Chapter 3

The Ill-Fated Princess

Dean chose each footstep with care. He'd stumbled twice now, boots sliding over the wet, uneven ground, barely managing to keep Sam from tumbling into the prickly underbrush. To his credit, Sam never complained, simply kept his attention focused on the task at hand, forcing his legs to move, even though each shift of weight was obviously excruciating. Their progress was frustratingly slow, and Dean wrestled with the urge to push forward, dragging his brother out of this damned forest and back to the real world, where there were doctors and hospitals and trees were just trees, not these tall, creepy things with knotted eyes and twigs for fingers.

That last was a bit of an exaggeration. Though, it didn't take a lot of imagination to picture those long branches reaching down for them, wrapping tight around him and his brother, slowly squeezing the life out of them. With each creak, a shiver went up Dean's spine.

"Trees …" Sam breathed, face pale and sweaty. The fever was getting worse, burning its way through his body. Dean could feel the heat of it as he leaned in to hear what his brother had to say.

"What?"

"Trees … watching."

"That's crazy talk."

Sam shook his head, cringing as he dragged his bad leg over a rough patch, pant leg catching on a fallen branch, "Not crazy. Saw them …"

"That's the fever talking, making you see shit that isn't there. Keep walking."

Reluctantly, the younger man nodded, "Maybe."

Glancing up into the canopy of trees, Dean clenched his jaw and tightened his hold on Sam's shoulders, "Hey, you remember those stories you used to tell me?"

"Stories?"

"Yeah, you were always making stuff up."

"Like what?"

"Just stupid stuff. Once … once you were holding my hand and we were following dad through this big field. You thought we were hunting for rabbits or something, you couldn't have been more'n four or five. But, you kept jumping over stuff. Logs and puddles and clumps of grass. I told you to stop, but you kept doing it and every time you'd jump you look at me and say 'I'm going to the moon this time' and then you'd just land back on the ground."

In spite of everything, Sam smiled, "Yeah."

Above them, the trees creaked menacingly and Dean was sure one of them leaned closer as they limped past, "You got tired of jumping, I guess, and Dad was pretty far ahead of us, so you started telling me what it was like on the moon. I spent an hour listening to how you built a house and lived there and made friends with the moon-kids who lived under the ground."

"Was … I was a kid …"

"I know. I was, too."

"Dean … you hear that?"

Of course he heard it, the crashing of something large pushing through the underbrush was difficult to miss even with his heart beating so loud in his ears, but Dean remembered the creature's words from the day before, and kept his eyes focused straight ahead.

"Didn't hear anything."

Sam panted harshly, tightening his arm around Dean's shoulders, fingers fisting in Dean's shirt as he tried to keep his balance, "Something's coming. Go faster."

"Hold still."

The thing was getting closer, coming up from the left with scrambling steps and heavy, crazed breathing that echoed around them. Sam's face paled further, if that was even possible, and he clung to his brother, fear showing clearly on his face.

"You should leave me. Just run, Dean," he gasped.

"Shut up and keep walking. Ignore it."

"But …"

"Keep walking." Dean growled.

Of all the things that could have come bursting out of the thorn bush a few yards ahead of them, the last thing they expected was a girl. The wicked little thorns dug deep into the fabric of her blue parka, halting her progress with a sharp jerk that sent her sprawling backwards, half-suspended a few inches off the ground. Long blonde hair hung in tangles, sticking wetly to the sweat and blood that covered her face. Desperately, her fingers worked at the fabric of her coat, pulling out one thorn only to have another replace it.

Completely caught off guard, Dean almost stopped to help her, only catching himself at the last second. Setting his jaw, he kept Sam moving, tugging him onward.

"Help!" the girl cried when she saw them, brilliant blue eyes wide and pleading.

"Sorry," he muttered, looking away.

"Dean … she's hurt," Sam whispered.

"Yeah. So're you. Besides, she's not human."

Tears poured down her cheeks, "Please. Please, it's coming for me. You have to help." Even weeping, her voice was lovely, soft and breathy. The kind of voice Dean thought every beautiful woman should have.

"Dean," his brother's voice was thick with frustration.

Turning his head a little, Dean said in a hushed voice, "She's not human. Don't even look at her. Just keep walking. We've go t to be out of these woods by tonight."

"But …" Sam glanced at the woman thrashing in the brush, "what if she's telling the truth?"

"What the hell is wrong with you?! Help me! If you hurry we can get away. Please."

"She's not." He sounded more certain than he felt. As they slowly limped past her flailing form, Dean couldn't not see her scratched face peering up at him or the ragged state of her clothing. Any other time, he'd have been kneeling there in the dirt and mud, ripping her free of the branches and barbs, but he couldn't risk it now, not with Sam injured and sick, not with a whole forest full of nasty creatures chasing after them.

"Damn it." She was sobbing now, clawing at thick tangle of branches that held her in place, "Please. It's going to kill me. It … it already killed the others … help me, please."

"Just keep going," Dean growled, edging past her.

"Dean …"

"Keep going."

"We have to stop …"

"No. She's not human. It's not real."

"Don't leave me. Please, don't leave me. It's coming. Please."

In the distance there was a strange growling roar that sent the woman into a hysterical fit of wild thrashing and high-pitched screaming. Her kicking legs shook the bush and only served to tangle her further in the thorn covered branches.

"How do you know … what if …" Sam was gasping, leveraging himself up to look over his shoulder.

"She can't be human. She can't be."

The growling grew closer and Dean tightened his arm around Sam's waist, half lifting him, pressing onward at a somewhat faster clip. Whatever was coming sounded large and hungry. If this wasn't a trick, if the girl was a human – which she couldn't be – but if she was, their only hope was that the monster would be satisfied with her. Perhaps, with its belly full, it wouldn't bother with the easy prey of two men gimping through the forest at a snail's pace.

Her screams cut through his thoughts, spreading a cold feeling of guilt through his chest. It wasn't too late, some part of him thought, they could still turn around and wrench her free. They were hunters, after all; it was their job to save people. No. Dean couldn't risk it; couldn't risk his brother's life on something that was so obviously a trick. If he was wrong and Sam died, he'd never forgive himself. Even if he managed to crawl out of the forest alive and find help, Sam would still be gone and the blame would be his.

"Don't listen, Sammy. Just keep walking and don't listen."

Once, when they were kids, Sam couldn't have been more than nine, their dad had taken them out shooting. The youngest Winchester had never liked guns, hated handling them, hated cleaning them, hated even having them close to him. It was an aversion that Dean didn't understand; holding a weapon had been second nature to him, but still, he felt for his little brother. John put the gun in Sam's hands and told him to try and hit the cans lined up on the fence. He only missed one, but even John's words of praise couldn't wipe the disturbed look off Sam's face.

When the cans were gone, the three of them had trekked off into the field in search of rabbits or squirrels. Sam trudged along, not really looking for animals, but trying to pretend he was. Their father noticed this through narrowed eyes, but said nothing, choosing instead to point out a rabbit nibbling on some grass a few yards away.

"Kill it, Sam," John had said, pointing.

"Dad."

"Shoot it. I know you don't want to. Do it anyway."

Reluctantly, Sam had put the gun to his shoulder, taking careful aim, just as he'd been taught. Dean jumped when the gun finally went off. The rabbit lay on the ground, squirming in pain from the wound to its back side.

"I told you to kill it."

"I tried." Sam was lying. He'd been trying to miss, Dean could tell.

With a heavy sigh, John had gone forward, sliding the hunting knife out of his back pocket. The little animal screamed as he picked it up.

"Don't listen, Sammy," Dean had whispered, covering his brother's ears. "Block it out. Don't listen."

Sam didn't cry when their father ended the rabbit's suffering; he didn't cry when he was told to carry the furry little carcass back to the truck, or when John skinned it and cooked it over their little camp fire that night. It wasn't until night fell and they lay in their sleeping bags that Dean heard his brothers quiet sobs. Neither of them said anything, but they both knew. Sam never missed a shot after that.

"Dean …" Sam said, close to his ear, wincing as the toe of his boot dragged across the ground, "we have to help her."

"No. Block it out. Don't listen."

Behind them the creatures rumbling howl shook the trees and the girl screamed again, high and shrill and very, very real.

"Just keep walking. Don't listen." He repeated, staring straight ahead.

The first wet crunch of bone and sinew was masked only by the screeching of the girl. Something warm sprayed against their backs and Sam flinched, trying to look back.

"No. Just keep going."

"But …"

"Sam. Walk."

Dismally, the younger man nodded, tears shining in his fever shadowed eyes. The thick, pleased, purring of the creature as it ate followed them for hours. Each pop of a bone coming out of the socket, every slick, ripping of flesh, the final gurgle of a bloody breath as the girl died, they would stay with Dean forever, replaying in his mind every night for the rest of his life.

"She wasn't real," he whispered, more to himself than his brother.

"I know," Sam answered anyway.

"We can't stop. We won't make it out if we stop."

"I know."

"We gotta get out, Sammy. I hate this place."

"Me, too."

Whether it was real or not, the creature didn't follow them. Maybe it was content with its current meal or maybe it was just a figment of their imaginations, but it stayed where it was and they slowly moved further and further away.