Blast from the Past

by FraidyCat

Disclaimer: All things Supernatural owned and operated by CW, Eric Kripke, et al.

Chapter 11: What the Hell?

Dean expected Sam to be angry with him — and he was right. At least Sam wasn't immature enough to give John back his sleeping bag; rather, he simply moved the bag to the far side of the clearing, as far away from both of them as he could get. Dean glanced at his father and then started to follow. "Sammy…"

Sam turned, freezing Dean in his tracks with one of the expressions he usually reserved for the cross-examination of a witness he was trying to break. "Leave. Me. Alone." he warned, and Dean decided that probably wasn't such a bad idea — at least for a few hours.

Once in the sleeping bag, Sam turned his back on them. Eventually Dean and John resumed their original positions, and the rest of the night passed silently.

Around 5 a.m., Dean retrieved a thermos from the backpack he had worn into the woods, in addition to carrying the weapons duffle. It was a serious, "hunter's" thermos, and it kept liquid hot for hours. Even though the coffee inside had been made over six hours earlier, it was still piping hot. In the additional light of an incoming dawn, John saw what Dean was doing, and opened his own pack. He had a similar thermos of water inside, as well as a small camping kit, and now he set about the business of stirring up some freeze-dried scrambled eggs for breakfast.

As John and Dean began to make their quiet morning noises, Sam rolled over in the bag. He regarded them for a few moments, then climbed out of the bag and started to step toward the woods. John saw him moving and called out, quietly, but obviously still startled. "Sam! Where are you going? It's dangerous out there!"

Sam didn't even look back. "Taking a piss," he answered. "I won't go far."

Despite his words to the contrary, Dean was nervous that Sam would decide to hike back out of the woods and disappear. He stood stiffly, pausing to massage his knees for a moment before crossing the clearing to the sleeping bag, delivering the thermos of coffee to John during his trip. Watching his brother take a leak was not on Dean's short list of things to do, but as he knelt to roll up John's sleeping bag, he peered anxiously through the trees. He was relieved on two counts when he spotted Sam's back — first, his brother hadn't taken off through the forest alone; second, he had his back to the clearing, so Dean wasn't scarred for life. Dean had finished rolling up the bag and was standing up again when Sam stepped back through the trees. Their eyes met, and then Sam looked away.

Before Dean could say anything, John spoke from behind him. "Gonna do that myself, boys. Be right back." Dean swiveled his head to watch John step through the trees on his side of the clearing, then turned back to his brother.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I tried to convince Dad that we should tell you everything."

In the morning light, Sam looked more depressed than angry. "He's not in charge, Dean."

Dean bristled. "Hunters have a hierarchy, based on experience. Yeah, when I'm with Dad, he's in charge. But if I go on a hunt with Garth, or one of the newer hunters, they look to me. That's the way it has to be, if you want to live through the hunt."

Sam rubbed his face, exasperated. "Life isn't a hunt, Dean! When he kicked me out of the family because I went to Stanford, and you didn't contact me for two years…" — he looked at the ground, took a breath, and fought for control. Then Sam looked back at Dean. "Eventually, I let that go — because you were young, too. You weren't your own man, yet. You're over 30 years old now, Dean — when are you going to start thinking for yourself?"

"It was the hunt," Dean argued. "Yellow Eyes is the crux of the hunt; that damn Demon is why Dad got into this life in the first place — and why I followed."

"Tracking the demon, trapping the demon, trying to destroy the demon — those are all hunting decisions," Sam countered, nearly shouting now. "But what Yellow Eyes said about me, Dean, that was FUCKING PERSONAL!" Sam emphasized his last words with jabs to Dean's chest, pushing his brother back a few feet — then he deflated, and his anger dissipated, leaving him with only fear. Embarrassed when his eyes began to fill, Sam whirled around to face the trees, his back to his brother. "If the demon comes for me, everyone around me will be in danger."

Dean swallowed, walking the few steps back toward his brother. "Kim and Tina had already left," he said, apologetically. "I guess I figured I had some time to make Dad see things my way."

Sam hung his head, thinking of Al, of their stolen kiss. "I might meet someone else…for all you know, I already have. It's not like I'm a monk."

Dean nodded. "I know you probably won't believe this, but I was going to tell you before we left, regardless of what Dad said. When you started talking about your cop friend, and mentioned that you might go to L.A. this summer to see Cristina…I could see that we had to tell you. I think Dad would have come to the same conclusion." He sighed. "Hell, I guess he did, last night."

Sam raised the back of his wrists to wipe at his eyes before he turned back around. "I don't know what to do now," he said brokenly.

Dean's heart broke for his brother, but he forced himself to smile. "All you have to do today is help hunt a hybrid," he answered. "One step at a time, Sam."

Sam nodded. "Okay," he agreed. "Okay."

John, safely hidden behind a tree, made some noise to signal that he was returning to camp, and his sons drifted apart. He couldn't believe he had let his life come to this, that he was a man who had to hide in trees and courtroom balconies if he wanted to feel part of his youngest son's life. He sighed as he bent over the tin of scrambled eggs, stirring the eggs and spooning a portion out for himself before handing the remainder to Dean. It was his own fault — he knew that. Mary would never believe it either, that he could turn into the hard, cold, man that he had.

Dean was offering Sam some of the eggs. John stabbed a bite with his fork and shoved his breakfast into his mouth almost angrily. At least the boys seem to have made peace, he thought, watching them across the clearing. At least they still had each other.

SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN

John held up his arm, the understood "halt" signal, and squatted on the forest floor, more closely examining the broken brush. His sons, trailing behind, followed the training ingrained in them years before; they stopped moving, and waited silently for further instructions.

The sun was high overhead now, although the forest was thick, and it was difficult to tell. Each Winchester wore a watch, however, and there was enough sunlight filtering through the trees for Dean to see, when he checked his, that they had been tracking the hybrid for nearly six hours. Quietly, Dean set his weapons duffle on the ground, and shrugged out of his backpack. Shifting the pack around so that it was facing him, he reached into an outer pocket and withdrew a protein bar. He turned slightly and silently offered the bar to Sam, who was just a few feet behind him. Sam frowned and shook his head, so Dean faced front again, twisting the pack around so that he could re-settle it on his shoulders. Watching his father, Dean ripped open the end of the package as quietly as he could, eventually squeezing the bar out and shoving the empty paper into the front pocket of his jeans. He bit off half the bar in one bite, then pushed the hand holding the other half blindly back in Sam's direction. His lips twitched with a smile when, after a moment, he felt Sam's fingers as his brother took the half-bar from his hand.

John rose from his crouch and turned around, coming back in their direction. Dean wiped his hand off on his jeans and waited.

John turned so that his pack was in Dean's face. "Get the stake," he whispered, and Dean reached inside of John's pack to withdraw the wooden projectile. John turned back around, taking the stake from Dean's hands and kicking at Dean's duffle. "Better get the axe ready," he whispered.

"What've you got?" Dean whispered back, while Sam bent to unzip Dean's bag and withdraw the silver-bladed axe, as well as his own 8-inch silver-bladed hunting knife. The knife had been a gift from John on Sam's 13th birthday, and he had kept it with him ever since. It was one of the few things he had taken with him to Stanford. This would be the first time, in over 15 years, that Sam had used the weapon as it was intended to be used; he had kept it largely for sentimental reasons. John's gift of the knife had signified two important things: first, his father had been home, and had remembered one of his sons' birthdays — Sam could count the number of his and Dean's birthdays when John had been both present and aware with fewer than all ten of his fingers — second, by giving Sam a hunter's weapon, John had been declaring Sam a hunter.

John watched Sam hand Dean the axe and palm the knife, frowning. "Sam stays here," he murmured. "The trail leads into another clearing — this is the largest one we've seen so far, and the far end tapers off into rock; we're getting closer to mountain range, and this could be a cave that the hybrid is using for shelter. The clearing is covered with tracks. I think this could be the lair."

"I'm coming." Sam could growl and whisper at the same time, apparently.

John took a step towards his youngest. "I will knock you out if I have to," he threatened.

Sam took his own step forward, so that the distance between father and son was reduced to a few inches. He seemed to tower over his father, even though John was only a few inches shorter. "Go ahead and try, old man."

Dean pulled his brother backwards, hissing angrily. "Knock if off, both of you! None of us can sneak up on anything if we start our own brawl six feet from the clearing!" He glared at Sam, leaned to pick up the duffle and shoved it toward Sam's midsection. "Dad and I will check out the clearing; neutralize anything we find. I'll call you when it's time for the holy water."

Sam's eyes shot daggers at him, but he accepted the bag in silence. John looked at him as if he wanted to say something else...then abruptly turned and started back toward his original position. Dean lingered long enough for Sam to whisper a somewhat reluctant "Be careful"; then he winked at his brother, and turned to follow his father. The two eldest Winchesters squatted at the entrance to the clearing for a few seconds, then pushed through the brush.

Sam waited as long as he could - which was probably less than half a minute. Then he moved to the clearing's entrance, where he knelt down, parting the brush so that he could see. Dean and John were halfway to the end of the clearing that ended in rock. Sam couldn't see a cave opening from his vantage point, but if his father and brother were continuing their careful, quiet approach, he figured they probably could. The two Winchesters worked their way around the perimeter of the clearing until they were about 10 feet from the rock. Then, John motioned for Dean to stop; and pointed toward the top of the boulder. Dean nodded once. Both men shrugged off their backpacks, letting them lie on the ground. Dean held onto the axe, moving in a crouch slightly to the left, looking intently at what must be the cave opening. John broke off in a crouch to the right, soon disappearing from sight for a few moments, back into the thickness of the forest. He must have found a way to start climbing toward the top of the cave; soon, the top of his head was visible - he was approaching the opening of the cave's from somewhere behind it, that Sam couldn't see.

Once John was perched on the edge of the rock, he nodded at Dean, then held up one finger. Sam swallowed as the countdown began, and John's index finger was joined by his middle finger. As his ring finger raised in the 3-count, John nodded again, and Dean began to shout.

"Hey! Fugly! Can hybrid's hairy ass come out to play?"

After a few seconds of silence, Dean tried again, louder this time. "Here, kitty-kitty-kitty!"

A shuffling sound came from inside the cave - then a roar. Sam shivered as the beast — not quite Wendigo, not quite human — emerged from behind a ledge of rock that was hiding the cave entrance from Sam. Dean had backed up another five feet or so as the first sounds began to come from the cave. Now, while the hybrid was still blocking the cave's entrance, Dean drew back his arm, sighted his target, and let the axe fly. The human part of the hybrid's brain processed Dean's intent, however, and the beast lurched to one side while raising a defensive arm, causing an unfortunate sequence of events. First, the axe missed its target — the blade still buried itself in fur and flesh, but it had missed the hybrid's heart, and was stuck in its forearm, instead. At the same moment as the hybrid's defensive move, John leaped from his perch above the animal, intending to bury his stake in its back — instead he just fell face-first at the feet of an enraged hybrid.

The Wendigo hybrid, howling in pain and frustration, paused long enough to rip the axe from its arm, and toss the axe to the side of the clearing.

The pause was almost long enough for John.

The unbroken fall to the forest floor had been nearly 15 feet, and John had been stunned and confused; knocked half-unconscious. Still, Dean's shout of panic and his own sense of self-preservation had kicked in. He rolled a few times, scrabbling to retrieve his dropped wooden stake, then began scrambling to get up. The hybrid was a blur of motion, moving faster than any human — in the time it took Sam to stand up, the animal plucked John off the ground with his wounded arm, and danged John in mid-air for a milleiecond, before roaring in anger and tossing John as far as it could — there was a sharp crack when John collided with the trunk of a tree.

Then the hybrid took a step toward Dean, who had reached around to the back of his jeans and pulled out a semi-automatic handgun, loaded with silver bullets soaked in holy water. Dean was unloading the weapon into the hybrid, but the bullets were barely slowing the beast down. As the magazine emptied itself of ammo, Dean heard something that frightened him more than the hybrid's howl; more than the sound of his father hitting the tree. He heard Sam's voice.

"Dean!" came from just a few feet behind him. "Drop, now!"

Once again Dean followed his training. With an enraged hybrid less than five feet in front of him, Dean dropped to the ground, looking up just as Sam's knife flew overhead.

Sam was out of practice, and the throw was high. The knife buried itself hilt-deep in the Wendigo's eye socket, causing the beast to scream in agony and stagger, but not fall. Sam was pulling on Dean's legs now, trying to get his brother away from the hybrid's path. The knife was gone, the axe was gone, Dean's gun was empty, and John was out for the count — the wooden stake had ended up in parts unknown.

Dean's hunter's brain processed all of this lightning fast; they were screwed, all of them, and he had to get Sam out of danger. He kicked against the hands grasping at him, trying to make Sam run for it; instead, Sam just came closer to Dean — and the hybrid.

The Wendigo hybrid, with sight only in one eye now, had lost some of its steam — but Dean saw with horror that another hybrid had responded to the howls of pain and anger, and had come to the mouth of the cave. Obviously past its prime — either old, sick, or both — the second hybrid moved as fast as it could toward the fracas.

Dean was still kicking at Sam, yelling "Get out!, Get out!" when the first hybrid got close enough to grab him. There was no time for deed or word, after that — the next thing Dean knew, he was bouncing off of his own tree, on the opposite side of the clearing from his father.

He hadn't connected with his head, so Dean was conscious when he hit the ground. The agony of a dislocated shoulder twisted him onto his back, and Dean looked desperately around the clearing for Sam.

When the injured hybrid snagged Dean, Sam started scooting backwards, emptying his Glock into the second hybrid, which had Sam in its trajectory. His regular ammunition did even less to stop the beast than Dean's treated ammo had, however. Sam was looking at the oncoming animal, paralyzed with fear — and watched, stunned, as the Wendigo hybrid burst into thousands of pieces, right before his eyes.

He blinked, wondering if he was dead already and dreaming, when there was another implosion from closer to Dean's location — the first hybrid had also scattered into thousands of fragments. For a few seconds, the clearing resembled a war zone in Beirut — body parts and blood were everywhere — then, one-by-one, all the former Wendigo bits began to dissolve.

The brothers locked eyes across the clearing. Sam was trying to find his feet, and go to Dean, when more movement at the mouth of the cave stopped him. He was crawling toward the abandoned weapons duffle to find something to battle this Wendigo with, when Dean's "What the hell?" stopped him.

Sam looked up, toward the cave — and saw a young woman standing there, smiling at him. She was short, dark, around his age — had she been held captive in the cave? Sam pulled the weapons duffle toward him, fear rendering him speechless.

Not so, Dean. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

She didn't even turn her head in his direction — just kept smiling at Sam.

"Hello, Sam," she said. "My name is Ruby. My father sent me."

End, Chapter 11