Evening November 23, 1988

The second time John Winchester stumbled over an exposed tree root, he couldn't catch his balance and fell hard, scrambling around in the muck and fallen leaves to recover his homemade crutch after. He hasn't made it half-way back to the parking lot and the sun is setting, and he has to admit to himself that things aren't looking good for keeping his promise to Sammy. John drags out his sleeping bag and pulls himself in a circle around it, drawing out the Anasazi protection symbols on rocks with chalk before crawling into the bag.

Water he has, and digging through his pack, John finds his last power bar. Unwrapping it, he takes a bite and chews slowly, sipping water to make the mass in his mouth soft enough to swallow. Tasteless as it is, John knows it's important to hydrate and eat to keep his strength up. But even if it didn't already taste bad, eating makes John think about the boys and the forty dollars he left them for food more than three weeks ago, and the room rent that was due two days ago, and he's off worrying. "So sorry, Mary. Such a screw up." John starts his daily apology to the wife he failed about the sons he is failing.

There's a rustling in the brush nearby, and John is glad he took the time to paint the protection symbols as he crans his head trying to see through the gloom. John reaches for his gun. The forest has plenty of dangerous animals, more though that would afraid of John. But for predators – the forest has black bears and feral hogs. Most people might be more worried about the bears, but they are more scavengers. Feral hogs are three to four hundred pounds of mean. And when pigs get to you, they rarely leave even bones. John wishes he had built a campfire because it is so dark in these woods that his eyesight couldn't get any worse.

More rustling, and John is holding his breath, keeping his gun steadily pointing toward the noise. There's a strange chittering, and John sees the Wendigo again, her emaciated frame barely visible outside the small circle, eyes glowing like coals in a fireplace. "Well, hello, ugly," John mutters, still holding the gun and keeping his eyes on the monster while his other hand reaches into his backpack looking for his flare gun.

Laughter, a high-pitched crazy fearsome sound, fills the forest nearby as the Wendigo moves like a blur. She is so fast. John swivels trying to keep track, and he wishes he had something at his back. As he moves trying to keep the monster in sight, he kicks out and dislodges one of the rocks painted with protection symbols. Something strikes his head, and his world turns black.

. . . . . . .

The wee hours of November 26, 1988

Wide green eyes peeking out from the nest in the backseat looked back at Bobby Singer as the old Hunter pulled into a truck stop in Waynesville, Missouri. The trip took ten hours, slower than Bobby might have been able to make it except the roads were icy and slick through Minnesota and Iowa. Bobby had thought having a kid along would be what would slow him down, but unless he was spoken to, Dean hadn't asked for anything the entire way, content to stop only when Bobby needed to gas or eat.

While admitting it was unexpected for a kid to travel that long that quietly, Bobby worried Dean was too well trained for a nine-year-old squirt. Kids aren't supposed to be that quiet and obedient. Every once in a while, when Bobby noticed Dean was awake, he'd ask a question or two, just to make sure the kid hadn't lapsed back into the mutism he'd had when Bobby first met him at age five.

Mostly though, all Dean was thinking about was how worried he was about his dad. How he hoped Sammy would be taken care of in his absence, and whether Dean could do anything to make the trip easier on Bobby. Idgit kid is a little too selfless in Bobby's opinion. He'd much rather the kid put himself equal if nor first occasionally. Damn fool kid is gonna end up a head case if he doesn't start to learn a little healthy selfishness.

"You need anything, kid?" Bobby asks as he undoes his seatbelt and stretches,

"No, sir. I'm good." Dean is answering bravely, but his voice is almost as gruff as Bobby's. The older guy thinks about kicking himself – before Ellen Harvelle can.

"How you feeling, Bud?" Bobby turns sideways in his seat to get a better look. He notices Dean trying to swallow and wincing a little in pain. "Sit up." Bobby demands, and he isn't surprised that his order is obeyed immediately. Throwing off the covers, Dean sits up, but then he starts shivering. Bobby grabs the care package Ellen sent along and doses Dean with Tylenol and cold medicine again. He then pushes a bottle of water toward the boy. "Drink that."

Dean takes the bottle, sips, clears his throat a little. "Are we….are we near where my dad's missing?"

"Yeah, Harvelle and his guys are gonna meet us here. Then we'll head over to the national forest. I'm going in to get some sandwiches and coffee. I'm getting you soup and hot tea. And you're going finish it all. Then you're going back ta sleep until we get there. Am I clear?"

Bobby doesn't need to hear the boy's mumbled agreement. He knows it's coming. "I'm taking the keys, so you get under the blankets back there. Can't have someone steal you along with the car." But it's grumbling just to grumble, and Dean snuggles in closing his eyes for now.

While Bobby was still placing his order, Bill Harvelle showed up with Joshua and Creedy, and the four men moved to a booth to go over their notes and maps. The National Forest is huge, and the men need to have their routes chosen carefully. The new men are taken aback that a nine year old will be the relay point for communications, and only slightly less surprised at finding out it's John Winchester's son.

"Winchester has a son?" Creedy asks, genuinely puzzled. "I've seen him several times – even gone on a couple hunts with him. Never seen no kid. And he sure never seems in a big hurry to leave the bar. He got a woman looking after the kid? A wife maybe?"

Bobby and Harvelle exchange an unspoken agreement in a look. They're not getting into John's personal life or history; they're not going to commiserate or agree; they're just going to do their job – and have their own words with John Winchester privately. After they get his dumb ass back home for his boys.

"So where is this kid?" Joshua asks, and it's Bobby's turn to face dumbfounded expressions when he says the boy is sleeping in the backseat of his car, and he has been the whole time Bobby's been in there.

Harvelle shoots Bobby a look. "Thought maybe you got a room for the kid to sleep while we planned. Didn't know you were leaving him outside in this cold."

"Well, balls!" Bobby's upset at himself for not paying attention to the time. "I wasn't expecting you and he was sleeping." The older hunter grumbles. "Let me order him his food and I'll meet you there."

. . . . . . .

November 24, 1988

The dryness of his mouth is the first thing John recognizes as he regains consciousness. The second in the tingling in his hands tied over his head and the pain in his head. He's tied in somewhere dank, foul smelling, dark, but with enough light filtering in from somewhere that he knows he has been out for a while. That's natural light, so it must be day. He's been moved, and from the shapes he sees hanging near him, he's not alone. He needs to know if any of them are still alive. If he's the only one.

John tries to clear his throat. "Hello?" It's gravelly, but understandable. He tries again with more volume. "Hello?"

"Winchester?"

"Yeah, it's me. That you, Robertson?"

The other hunter answers with a groan. "Damn, yeah, it's me. I was hoping you were gone - that you were getting help. Don't tell me that you didn't, 'cause it's been a week."

"Then I won't tell you that I just spent the last week with a broken leg on the floor of a cave." John huffs out. He's actually more annoyed at himself than Robertson. This has been one screw up after another on his part. Now he's trussed up like a Thanksgiving bird with nowhere to go except to feed a monster. He's teetering on one good leg with a split head, and he's god only knows where in a more than one-million acre forest.

On the plus side, John's not alone. "Anyone else in here still alive?"

"Nuh." Robertson mutters. "That thing…"

"Wendigo," John supplies, not stopping a little bit of "I told you so" from coming through.

"Yeah, you were right. That feel good right now?" Robertson hisses.

John gives as much of a shrug as he can manage.

"Don't look like your protection symbols did you much good."

"Yeah, well, about that. Seems you should pick bigger rocks." John gives a deprecating laugh and tries, again, to shrug. "Live and learn…if we live."

. . . . . . .

November 26, 1988 Dawn

Only thirty minutes have gone by since the hunters had taken off into the woods, but an awake Dean left alone in the car was getting restless, and he couldn't seem to find the right temperature. Not under the blankets or wrapped in the sleeping bag, he's cold; inside the nest, he's too warm. He ate the soup earlier, even though it hurt his throat to swallow, and he drank the tea. And now, he's got to pee.

Dean roots around until he finds the boots Pastor Jim gave him, and he ties them on. He pulls on the warm jacket, pulling a stocking cap out of the pocket to pull onto his head which is achy and dizzy. He looks over toward the park headquarters which is still closed at this hour, and he decides he'll just walk into the woods a little way and find a tree.

Dean pushes open the car door and climbs out a little shakily. The parking lot has a little bit of gray crusty slush, where the snow has melted and then refrozen overnight. Dean tucks his hands in his pockets as he hurries over to the trail head, and he looks around to make sure no one's there.

On the way back out, Dean isn't quite as cautious and keeps his head down as he hurries back out of the woods. Standing right next to Bobby's car, Dean runs right into a park ranger.

"Whoa, there, Tiger." The ranger reaches out and grabs him by the shoulder, steadying him. "Where you going? And where's your folks?"