer in existence. They drove and listened for over an hour when Donovan pulled the car over and entered a local park.
It was deserted, as she had previously told Dean it would have been, and the eeriness of the empty picnic tables, the scattered paper cups, and an old newspaper, dated a few months back, frolicked across their path like tumbleweeds at a gunslinger's show down. They emptied out the trunk, packing up their gear; Dean grabbed his trusty duffel and threw in a sawed off shotgun, Donovan pocketed a hunter's knife into a shaft on her belt and threw her bag over her shoulder, while Sam packed the mere necessities; salt, matches, flashlights, and another shot gun. They were looking at a map Sam had printed off the computer when Donovan spoke up.
"Say we find this Well, aren't we forgettin' something?"
Sam and Dean exchanged glances and looked back to Van and they both shrugged.
"What?" Dean questioned, "A horse and buggy?"
"No, smart ass," Donovan quipped, "a canteen or something, you know, to transport the water."
"That's if it's even attainable," Sam countered.
"Hey, where's that optimistic crap you usually spew?" Dean shoved him along.
"Probably in the backseat, you jerk," Sam grumbled.
"Bitch!" Dean punched his brother in the arm.
"Ladies!" Van shouted as she folded the map over, "the more you two are at each other's throats, the more I want to spoon my own eyes out."
"Huh," Dean swallowed, "we've seen that happen and let's just say, it wasn't pretty."
"Tell me about it," Sam recalled the monstrous gorging of the eyes and refocused them back to the task at hand.
"There are a few empty soda bottles in the backseat," Sam suggested. Dean looked at him and tilted his head towards the car as if to say move your ass.
"Get 'em," Dean fussed, "and let's get movin'."
They headed towards Maple Hill, westerly of the parking lot, and approximately, one mile from the village itself. Van checked her compass while Sam insisted they just follow the sun, but strange enough, the sky was becoming darker than normal. The sun, blood red, stretched over them in an amber coated sky, the smell of sulfur tickled their nose hairs. Van's compass was going haywire and she slammed it shut and stuffed it into her pocket.
"Back in 1780, a similar phenomenon like the one were walking straight into happened at the Shaker's village. Wild nights, darkness covered the land, and the increasing number of converts didn't distill the stonings and harassment."
"Dark Day," Sam surmised, "I read about it. Wasn't it proven that it was just forest fires that laced the air with smoke and ash?"
"One university used tree circles to date back to the day itself, but scientists haven't completely agreed on their findings."
"While I find this all quite interesting," Dean coughed, "oh, hell, who am I kidding, this doesn't interest me one bit, but what does, is the fancy title of Shaker."
"Think violent and ecstatic bodily agitation while worshipping," Sam informed him.
"I get that a lot," Dean quipped, "especially in the bedroom." "Still, I'm no Shaker."
"That's for damn sure," Van walked on ahead while Dean stopped in his tracks and snorted.
"I'm pretty sure there was bodily agitation last night, ain't that right, Van?"
"Dean," Sam cut in, "let's get back on track, alright?"
"Aw, hell, Sammy boy, you're just jealous."
Up ahead of the brothers, Van had stopped at a fork in the trail and scooped up some dirt. Rubbing it between her fingers, she lifted it up to her nose, and inhaled. Gagging, she dropped it.
"Bear scat," she informed them.
"You tellin' me Yogi and Boo-boo are havin' a picnic while we're out searching for the Holy Grail?"
"Just keep your eyes open and your mouth shut," Van instructed Dean, "if you can manage that."
Dean mimicked her behind her back and Sam chuckled. He leant in towards his older brother and whispered, "Reminds me of mom." Dean slapped his chest, "Nasty bro, now every time I think about…what I think about…I'm going to have mom's face in my head."
"Serves you right." Sam chortled and took three long strides to meet up with Van.
"What you are staring at?" Sam nudged an ever standing still Donovan who had dropped her hands to her sides.
"I'm pretty sure I just saw an old man and woman standing just over that clearing and they didn't look too pleased."
Dean caught the end of the conversation and headed off in the direction of the so called pissed off geriatrics. He had his hand on his shotgun, just in case they weren't the only ones trespassing, when over his head, a black crow cawed and swooped down, nearly scraping his cheek.
"Sonofabitch!" Dean swatted at the bird and turned only to be eye to eye with an older man in what appeared to be old fashioned clothing. His beady eyes and grizzly beard covered his mouth. Dean backed up a few inches and smacked into Sam and Donovan who were huddled close together. The man pointed east where they had travelled from and he spoke,
"Go back."
"I don't think so Gramps," Dean scoffed and cocked the shot gun and aimed it at the man.
"We don't want any trouble," Dean insisted, "but we're here lookin' for the Well and we're not itching to leave, just yet."
"Go back." The men bellowed, a gust of wind, knocked Dean back and the shotgun accidentally went off. Donovan screamed, afraid of the trajectory, but to their surprise, the bullet went straight through the man, and he dissipated into thin air.