Trees that had laid undisturbed for decades, if not centuries, spiralled up into the sky, competing with each other for sunlight, their leaves spread out in plump batches and giving the area below them a green hue. The shuffling of leaves against one another sounded almost like rain. The only other noises in the forest were distant calls from birds and a thud every now and then from squirrels, deciding to drop whatever they'd had in their mouths onto unsuspecting plants. There was one more sound, however, which rang out a thousand times louder than either of the brothers' footsteps. Dean strained to hear any type of warning about what the creature was planning to do, but it was nearly impossible to decipher anything past the thumping of his own heart.
As fingers curled around his shoulders much closer to his neck than he'd like, Dean's heart skipped a beat, his mind blurring past a million thoughts of butitwasjustoverthere. Apparently the thing could really move. With his leg feeling hot as blood swelled to the surface and his pistol reluctantly coming free, he screwed wondering how it might have made a turnabout in such a short time, and pivoted on his good knee to come face-to-face with… Sam.
"Woah!"
Dean lowered the gun from being pointed directly at his brother's forehead, feeling his cheeks redden even though he didn't know why. His cheeks shouldn't be red and he shouldn't look as shocked as he does right now and his leg's bleeding and something's in the forest—
He caught Sam's look. The pistol still needed to be clicked back into safety mode. "Sorry," was the only thing that flew from his mouth.
"Are you okay?" Sam asked, frozen in a kneeling position with his hands extended, as if he wasn't sure whether moving too quickly would startle him again. His brother's eyes drifted over to the knee, which wasn't ripped open to an alarming degree. Dean just worried about what had caused it. Sam beat him to a vocalized explanation, though. His quietness didn't mask the fact that Dean knew he was jumping to conclusions. "Man, if you weren't up to walking, you could've just let me know… Please say this has nothing to do with our last burn."
"I already told you that I'm fine," he shot back.
"Yeah." Sam's face had deepened into a scowl, his tone matching the testiness of Dean's. "I got that. And now you've torn open your leg. Anything else you wanna tell me?"
Dean read the underlying concern on his brother's face, below the obvious anger and doubt. The last two would fade away—but not the worry, it seemed like. Never the worry. It was there when he was the one specifically not doing the Trials; it was there when he took on the burden of the Mark to stop an otherwise invincible Knight of Hell and rogue angel; and it'd been there the whole time afterwards, while Dean knew Sam was looking for ways to remove the Mark and coming up with nothing. He hated getting that look. It wasn't about "being a diseased killer puppy" or refusing to have both him and the First Blade in the same room. That look was about Dean being too weak—mentally, physically, whatever. Could he tell Dean about the effects of the Trials? Nope. Was Dean trustworthy enough to ultimately want to use the Blade for good? Of course not.
But it wasn't worth arguing the point. The look Sam continued to give him wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, and grumbling about it wouldn't lessen its potency. He just turned his gaze away in order to replace the pistol, then stood up, hoping to be able to get a glimpse at things beyond the tall grasses. Nothing stirred.
Sam got up beside him and tried to follow where he was looking, but the forest was as silent as ever, sparse rays of light still drifting down like there was no reason in the world to be rushing this hike; but he had a bad feeling in his gut. The siblings met gazes, and the dubious nature of Sam's made Dean think of the lasting pain at the back of his head, which he'd never brought up. It could have been that his vision and equilibrium got thrown off for a split second, instead of there being some incredibly fast, weirdly tricksterish creature. Suddenly, the cause didn't seem so clear anymore, and Dean let his brother take the lead again while resisting the urge to pipe up about something that looked more like a dark flash than a real creature—person—thing. Sam seemed incredulous over the fact that Dean didn't have a retort. The now-younger Winchester hoped his eyes said "bite me".
They hadn't brought much in the way of medicine, and Dean would be damned if they stopped again to tend to his knee, which had to be spurting one droplet of blood, despite what Sam kept saying. They both stuck much closer together now. Sam made sure to look back every so often, and Dean didn't feel like objecting to it. His new ever-vigilant watch on their surroundings continued to be fruitless. In fact, worse than that. He was beginning to feel like a complete moron as time stretched on, and nothing made a noise except for the birds, while the only things that moved were wind-swept branches far above. This forest was just the same as any other. The only difference, now, was that Dean felt noticeably more outsized by the wildlife, and appeared to have a head injury, to boot. A head injury he was not going to mention. Then he'd be a major idiot.
OOO
Dean was lagging behind again, even worse than before.
It hadn't taken his notice for the first while. After all, he was doing his best to keep pace, and Sam had gradually begun to slow his own speed. Dean's preoccupied mind didn't catch up for quite a while. There were things to worry about, things to complain about (silently), and dozens of things to mull over concerning this hiker case alone. What was able to rip all that gear up so awfully? What would tear it up like that? Some investigators had reported back to the press without issue, and others had gone missing along with the families. The list of monsters he went through in his head didn't seem expansive enough to cover this one. And the creature—well, that was seeming to be more and more a part of his delirium, since there hadn't been a single other hint of its presence, in sight nor sound.
So with such thoughts floating around and a jab of hot pain coming from his leg at each step, it surprised no one that Dean didn't notice they'd slowed down dramatically. But that's what little brothers were for, right? Sam walked alongside him now since the path's grass border had widened out a bit, and he very helpfully asked the same question as ever, "You okay?"
Dean glanced upwards, any trace of anger or adrenaline long since gone. Right now he only gave out an air of seriousness. "Sure."
When Sam glanced down, it wasn't hard to tell what he actually asked about. Dean tried again. "It stings, and we've walked out worse. Better answer?"
Sam shrugged, seemingly indifferent. "Just thought it'd be a good idea to take care of your leg. We shouldn't be very far from the camp now, so if you want five minutes…"
"Nah."
His brother seemed to take the fast answer in stride—and quite literally. Sam's pace soon developed its former momentum, leaving Dean to try and catch up again, his knee's slight protests becoming a tad more obvious. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could do, close or not. His physique was garbage at fourteen. And yet, plenty of early memories centered around learning mechanics and hard work—oftentimes at Bobby's, when they had spare time—or training to go on another hunt, certain he wouldn't let his dad down.
Sam was waiting up ahead at the edge of some clearing, while Dean wondered why the curse couldn't have made him just a couple years older.
"You look tired," Sam chaffed.
He was breathing a little harder. So what? "Screw you. How much farther?"
The now-older Winchester glanced off towards their left, taking in the scenery of foot-long grasses, some withered and dry in the sun, others appearing to be thick and healthy. They hadn't looked into whether the area was known for its ticks, and at this point, they'd find out soon enough anyway. "Maybe half an hour. Fifty minutes if you keep slowing us down like a chick."
"Fifty…?" Dean leaned against the nearest tree and groaned.
"We'll probably make it back to the Impala a little while before dark," Sam offered, though that didn't lift his spirits any.
Dean just muttered, "Remind me never to suggest hikes again," as his brother shrugged off a bag and handed him their small first aid kit with a grin. "When are we eating?" They'd each brought their own version of lunch—Sam packing some weird assortment of ice cubes, fresh foods, and trail mix, while Dean had the smallest pre-sliced amount of bread available at the store and a huge-ass jar of peanut butter, because obviously one took priority over the other. This was their second real stop that day, and there'd been no mention of food until now.
"I want to go up to that campsite first." Sam answered. "Should I come back here, or are you gonna meet me at the camp to have lunch?"
Dean glanced up from digging through their little assortment in the first aid kit, his face twisting in confusion. "What do you mean?"
Sam rolled his eyes and bounced in place, clearly content to be exercising in a proper forest, instead of the outskirts of small towns, as he normally had to do. "I'm checking it out. There's probably nothing anyways. You fix your leg—eat if you want, I guess. I'll be back."
"Happy to," he said sarcastically as Sam already began walking off. The idea of scooping up the contents of the kit, throwing it into the bag he'd tossed beside where he'd sat down, and following Sam played across his mind. Then he looked at the stains along his new pant leg and decided Sam could go wherever he pleased, for all he cared. He hated being assigned to the back of the party. And with that, he officially sat back and relaxed at the base of the tree he'd formerly been leaning against, so that he could sit on dirt instead of extremely long grasses growing everywhere else. Dean would just have to wait out here for another hour until his brother's return, since cell reception didn't work in a place like this. It was, quite honestly, a majestic sort of area. The clearing was highlighted by a dark blue sky, stoically held aloft like a calm sea. The sun left the whole field brewing in a partially damp heat. Birdsong echoed from far away. As his knee's grievances tapered off, and his high levels of melatonin finally bubbled to the surface, it wasn't hard to find that in this kind of place, sleep came easily.
Sam trekked on, glad he didn't feel the need to check behind his shoulder every other minute to know if Dean was still handling himself properly. He'd only heard some bushes moving and a barely audible curse to tell him what had happened. It would have been awful if he missed the next occurrence. Now relieved on the whole issue—since Dean was going to stay in one position—he had assumed he'd be able to take advantage of the alone time. There wasn't all that much of it to speak of when you were constantly either in a car, in a bunker, or on a hunt with the same one or two people day in and day out. This was likely to be his last chance at it for a while—he worried about leaving Dean behind, either because of his safety, his anger—and probably both. Even making the call to Cas the other night had caused his nerves to spike. Yet, the only thing his mind would turn to was Dean's predicament. It was beginning to feel like a recent obsession or something.
"What do you suggest?"
"Metatron."
"... Sam, we locked Metatron away for a reason. He's incredibly dangerous."
"I know."
A pause. "Has it truly gotten to that point?"
"He said something about the Mark. We need to know as much about it as possible. I'm not letting Dean resign to—to this, Cas."
On the other end of the line, the angel's voice had gone soft. "I'll speak with Hanna about it."
That had been the end of the phone call. Not much to speak of, really—and it might soon just lead to yet another dead end. Another waste of time. Another example of hopeless for his brother, if he even confided the idea to Dean at all. Sam was beginning to think that giving Dean a sense of hope every time he found something, only for it to end up yielding nothing, was slowly but surely chipping away at his brother's classic fighting spirit. He didn't like the results at all. It was a little unnerving, to continuously realize that Dean had maneuvered through that fight with the witch—Katja—to purposefully avoid touching the pouch Hansel wore as a necklace. It had been a close match in the confusion. Then everything had gone up in flames, and Dean was refusing every chance to be returned to his normal age.
Before the fight, Dean had made a decision. He'd given up. He lost faith in the idea that they could remove the Mark, and nothing was going to change now until they found a way to do so—or until Dean switched his tune. And—being realistic, here—the former was probably the most likely scenario.
Well, if Dean had given up, there was no way Sam could too. He had to stick it out—whether either of them liked it or not.
OOO
The camping area was true to its description in the article. The closely-bonded families had used the same clearing they always went to for weekend trips through the woods. Tents varied in size, and there had to be more than a dozen, all of the poles sunken into the ground after rain and their tarps sporting large gashes. However, the rips on the tents were different to the fate their electronic devices had suffered. Where the tents only had lonesome tears, there were remnants of cameras, phones, even what might have been a laptop keyboard utterly crushed into bits and thrown around like ash. Footprints and blood would have washed away at this point.
Sam didn't have much to go off of, but he'd learned how to make due over the years. Animals were out of the picture—they wouldn't target electronics and destroy them all in the exact same, precise manner. Some sort of murderer was doubtful. He picked up the tent tarp to inspect some of its rips more carefully. The possibility of a normal human doing this was quickly eliminated from the size and shape of the tear, which appeared to come from something thick—like fingers—as opposed to a blade, and cut through instantly, unlike if a person was to try to use just their hands to puncture it. The second option would have left weakening and indentation behind. Not to mention the fact that tent material wasn't the easiest to rip through with just one's hands.
So, it was probably a kind of humanoid monster that seemed to stick to the woods. Nothing had been recorded in years prior, except for about twenty years ago, when they were first opening it to the public and some hikers had gone missing. Which meant that it was either new to the area, or it'd been around for quite some time. More than twenty years, if it had had nothing to do with those disappearances. But something gave Sam the feeling that the creature had come out of "hibernation" around that time, twenty years ago—and history was starting to repeat itself.
His gut constricted, making him feel sick. Against the distant sound of wildlife and hues of dozens of different kinds of trees, the remains of many families' possessions lay at his feet like some sick burial. The peace of the forest held him captivated, before. Now he realized it would be best if they left—and quickly. Wendigos weren't fun to deal with, to say the least.
Just in case, Sam attempted to use his cell. It didn't go through. He backtracked using the old paths that had first taken him to the campsite, tolerating the meandering directions for fear of losing his sense of direction. It was easy to do, and with the decent walk back, it wouldn't be wise to risk drifting. But no matter how fast he dug his shoes into the dirt to get back to the clearing, it didn't feel fast enough.
And it wasn't.
By the time he returned, shouting Dean's name, all that remained was the shredded display of his brother's bag.
A/N:
Woops... another cliffhanger? Poor Dean. ;D
Thank you Secretwrittenword and Black Fungus for the reviews! I love hearing your thoughts. In fact, I have a little announcement: since classes are in swing again, I'm dialing back on my posts a bit. Posts in general are now weekly, so Forever Young will be biweekly. However, I'll be personally responding to every comment from here on out! Thanks for sticking with the story so far, everyone. There's plenty more to come. :)
