Disclaimer: Dean, Sam and any characters from the TV show Supernatural do not belong to me in any way (sadly). I am just playing with the characters and paying homage to the truly great series that is Supernatural. This story is written purely for enjoyment, with no profit of any kind expected, intended or desired.
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Lost
Chapter Ten
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"You're cold. Put this on." The words arrived at the same time as a balled-up hoodie that Sam pushed into his chest as he passed. Dean grabbed at it reflexively, startled out of the vague fuzz in which he'd spent the early morning.
He'd been hunched in his leather jacket, looking rather wistfully at the duffle bags, wondering which one of them belonged to him and whether he actually owned anything more substantial than a t-shirt.
He shrugged off his jacket and shook out the hoodie; it was warm and soft in his hands, smelt faintly of aftershave and soap. He realised it was rather large.
"Sam, this yours?"
Sam carried on loading shotgun shells into his pockets. "Just put it on dude. You wear it lots. You kinda like it."
A little unsure, Dean slipped it on, zipped it up, pulling his jacket back over the top. It did feel good he decided, feeling a little warmer already. He rubbed absently at the numbness in his face and fished around in his pocket, feeling a sense of relief as his fingers closed around a few stray painkillers.
Sam didn't even look up, his tone flat. "Lay off the meds, Dean."
.
Bill could hear the raised voices coming from outside. He slung his bag over one shoulder and headed out. The Winchesters were glowering at each other next to the Impala.
"Give me the goddamn keys, Sam!"
"No. Not 'til you've been checked out properly." Sam wasn't budging, scowling right back, giving as good as he got.
They wouldn't be going anywhere at this rate, Bill thought. He still didn't like the way the kid looked. If anything he was considerably worse than a couple of days earlier; not so much a stray dog now as a sick one. Quiet, keeping it to himself, but all the signs were there if you took the time to look. As for his younger brother, he was clearly on the verge of either explosion or implosion, somehow holding it down in front of his sibling by sheer force of will.
They weren't kids, he reminded himself; they were grown men, despite the fact he could feel every one of his extra 40 years as he watched them snarling at each other. In the end he cut the argument short by jangling the truck keys in their faces.
"Truck," he said flatly. "I'll be doin' the driving."
Both young fools opened their mouths to argue, but you didn't get to his age without a few tricks up your sleeve.
"You won't be wantin' to take the Chevy up there, not 'less you want to rip the bottom outta her."
Clearly they didn't; he turned his face away so they couldn't see him smirk as they trailed after him to the truck.
.
The truck rattled past the place where Dean's memories began and started the long, slow crawl up the side of the valley towards the high ground. The mountain peaks were already lost behind heavy cloud and as they climbed steadily higher the dull light of the morning became a murky grey.
"What d'you think is holdin 'em here?" Bill spoke the thought aloud. Sam shrugged, he'd been wondering the same thing.
"It's something to do with Stanford. Joel still lived there I think. Looks like they've had some trouble and he's tried to get in contact with me." He glanced at Dean. "Guess Dean here intercepted the call and decided to take the job without involving me, 'cos of Jess." Swallowing painfully, he went on. "They're fixing on Dean somehow, dunno why. But they're not on him all the time, so I figure there's something around here that's holding them. If Joel had access to one of the cabins like we think, maybe it'll be in the cabin?"
Bill nodded. "Our best shot right now."
The first drops of rain had just started to fall when Bill braked the truck to a halt. A large pine tree lay across the track, blocking it from the steep mountainside on the left side of them to the drop-off on the right.
"Looks like we're hiking in from here." He scrambled around by the roots for a while, came back scratching his head. "Ain't no mudslide. Looks like something ripped it out by the roots and wedged it there."
They loaded up and scrambled over. It didn't look as though the tree had been there very long; the earth was still damp on the torn roots, resin leaking from gashes along the trunk and sticking to their hands and jeans. Sam peered upwards, but couldn't see any corresponding gash in the mountainside from where a large tree may have been torn.
The track was steep, rough underfoot as they plodded their way upwards through an increasingly heavy rainfall.
.
Dean dragged his hand over his face, trying to wipe the water away from his eyes and nose. The rain was now torrential, beating down on them, making it difficult to see or even to breathe. He was flagging, trailing after the others, when he started to feel they were being watched. A quick check around revealed nothing but empty mountainside, but he couldn't shake the icy fingers tapping against his spine. He adjusted the shotgun, wondering dully if the salt-laden cartridges would still deliver a stinging shower of salt, or merely a splat of salty water.
They walked on, Bill leading, setting a slow pace suitable to someone of his advanced years, or perhaps for someone who was feeling ill enough to drop. Whatever the reason, Dean was grateful, finding it increasingly hard to keep up even at a snail's pace. Eventually he missed his footing, went down hard on one knee, but managed to be upright again by the time Sam turned with a querying glance. He grinned, no humour in it, hoping his brother had missed the muddy patch on his knee.
A few minutes later he was down again, on both knees this time with one hand in the inches-deep water rushing down the track, just managing to keep the shotgun up off the floor in his other hand. Sam was back at his side before he could even think of getting up, took him under one arm, pulled him upright.
"You're not up to this, Dean. We're turning back."
He was about to argue when Bill's voice called from further up the track. "Cabin here!"
He let Sam haul him up the slope, not even caring any more, just grateful to have something to lean on when they stopped. A dark cabin, boarded up tight for the winter, stood on their left, tucked into the side of the mountain.
The words were out of Dean's mouth before he even realised he'd spoken. "Not this one." He wasn't sure who was most surprised.
Bill looked at him, considering. "There is another one, up a ways. You up to it?"
Dean pulled away from Sam's hold, spoke over his protests. "Yeah. I'm good." He set off, leading the way this time.
.
Sam followed him, miserable, sure he should somehow physically stop his brother from taking another step. How he was even walking was a mystery in itself, but he was, doggedly splashing one boot after another up the trail.
They forged on, Dean in the lead now. He reached a turn where the track bent out of sight behind a large boulder and stopped, looking back to them. "It's round here."
The cabin lay in front of them at the trail end; the door was wide open and half the contents were strewn across the steps and down the mountainside. They approached cautiously, weapons at the ready, the rain momentarily forgotten.
Sam had reached the bottom of the porch steps when Jess appeared in the doorway. Without warning she slid past him, grabbed Dean's shoulder with a pale hand.
"Why did you take so long?" Her voice was plaintive. "You promised."
Dean stared at her in shock; Sam could see the rivulets of water on his white face, all lit up by Jess's glow. She leant closer, hissing slightly, the light bouncing off his brother's eyes, their true green suddenly vivid.
"Jess. No! Leave him alone. Please." He reached out to her, pleading; she let go, tears in her eyes as she slipped by in the direction of the cabin. He went to follow her, but turned back when he heard a sound behind him.
Dean was struggling with skeletal man, who had long fleshless fingers clasped around his neck.
"Get off me, you bony freak!"
Bill sent the bullroarer spinning in the air and skeletal man shuddered, letting go of Dean's throat, flickering with blue energy. Bill was chanting something and the spirit quivered, lunged at Dean, knocking him onto his ass, then flickered out of sight.
"Sonofabitch!" Dean massaged his throat.
Sam was pulling him up when the cabin behind them lit up, glowing green through the gaping doorway and windows. Whatever it was they were after, it was in there somewhere.
-o-
Tbc…
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