Sooo, I experienced a bout of insomnia yesterday morning and wrote my little heart out from about 3:30 in the morning until I had to get ready for work. I had some great stuff. The thing about not getting any sleep, though, is that you make stupid mistakes. So I failed to save it, and then when I went to close the program I hit no instead of yes and ended up losing all my hard work. Argggh. So then I went to work and wrote my little heart out again, in between interuptions and real life anyway, just trying to remember what I had written. So now I'm all disappointed, because you can never recreate anything to look nearly as good as the original. So I don't know that this is bad, but it's not as good as it was and that sucks. What's a girl to do? Anyway, in honor of the alerts being back up I thought I would go ahead and post tonight. Enjoy the chapter. Thanks for finding the story even when we were having so many site problems.

Red seemed to be the only thing Dean could see as he stormed through the forest. He was pissed off beyond all reason. Red seeing, fire breathing, tree punching foot stomping, royally pissed off, mad. It wasn't enough that Sam had attempted to order him to stay off the hunt. It wasn't enough that he and Missouri and Bobby had made it perfectly clear that they thought him totally incapable of even going with them to Canada, let alone go trekking into the woods with the other two hunters. And then, to really nail it home, they'd gone and put an alert on him at the ranger's station. Oh, Sam was so gonna pay the next time Dean saw him.

It had taken him a full half hour to realize Ranger Mike was not as klutzy and disorganized as he seemed, nor was he really as gabby as he was making himself out to be, all lovely weather out there, eh? And you're not from around here, you sure you want to be cavortin' out in those woods by yourself? When Dean finally realized it was all stall tactics, and that the guy really seemed to be forcing the conversation, he came close to losing it.

"Are you gonna give me a day pass or not?" he'd demanded harshly, causing the skinny ranger to cower a little before managing to compose himself. Drawing his height up so that he came to Dean's chin instead of his shoulders, the little man tried to impose authority over the leather-clad charge before him.

"It's my job to keep people safe going out there," he hedged cautiously, his eyes never leaving Dean.

"Yeah, well you could say that's my job too," Dean leered back. "I'd like my pass now."

"I can't do that."

Dean's eyes widened in disbelief. Oh no, you didn't just say to me what I think you said. He bit. "And why exactly is that?"

If the man had had even the slightest hint of common sense, he would have told Dean precisely what he needed to know right then and there. But the fact that they hadn't managed to keep people out of the woods even with all the killings taking place pretty much proved that the Algonquin rangers were not hired for their common sense - at least not the ones at this particular station. So instead of coming clean and saving his own ass, the man simply shrugged and announced that "I'm sorry, son, I just can't help you."

Dean rolled his eyes and squared his shoulders before looking the man straight in the eye, glowering. "Wrong answer," he sneered as his hand shot out and grabbed the man by the throat. "I want you to leave a message for the people that called you and told you not to let me through. When they get here, you tell them that I'm sick and tired of them meddling in my business. Tell them that I'm a grown man and I can make my own decisions without them holding my hand to do it. And when you're done with that, you make sure to let them know that it will take a lot more than a ranger to keep me from going out there. You got me?"

As he spoke, his hand clenched tightly around the man's neck, Ranger Mike had been growing progressively redder in the face as the majority of his air supply was cut off. He nodded quickly in Dean's grasp, desperate to be freed from the stronghold he'd been placed under.

"Say it," Dean growled. "I want you to say that you'll tell them."

"I will," the man squeaked out.

"You'll what?"

"I'll tell them what you told me. That they can't stop you from going out there."

Dean's grip loosened, and he patted the guy condescendingly on the top of the head. "I knew you'd see things my way," he mocked, giving the man a few seconds to catch his breath before holding out an impatient hand for the day pass.

And that had been that. Dean had snatched the pass from the man's hand and tore out of the small hut in a huff. Climbing back into his car, Dean pulled out in a cloud of dust to make the final fifteen minute drive to the entrance of the trail.

That had been over two hours ago and Dean was now making fast progress through the woods as the morning sun came through the trees, lighting his path. His leg was already throbbing, the phantom pains giving way to real ones as he traversed the uneven terrain of the forest floor. It had only taken him a few minutes to realize just how stupid it had been to leave his cane at home, and he'd lost precious time searching for a suitable walking stick to replace the despised contraption.

Of course, now that meant his hand hurt and his leg hurt because he was putting so much pressure on his hand, trying to ease the pressure on his leg. Sticks weren't exactly meant to be used as canes, what with their rough edges and extra knobs. He stopped for a minute, giving his hand and leg a rest, and took a look at the already scratched palm, wincing. He could only think that at least it wasn't his shooting hand that he was messing up, and then reshouldered the duffle with all his stuff and continued on. He didn't have unlimited minutes to waste. He had to finish this before Sam and Bobby found him.

Quickening his pace, Dean forced himself to stop dwelling on the pain, instead watching straight ahead of him to be sure he was following the right path. Everything looked the same to him, all the trees, the underbrush, rocks, and if it wasn't for the footpath worn into the ground by hundreds of past visitors over the years he feared he wouldn't have been able to find his way back to where he needed to be. The map could only do so much when landmarks were so few and far between. Taking another look at the map, Dean discovered that he should be coming up on a small stream not far from where he was. He began to dwell on that, wondering just how wide the stream would be and how difficult it would be to get across. And that's when the toe of his prosthesis found the root sticking up from the ground seconds before he found himself sprawled on the forest floor.

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Thanks to Bobby's extreme speed and Dean's unplanned stops along the way, the trio pulled up to the rangers station a little less than two hours after Dean left it only to find a very shaken and red necked Ranger Mike huddled at his desk. The man's eyes narrowed when he noted their frantic movements and hurried line of questions, realizing without introduction that these were the people who had set the lunatic on him a couple hours earlier.

Finger shaking furiously, the man rose from his chair, eyes locked on Missouri because he knew the call had come from a woman and she was the only woman present. "You!" He boomed nervously, the fact that these people could be just as dangerous and high-strung as his previous visitor not totally leaving his mind. "Do you have any idea what your friend did to me?"

Uh oh. Sam alternated between fighting off a smirk and fighting off unadulterated anger as he realized just what his brother could possibly have been capable of when backed into a corner like they'd done. None of them had truly considered the repercussions of their actions, not only towards the ranger, but for this entire hunt, as they had moved forward blindly.

Missouri remained calm, meeting the man's steely eyed gaze with a gentle one of her own. "Sir, I'm so sorry if that boy caused you any harm. If we'd believed he would actually lay a hand on you, I promise I would never have asked you to do what I did. But you see, he's been terribly injured recently and he's determined to prove that he's still as competent as he once was, and we were terribly worried for his well-being. I'll stay here with you and hammer out some form of compensation, but you need to tell young Sam and Bobby here which trail he set out on before we lose anymore time in all this. Please, you understand."

Somehow, the ranger melted at Missouri's quickly spun apology and returned to his desk immediately. "I understand," he replied firmly. "Got me a boy, too. I'd be terrified if he'd gone out there when he wasn't ready. There's something out there killing people, ya know."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, we know. He's out there trying to stop it. That's why we're so freaked out."

"He's what? What in the name of all things holy would possess that kid to try something so stupid?" the ranger spat, turning around with a map in his hand and crossing back to his visitors.

"Exactly. So that map?" Sam held his hand out a little impatiently, motioning with his fingers to urge the man to move faster.

Ranger Mike stumbled over his words as he sprang to action, handing over the map and pointing to Dean's point of entry. Sam and Bobby wasted no more time, rushing out the door with a hastened 'thank you' before leaving Missouri and the ranger alone to do whatever it was she planned to do for the remainder of the day. Bobby's truck roared to life and hurried down the dirt path towards Dean's point of entry as Sam prepared their weapons bags. They could afford to waste no time when they arrived, and Sam had them ready so that they could literally take off down the trail the minute the truck came to a complete stop.

Sam was out of the car and a couple hundred yards down the trail before Bobby even had his door shut. The older man hollered to him, ordering him to slow down with a firm explanation that it would do Dean no good if they were exhausted when they finally caught up with the rogue hunter. "Trust me, Sam, even walking fast we'll catch up with him soon. He's not going to be moving that fast."

Nodding, Sam slowed to match Bobby's quick gate. He couldn't help but feel resentful of his brother as they fell into a steady pace, couldn't help but be annoyed at the fasct that they'd been rushed into this. Sam would have much preferred to go in prepared for the fight. But instead, he and Bobby had only a third of the weaponry they should have been carrying and none of the sleep. All because Dean couldn't take a little criticism about I being too soon for him to fight. Stupid, stubborn, pig-headed Dean.

Dean. Lately, it had been all about Dean. What Dean wanted. What Dean needed. What was best for Dean. So here they were, risking their lives for his determined ass, because that's what Winchester's did. They saved each other from the things that go bump in the night, and, more often than not, from themselves. And Bobby was close enough to being a Winchester that he was willing to risk his own life for the boys, too. He may not have been blood, but the man was the closest thing to family they had.

"I swear to god, I'm going to kick his ass all the way from here to Timbuktu," Sam threatened as he shifted the pack on his shoulder, redistributing the weight. "I can't believe he tried to threaten that poor ranger.

"He's desperate, Sam," Bobby reasoned, feeling a need to play devil's advocate despite the voice inside his head cheering Sam's raving's on. "He feels like everyon's against him right now and he's just trying to prove us wrong. It's daylight, just calm down. We'll find him long before it's too late."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, "Except there's so much more that could happen to him even without the spirit on the loose. It wasn't the spirit that got his leg, it was a bear trap, Bobby. And moreover, what's to say the spirit won't make some kind of appearance as soon as it realizes what we're up to. There's no rule that says it has to lay dormant during the day."

"But it has so far."

"Yeah, like that's stopped it from changing it up on us. When we came out here the first time it was supposed to be a bear. And from there it moved on to a wolf and then a moose. Who the hell knows what it's going to be next? It's unpredictable. And an unpredictable spirit is a dangerous spirit. No ifs, ands or buts about it. He's in danger out there by himself."

Bobby had to admit, he couldn't argue with that logic. It seemed that every counter-attack he could come up with only fueled Sam's overactive imagination even more. If he continued to reassure the young hunter he feared Sam might imagine Dean lying dead in a stream somewhere. He shut his mouth, speeding up without complaint as Sam began to quicken his pace. He understood Sam's concerns, more than he wanted to admit, and he was just as anxious to get moving as the youngest Winchester.

Xxxxxxxxxx

"Shit!" Dean cursed loudly, his voice echoing though the trees as he pounded his fist furiously against the ground. A string of expletives flew from his mouth, harsh enough to make a sailor blush, as he cursed the bastard contraption that had failed to warn him of his impending fall. Once again, he found himself brutally reminded of all he had lost, the fact that a prosthesis would never have the sensations of a real leg hammering the point home. Pulling himself up slowly, he performed a mental inventory of his body, searching for serious injury. Save a few barely bleeding scrapes on his elbows and palms, and about a dozen new bruises to add to his fast growing collection, he deemed himself no worse for wear and finished getting up. Only his ego was bruised, but that damage was more due to Sam's words than to his most recent spill.

It didn't mean he wasn't pissed off, though, and he was determined to punish anything that got in his way, whether it be Sam, the spirit, or some poor unsuspecting tree root that just happened to have sprouted in the wrong place at the wrong time. Reaching down to the ankle holster he had secured to the prosthesis, he removed his trusted knife and crouched beside the offending root. It only took a few swipes from Dean's extra-sharp blade to slice clean through, and with an angry flourish Dean threw the thing off into the foliage to rot.

He stood again, brushing the dirt off his clothes before collecting his pack and the other items that had spilled on the ground in his fall. They had gone everywhere, the pack off to his right, the walking stick several feet in front of where he had fallen, and his shotgun out behind him. He growled as he bent to pick up each item, and winced when the residual limb issued a slight cry of pain for each movement. He knew, without a doubt, that he would push himself long enough to find the last bag. Always managed in the past, always would in the future. What he wasn't sure about was whether or not he would make it back out of the woods once he was done.

Right now, though, wasn't the time to dwell on it. He was wasting precious time. With the walking stick in one hand, Dean pressed forward, erasing all thoughts from his mind about the pain in his leg or rough edges of the walking stick rubbing against his scraped up palm. Up in the distance he could hear the gentle trickling of the stream and looked back down to his map to confirm his location, checking to see where the best place to cross might be. With his luck of late, he wasn't too excited to be crossing through a body of water, no matter how shallow it might be. But there was nothing he could do about it. He had to cross the stream to get to the vicinity of the last pouch, and he had to find the pouch to get rid of the spirit. It was a vicious cycle, he knew it, but determination would win out.

Dean had been right to worry about the stream. The combination of slippery rocks and fast moving water made it difficult to find a firm foothold with his good leg, and the fact that he couldn't even feel where the prosthesis was planted made him watch the false limb like a hawk. He slipped several times, nearly losing his balance as he tried to cross the ten foot span of water, but somehow he managed to make it across in one piece. And several minutes later, as he grumbled yet again about the hated feel of wet jeans sticking to his leg, he finally accepted one upside to his despised new leg. The jeans could stick to it all they wanted and he couldn't feel it to be annoyed.

Looking down at his map once more, Dean estimated that he'd gone more than halfway. But then he looked at his watch and cursed, because the span he'd traversed had taken him three hours already. By his math, that meant at least another two if not three more before he arrived at his search destination. There just wasn't time for this. The more time he wasted hiking to the spot, the less time he would have to actually look.

For the first time since he's started out, he actually allowed himself to admit that maybe Sam had been right to keep him home. Thinking about it, admitting it, made Dean's chest ache and his heart feel like it was about to break right in half. He hated feeling so helpless. Hated feeling so...disabled. Hated that label.

And then he heard the rustling in the bushes behind him and realized there was no time to dwell on what he could and couldn't do any more. The time had come to take action. Slowly, cautiously, Dean turned around and aimed his gun, finger tight on the trigger.