November 25, 1988
Ellen is turning various leftovers into a pot of soup in the kitchen while Joanna Beth naps in the back bedroom in an old porta-crib that had been Sam's. Bobby and Bill sit at the table with a big map of Mark Twain's National Forest. Pastor Jim has taken a rambunctious five-year-old Sammy – who is bursting with happiness and energy - to see the Jolly Green Giant statue and then to a playground in hopes of wearing him out. Dean is still on the couch dozing on and off. Ellen had henpecked him into agreeing to take medicine and cover up with a blanket.
Bill is explaining what he knows to Bobby. The vengeful spirit hunt he had sent John on, simple enough and the hotel owner was offering to pay cash money. Bill had heard that it had been successful, and then – since John was in the area anyway – he had a hunter-needs-assistance emergency. Bill says he knew the main hunter, Paul Robertson, and had sent him on a few simpler tasks. "Simple tasks for sure, salt and burns mostly. He ain't much in the brains department." He notes.
Then Bill tells Bobby he wasn't surprised when he didn't hear much from them. "That area of Missouri? Just not many people except the Army post. And you know we all avoid entering federally controlled land what with random searches of vehicles and all."
"Did you stop to think about his kids? They've been on their own twenty-four days." Bobby's voice is gruff. Those two little boys were what Bobby had argued with John Winchester over last time he saw him. Ha, more than argued. Bobby had found himself with a shotgun pointed at that ass John Winchester and a plan to bury him with the other bodies in the back lot of the salvage yard. The man was so twisted around his own axels he never stopped to think about his kids.
People who are gonna be lousy parents hadn't oughta do it around Bobby. And John Winchester's boys had struck a deep chord of response in his lonely heart. You couldn't make up better sons.
"Ellen and I offered to keep them, but John said he had it covered." Bill defends. "Hell, he could have brought them with him to the hotel. Dean's turning into a smart little cookie about hunting. You know he's where we got the idea to load rock salt and iron into shotgun shells. And Sammy? I know Dean's intent on keeping him out of it, but that is one bright little kid. The pastor's teaching him Latin, I hear."
Ellen doesn't want to hear the hunters squabble about things that can't be changed. "Hey, Singer, at least we haven't completely pushed him away. John's a bit high-strung about his boys. If we push him, like you did, there won't be anyone left to keep an eye on them." Ellen's no-nonsense rant sets Bobby back, and he admits she has a point.
"Well," he grumbles. "I don't have to like it." Bobby gets up and opens the refrigerator. Peers inside. "Where's the beer?"
Bill Harvelle snorts. "Cooler in the back of my truck. Jim doesn't like to keep it in the house 'cause he thinks too many hunters are alcoholics."
Bobby gives a loud chuckle. "Wonder what gave him that idea?" He asks as he heads toward the door, coming back in shortly after with the cooler. He and Bill crack open beers and go back to looking over the map. "One and a half million acres is a lot of ground to cover," Bobby grouses. "And you say he was out with a team? Three other hunters? All missing?"
The low gasp from the doorway gets the three adults' attention. Dean is pale and shaky, leaning on the door frame. He has obviously overheard what they've been saying. Ellen shoots the men a meaningful glance as she heads for the boy.
Dean squares his thin shoulders under his slightly too big sweats, a fever flush painting cheeks in an otherwise pale face. "Dad's gone missing during a hunt?" It's half-statement half-question. It is the fear that makes it hard for him to sleep so many nights that his dad is off and he is left to take care of Sammy. It's what he has been afraid to consider as he kept eking out a day-to-day existence when Dad didn't get home by Thanksgiving.
"Dean, I don't think you should be up." Ellen starts, but she's stopped with a look from a set of bright green eyes, too knowledgeable for a boy of nine.
"It's my dad. I've got a right to know what's going on." Dean makes his way over to the table with the map, and pulls out a chair so he can kneel on it and get a good look at the terrain. "You said there were four hunters? Do we know where they entered the National Forest?"
Bill and Bobby hold a debate with their eyes over the top of Dean's head. Bill eventually shrugs. Ellen rolls her eyes and goes to stir the soup and turn it down to simmer. She sets to work getting out bowls and utensils for lunch. Pulling out a couple loaves of frozen bread she had heated in the oven.
"Uncle Bobby?" Dean has put just enough of a plea into those words to melt Bobby Singer's heart. He mutters a cuss and clanks his beer bottle back onto the table, so he can hold the map down with one hand while he points out the entrance near Devil's Elbow they think the hunters used.
"Your dad showed up to help another hunter out, Paul Robertson, a guy who had lost his partner. You know your dad would insist on doing research first, so we're thinking it's been about ten days. Might still be hunting for all we know, so don't start making it more than it is. There's enough to concern you without letting your imagination take over."
"Yessir." Dean answers, his small fingers tracing over marked trails. "Wow, that's…that's a really big place. How are we going to find Dad?"
"WE aren't doing a damned thing." Bill Harvelle wants the boy to be clear on this. "Bobby and I are going to meet up with a few more hunters, but you are staying put." He pins the boy with a steady glare trying to intimidate him into agreement, but he's met with the most stubborn look Dean can dredge up. It's obvious without any backtalk that Dean has made no agreement. The older hunters sigh at the complication.
"Dean, you're only nine…" Bobby starts in a reasonable voice, but hurries to interrupt when Dean starts to open his mouth. "There's still two full months before your birthday. We can't take you with us. No, we won't. So don't even think about coming with us. We need you here to take care of your little brother. You want him to be safe, don't you?" Bobby knows that's a low blow. "You hearing me boy?" He asks to the best poker face he has ever seen on a kid.
"You wonn't take me with you. Someone needs to keep Sammy safe." Dean repeats back like a little parrot, and Bobby's left wondering why he doesn't feel like he won the argument.
"No one's going to pick a little twerp of a kid out hitchhiking either." Bobby adds, trying to cover all his bases.
No, sir." Dean agrees.
"It's six hundred miles, near about." Bobby continues to pile on evidence. Dean just nods. "You better not steal from the preacher to get money to try to take a bus." At that, Dean's face gets angry and indignant, and to his distress tears start forming in his eyes.
"Uncle Bobby!" Dean cries out in pain as real as though he'd been struck. Not able to hold back a sob, he races from the room and shuts himself in the bathroom.
"Well, that could have gone better." Bobby deflates into his seat.
Before anyone else can say a word, the front door opens and a rosy from play Sammy comes rushing in followed by Pastor Jim who takes one look at the crew in the kitchen and says, "What happened?"
. . . . . . .
November 20, 1988
John Winchester has been down in this tiny cave for five days, mostly thinking and healing. He is snug as a bug in a rug, as the old saying goes. He has his journal and the clippings he has made when he was researching this hunt, too, and when he's caught up in his research he forgets where he is. John has decided to start using his leg a little every day, standing and stretching, and doing some simple physical therapy exercises to strengthen it. He has also found and unwound his parachute cord, 550 pound tested by the United States military. There's a reason he always keeps some in his pack.
The monster who had startled him into falling had come by a couple times. Dropped some rocks down on him at one point, but the flame thrower is holding up and effective in chasing it away. It? The Wendigo. But John admits it's different than any he has read about in the research. This one appears to have been female in life, some kind of Algonquin medicine woman. John has been carefully drawing her into his journal.
When he's free again, John plans to take her out. She can't keep preying on campers, and on the Hunters who respond to spooky events. John wonders how she ended up here in Osage country, but he figures there was actually a lot of intermarrying amongst tribes, especially when so many began to immigrate inland away from the white settlers. John can't help speculating; he has plenty of time on his hands right now. He builds a scenario in his head where the medicine woman, trying to prove her worth and earn respect in her new tribe, begins to perform rituals that require blood magic, then maybe drinking blood. From there, she probably ate the hearts or livers. Nothing good ever comes from drinking blood.
Cannibalism is the root cause in the becoming of a Wendigo. The craving for flesh burns inside of the flesh eater, and, yes, there were benefits. The practitioner becomes faster, stronger, feels smarter, lives longer. The body itself starts to change, eventually becoming elongated and gaunt, and the hunger never abates. Funny, in a sad way, how so many monsters start out human.
Ugh, John wishes he could wipe the thought out of his mind. Bleach it out. That's the root cause of so many of his problems. What was it that demon was doing in his younger son's bedroom? Was his beautiful little boy destined to become a monster? Could he do what was needed if … John just stops; he refuses to think about this anymore, and he knows he takes the coward's way out by putting space between him and the boys so often. He reaches for the bottle of Hunter's Helper from the medicine kit. It won't be enough, but it might just blur the pain a little.